Chapter Text
1. Katrina
Selfishly, she hoped Discovery would come for her. That Gabriel would pull off one more improbable rescue in defiance of orders and common sense.
Discovery never came.
If the Klingon ship had a brig, Kat never saw it. She was taken to the mess hall, bound to a pillar in the centre of the room, in full view of the Klingon troops. Humiliation. She let their taunts wash over her and brooded, instead, on her regrets.
Her family. Daughter, parents, brother, ex-husband. She had left letters, of course, and the hope that she had said and done enough, that they wouldn't be haunted by conversations that could never happen. Phoebe was studying art history on Betazed, far away from the war. Safe.
(Was anywhere safe? Gabriel slept with a phaser; she could still feel the bruises his fingers had left on her throat.)
Gabriel. She had recorded her intentions in a log, but her cruiser was too far from Federation space to upload the files, and the Klingons had surely destroyed it as they left the Cancri system.
She had no illusions about her ability to withstand torture. Her security codes would be disabled as soon as Starfleet was aware of her capture, and her knowledge of fleet movements was already out of date. But she had something truly valuable to share with the Klingons: her insight, as friend, colleague and psychiatrist, into Starfleet's senior command, and her detailed knowledge of Discovery, the spore drive project and Captain Lorca.
Thirty years of friendship behind them, longer than their marriages combined. They had served together. They slept together occasionally. She knew Gabriel as well as she could know any sentient being.
Didn't she?
(Unfamiliar scars, fingers on her throat, a phaser to her chin…)
He had turned into a stranger, and that might -- ironically -- save him. For a while. But sooner or later, Kat would provide the detail that gave the Klingons the ability to destroy Gabriel, or to let him destroy himself. And the Federation's hope would burn with him.
Around and around her mind went, turning over strategies to resist interrogation, to delay the inevitable.
If she was lucky, they'd kill her before she broke.
She paid more attention to the Klingons after that realisation, but they kept their knives away from her. Twice a day she was unshackled, given food and water and marched to the head. The guards might shoot her if she tried to escape, but the rations were barely adequate, and she never had more than an hour of sleep at a time: she was too sluggish and weak to get far.
So she stayed where she was, and watched, and listened.
They had confiscated her communicator, and her Klingon was limited, but after a few days she could distinguish individuals, and guess at the gist of their conversations. Most were colloquial, and too rapid for her to follow, but she picked up enough.
This vessel belonged to the House of D'Ghor -- at least, the majority of its crew wore the armour and facial piercings common to that House. Intelligence reported that members of the House of D'Ghor were warriors and foot soldiers, and scorned ship-to-ship combat as cowardly. Boarding parties, Kat thought. If D'Ghor joined the war, they would see more boarding parties. More ships like the Buran.
The D'Ghor Klingons also scorned the House of Mo'Kai. Mo'Kai warriors made up a little less than a third of the crew complement, she guessed. They seemed much like any other Klingon to Kat's eyes: loud and quick to violence. But they kept to themselves, for the most part.
The exception came on the third day. Sometimes Klingons would stand before her and speak -- she shied away from the word "declaim", but it was the room they were really addressing -- and she, understanding one word in five if she was lucky, would attempt to look blank and unmoved, while the mess hall erupted in laughter at her expense.
She thought these two were more of the same, but they were more interested in speaking to each other than performing for the other warriors. One was D'Ghor, she guessed from his elaborate array of piercings. The other was bigger, but Kat thought he might be younger, and he listened with an air of faint amusement as his friend spoke, gesturing now and then at Kat.
When Piercing was done, his friend turned to her and said, in halting English, "You. Hand combat?"
Kat licked her dry lips.
"Katrina Cornwell. Vice Admiral. Serial number--"
"No," snapped the big Klingon. "You. Fight?"
I'm a fifty-seven-year-old desk jockey. I have socks older than you kids. What do you think?
Then she thought, Well, you wanted to get yourself killed…
"I can fight," she said.
Big Guy repeated this in Klingon for Piercing, who threw his head back and laughed.
"My friend say you small," said Big Guy. "Break too easy."
"I'm stronger than I look." She straightened up, as much as the restraints and her aching back would allow. "I could take your friend," she said. "And you. Easy."
Big Guy smiled and shared this with Piercing.
"No," Piercing said. His accent was thicker than his friend's and Kat had to strain to understand. "You fight his sister--" He nodded at Big Guy, "her creature. You fight…" he trailed off, searching for a word. "Veqlargh," he said at last.
"Demon," said Big Guy. His amusement had evaporated. "My sister has demon."
"Mevyap!" Another Klingon had overheard them, and now he advanced, speaking rapidly. An officer, she guessed, and probably D'Ghor, although his ornamentation was confined to a neat row of rings along his brow ridge. Officer class.
'Mevyap' meant stop, she knew that much. She lowered her head, letting her hair fall across her face, and listened for the word 'veqlargh', but Officer-Class's voice was pitched too low to make out individual words.
But there was no mistaking the dressing down he was giving Piercing and Big Guy. They accepted his reprimand in silence, saluted and walked away.
Officer-Class remained. Kat watched his feet as he approached her.
"Look at me," he said.
She considered disobeying, then decided against it. His gaze was hard. Cynical, she thought. Slightly amused.
"Admiral." His English was confident, even practised. Are you afraid of dying?"
Kat said, "No."
"Good." He leaned over her. "I have been reading your Shakespeare. A man of great words but no deeds to match. I am learning about humanity from his work. 'But that the dread of something after death' -- do you believe in an afterlife?"
"No."
Officer-Class smiled.
"You will," he said.
*
The journey lasted two more days. No one spoke to her again, but she felt Officer-Class's gaze whenever he was in the mess hall. Kat spent her time thinking of strategies to provoke them into killing her quickly, and tried to ignore the things she couldn't change: the smell, the heat, the hair that stuck to her damp face and the growing ripeness of her uniform.
At last, they reached their destination. She was released from her pillar and even permitted to stretch for half a moment, before the guards threw a chain around her waist and shackled her wrists to it. Her ankles, too, were shackled, and then she was marched through narrow corridors towards an airlock.
Officer-Class waited for her just outside the airlock.
"I look forward to our next meeting, Admiral," he said, his voice low. His smile revealed jagged teeth. As he turned to open the airlock doors, Kat saw a d'k tagh dagger in his belt. She reached for it instinctively, but the chain that connected her wrists to the waist restraint was too short.
Officer-Class laughed derisively and marched forward.
The airlock was lined with soldiers from both houses. Big Guy and Piercing stood with the warriors of their respective houses, bat'leths in hand. The leaders waited at the front. Kat was reminded of the old Roman triumphs, where captured enemy leaders were displayed like prizes in parades.
They were outcast houses. They need Kol's favour. They're cats dropping prey in front of their owner.
The outer airlock doors opened. The procession began.
And look what the cat dragged in.
Her vision was obscured by her hair, but this vessel -- if it was a vessel -- seemed larger than most, with wide corridors and elaborate details carved into the walls and handrails. She was marched across a long bridge, naked flames burning at the top of its four towers, and when she saw that, she realised where she was: the Klingon flagship, the vast cloaked vessel where this war had started.
After that, she kept her eye on Officer-Class's back, and the dagger at his waist, but her chance never came.
General Kol awaited them in a large chamber, standing on a raised dais. Behind him stood the leaders of the great houses; lining the walls, and the balconies above, were Klingons from every house.
Her captors advanced, and Kat was marched forward to stand between them, an offering to Kol. A disruptor butt in the small of her back made her raise her head. Kol looked down at her and smiled.
There were camera drones around them, she saw. What happened next would be used as propaganda within the Empire and beyond.
Public execution would be swift, at least. She hoped Phoebe would never see the footage.
Kol's speech was in clear, formal Klingon, delivered slowly enough that she could more or less follow it. A united Klingon Empire, led by a strong High Council, would rule the quadrant with an iron fist. The Federation would surrender, and even the Romulans would beg to join the Empire rather than suffer Klingon conquest.
The chamber erupted in cheers. Kat wondered how much of this was intended as a warning to the other races living within Klingon borders. Certain factions within Starfleet Command wanted to stir up dissent by providing arms to resistance movements in colonised systems. Maybe they were onto something.
Kat bit her lip, then stopped. Kol was now speaking English, and what happened next would be transmitted to the Federation.
"The Federation," he said, "claim they want peace. T'Kuvma taught us what a lie that is, the Federation's 'peace'. This human," he pointed at Kat, who straightened to attention and gave him a look which she hoped conveyed more contempt than fear, "responded to overtures of peace from the Houses of D'Ghor and Mo'Kai. Her Starfleet soldiers ambushed the Elders of Cancri, shooting them from behind, like cowards. This is Federation peace."
He spat in Kat's face. She barely flinched, too busy thinking of the implications of the lie. Starfleet would see it for what it was, but would the civilian population?
Would Phoebe?
Kol's hot saliva dripped down her face. She concentrated on her anger, because the alternative was despair.
"The admiral will pay for her crimes," Kol continued. "The Federation and all its allies will pay for her crimes. They say we are animals, brutes, that we are unsophisticated and primitive. But we have weapons they are too cowardly to use, and we will prevail. bortaS bIr jablu'DI' reH QaQqu' nay'!"
The crowd cheered again, and Kat thought, this is it, it's over.
But Kol merely waved a hand and the audience began to disperse.
She was passed into the custody of Officer-Class and two guards. One, Kat noted, was her old buddy Big Guy. In silence, they led her deep into the ship, where the corridors were narrow and utilitarian.
They reached a checkpoint manned by two more guards. Officer-Class had to provide a retinal scan to continue. She was better at reading Klingon than understanding it, and she could see half enough of the screen to see that the computer identified him as la'Chang.
Commander Chang. Nice to meet you.
The prison deck had the eerie silence that came with heavy soundproofing.
Chang said, "I've seen your propaganda. I know what you fear. But there's no honour in torture for its own sake."
"I've seen the vids from Qo'noS. You make your prisoners fight each other to the death."
"Humanity at its most typical. Our prisoners choose their pain." They came to a stop outside a set of nondescript doors. "Inside this cell, there are five Starfleet officers, rations and a knife. What happens next…" Chang smiled. "If you survive the next few days, we can have an interesting conversation about superior Federation morality."
The doors were opened, and she stepped inside.
She caught a glimpse of a bearded man, an operations insignia and wide blue eyes before pair of hands closed around her throat.
For a second, Kat panicked. It's the second time in a week I've been choked by a fellow officer.
That thought made her angry, and then her training took over. Exhausted and underfed as she was, she was in better condition than the prisoner. He went down quickly, muttering, "We don't need you. We don't have enough food for the ones already here…"
Kat straightened up, taking in the faces of her fellow prisoners. Three humans, including her assailant. One Bolian. She couldn't see her fifth cellmate. The only light source was in the centre of the room; the walls were in shadow. The prisoners were in varying states of disarray, but all looked utterly defeated.
She moved into the light, letting them get a good, long look at her rank insignia before she said, "I'm Vice Admiral Cornwell. What the fuck is going on in here?"
The profanity seemed to shock them as much as anything. The Bolian lieutenant pulled himself to attention, wincing, and said, "Klingon prisons are … difficult."
"Really? Seems like you're making it harder for yourselves. Who's the ranking officer in here?"
A human ensign pointed to the furthest, darkest corner of the cell. "There," she said. "He … doesn't talk."
He was a commander. George something, she thought; she knew his face from somewhere. Served on the USS Katherine Johnson. He lay in a foetal position, not responding to his name or the hand she put on his shoulder. His eyes were open, but his pupils were pinpricks in his pale irises, despite the limited light.
"How long's he been like this?" she asked.
"Since I got here." One of the human women had joined her. She had been badly beaten recently, and her chin and jacket were encrusted with dried blood. She wore a medical division insignia. "I think … a week? The food is irregular. It's hard to tell." She glanced nervously over her shoulder at Kat's assailant, who had pulled himself into a sitting position. "I'm Lieutenant Reyes, Admiral. Analyn Reyes. Nurse. I … you gave the commencement speech when I graduated, ma'am, when you were commanding Starfleet Medical."
Good. An ally.
"Nice to meet you, Lieutenant," said Kat. "Any idea what caused this? Something in the food, maybe?"
"No … no one else is affected. I don't think -- Lieutenant Commander Douglas has been here the longest." Reyes twisted a strand of hair around her finger. "I don't talk to him. Unless I have to."
"Huh." Kat straightened up, marched over to her assailant. "You're the next in command?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Consider yourself relieved." She turned her back on him, praying he wouldn't take the opportunity to bring her down from behind. He didn't, and she returned to the centre of the room. "And you?" she asked the Bolian.
"Lieutenant Crem. Admiral." He belatedly straightened his uniform. It, too, was marked by blood stains.
The ensign stood. "Ensign Sam Nanogak, Admiral." She couldn't have been much older than Phoebe. Straight out of the Academy into a prison cell. "USS Katherine Johnson. Engineering."
"You served with George?"
"Commander Clements, ma'am. But … I don't know what happened to him. They move us around."
"Keeps us from forming alliances," added Reyes. "They watch us, I think. We'll be split up in a couple of food cycles."
"Then you keep going. Until there's nowhere else to move you, because they have Starfleet officers in every cell, and Starfleet officers do not succumb to this manipulative bullshit."
Douglas stirred.
"They have spies, too," he said. "Klingons who look human. Even smell human. Believe they are human, some."
Crem snorted. "Then you can certainly trust me."
"Can I?"
"Enough," said Kat. "We maintain the chain of command. We trust each other. We don't," she fixed Douglas with a hard gaze, "beat up fellow officers. And we try to escape." She spotted something gleaming in the corner opposite. Douglas followed her gaze, but she moved before he could.
The dagger was heavy, and wickedly sharp. One edge was serrated, and there were remnants of blood in the grooves.
"They armed us," she said. "That was their first mistake."
*
The boredom was dangerous.
Divided evenly, the food turned out to be almost adequate, if tasteless. Kat ordered her little crew to start physical training, as much as their injuries would allow, but the heat combined with limited water meant she was reluctant to push them too hard.
The rest of the time, she concentrated on treating their injuries with the limited resources available, and taking reports from her cellmates.
They all had much the same story: captured -- in battle, on away missions, scooped up in escape pods -- and brought here. Prisoners were rotated regularly; Douglas and Crem had shared a cell twice before this one.
"We're old friends," said Douglas, and his smile didn't meet his eyes. But he seemed more stable now someone else was in charge. Kat just hoped he stayed that way.
"Sometimes they make people fight," said Reyes. "Not me, but my CMO -- when they brought him back, it was like he had been savaged."
"Hand to hand combat with a Klingon?" Kat asked.
"Or something," said Douglas. "I've seen it, too. Half her face had been ripped off."
"'Veqlargh'," said Kat. "Any of you heard that word?"
Blank faces.
"What does it mean, Admiral?" Nanogak asked.
"Demon."
"Is that what happened to Clements?" asked Crem.
He remained unresponsive; Kat claimed an extra measure of the water ration for him, grinding his share of the food into a paste. Reyes fed him. Duty steadied her; if they survived this, she was at the top of Kat's mental list of officers needing commendations.
"There are no external injuries," she said. "There are signs of internal bleeding, but nothing life threatening. He may have suffered head trauma. Hard to tell."
"It's easy," said Douglas. "He's given up." His eyes fell on the dagger in Kat's belt. "And you're wasting food and water on him."
"And you'd better be grateful, Lieutenant Commander, because I'll do the same for you if I have to."
He fell silent.
Another meal cycle passed.
Kat wanted to pace the length of the cell, but it wouldn't do for the others to see her restlessness. She had managed a little sleep and a little exercise, and she was done waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Boredom. Is dangerous, she reminded herself again. Soon they'd be fighting amongst themselves for lack of anything better to do.
"How'd you end up an admiral?" Crem asked suddenly. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. But you're a doctor, aren't you?"
"I'm a psychiatrist," said Kat. She'd had their stories, why not hers? "When I became chief medical officer on the Liu Yang, I moved into the chain of command. I did the training, and found I enjoyed command. And I was good at it."
Gabriel was the first officer on the Liu Yang. It was the first time they served together since the Academy, and he oversaw her initial training. She was promoted to captain when they gave her Starfleet Medical, and he gave her a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch to celebrate.
After two years, she stepped down to accept a posting as first officer of the Constellation, at a reduced rank. And four years after that, she had her own starship, the USS Lamarr. Six months ahead of Gabriel.
I could have had the Buran. He might be the one sitting here now, and I'd be…
On Discovery? Recruiting convicts and prisoners of war and sleeping with a phaser under her pillow? She liked to think she had more self-awareness than that.
"Gonna take more than a few weeks of therapy to clear us for duty after this," she said.
"Admiral?" asked Crem.
"Just thinking out loud."
"I like the bit where we're getting out of here," said Nonogak.
"I think I'm going to apply for command training," said Reyes. "I'm tired of being scared."
"I'd recommend you in a heartbeat," said Kat.
The secret to command that you were still scared, all the time. You just knew what to do with the fear: keep it private, channel it effectively, don't let on to your crew that you're shaking in your boots.
Instead, she said, "How you coming with the transporter pad, Ensign?"
"Slowly, Admiral," said Nonogak. Kat had tasked her with weaponising the little transporter pad where their food arrived. Even with Crem's help, it took the better part of a day just to get access to the magscrews. "These things are rigged to overload if someone messes with them."
"They'll stop feeding us before that," Douglas warned. Again.
"We'll eat you first." Crem looked up from his work and smiled. "It's not cannibalism for me."
"Enough," Kat snapped. "We can't--"
Footsteps. Outside. Heavy boots. Two Klingons or more.
"Around and around we go," Douglas mumbled.
"Wherever you end up," said Kat, "remember your duty. Survive and resist. Don't let them tear you apart."
"Aye, ma'am," said Reyes. Nonogak just nodded mutely, her dark eyes wide.
"Yes, Admiral," said Crem.
She pulled the dagger from her belt.
"And let's see if we can't take a few of them down first."
The doors opened.
There were two guards, and they were taken by surprise. Douglas went for the first's throat, of course; Nonogak for the eyes. Crem took the second one, slamming her against a wall as Reyes kicked her feet out from under her.
The third Klingon was Kat's old friend, Commander Chang. She launched herself at him, driving the dagger at the point where his chin met his neck.
He staggered back beneath her unexpected weight. It took more pressure to pierce the skin than she expected, and she remembered her History of Medicine classes, a lifetime ago, and watching footage of actual metal scalpels sliding into flesh. A trickle of pink blood ran down his neck.
All this happened in ten seconds or less. Then Chang rallied his strength and threw Kat across the room as if she weighed nothing. She slammed into the wall, and something in her knee cracked as she hit the floor.
The knife landed half a metre away.
She forced herself to her knees and began to crawl, but Chang was too quick. His boot landed on her outstretched hand, and he knelt to retrieve the dagger.
"Well done," he said. He touched the wound on his neck and gazed at the blood on his hand in something akin to delight. "I'm impressed, Admiral." He turned to survey the rest of the cell. Crem, Reyes, Douglas and Nonogak had been subdued. Crem was bleeding from a cut to his forehead, and Nonogak was clutching her arm to her chest, but there were no other signs of injury. Only defeat.
"I think," said Chang, "it's time to move on to the next phase."
Walking was agony. Kat guessed that her patella was fractured. She could feel it swelling, but she gritted her teeth and tried to keep up.
"Carry her if you have to," Chang called over his shoulder, and a guard grabbed her beneath her shoulders and lifted her. So much for dignity, she thought, but then she nearly bit her lip to keep from crying out at the pain.
They were separated at the checkpoint. Nonogak looked like she was fighting back tears. Reyes' jaw was set. Douglas and Crem seemed resigned.
"You fight well," Chang said. "And you inspire your people. Those are important qualities in a leader."
Kat said nothing. Name, rank, serial number.
"And you were once a healer," he continued, rounding a corner, "which makes your valour particularly impressive. I was under the impression that Federation doctors … what is the phrase? Ah, yes, 'do no harm'." He chuckled.
They reached another checkpoint, this one crewed by four guards. Chang had to provide both a retinal scan and a handprint to pass.
Beyond the heavy doors, the corridors became wide again, though the decor remained plain. This is the infirmary, Kat realised. The halls were wide to accommodate gurneys, and here and there were identifiable pieces of medical equipment.
She shivered, despite the warmth. She didn't think she was here to have her injuries treated.
And she had never seen a hospital so empty.
"Starfleet officers take inspiration from their leaders," Chang was saying. "Starship captains are almost revered."
A door slid open and Kat entered a large, dark chamber.
"Lights," Chang ordered, and she realised they were standing on a mezzanine overlooking a small room. There were bloodstains on the floor.
Her guard put her down and she gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white.
"How are we to destroy the mythos of the starship captain?" Chang asked. "I've spent years studying humanity to find the answer. Your people. Your literature. Your languages. I must understand you."
She didn't mean to speak, but she found herself mumbling, "Here I thought you just liked the sound of your own voice."
She regretted it at once. Name, rank, serial number.
But Chang just laughed.
"I'm pleased you fell into our hands," he said. "General Kol wanted a Vulcan, but they're such dull types. What a piece of work is man." Guards were appearing below. Chang nodded to one, who saluted and disappeared beneath the mezzanine. "Let me show you my work."
The guard reappeared, leading a short, stocky human. Douglas. He clutched a bat'leth, his jaw tight, looking all around the chamber. Eventually his gaze went upwards, and he met Kat's eyes.
"No disrespect, Admiral," he said, "but I'm beginning to wish I'd just strangled you."
Chang gave a signal. Another door opened opposite the mezzanine and a figure emerged.
Female. Average height for a human, which, Kat saw, she was. Mostly. The right arm was a prosthetic, gleaming black synthetic metal, ending in wicked claws like a Klingon's hand.
...it was like he had been savaged.
Half her face had been ripped off.
Kat said, "Veqlargh."
The veqlargh didn't look up or around. She circled Douglas, head tilted, watching him. He brandished the bat'leth, but stepped back.
"Please," he said. "I can't--" His voice broke. "I just want to go home."
She advanced. He raised the bat'leth and brought it down hard, but she grabbed the blade in her prosthetic hand and twisted, hitting him in the face with the handle.
Kat forced herself to watch.
It was over quickly.
Chang's applause echoed through the chamber.
The veqlargh looked up at him, and Kat saw her face for the first time. Her hair was cropped short, more grey than black, and her eyes didn't match; the left was the pale blue common to certain Klingon houses. But she knew that face.
"The Federation flatters itself that it is the most technologically advanced empire in the quadrant," said Chang. "But the human terror of genetic manipulation has seen you fall behind in that field. The work was already underway when General Kol took command of this vessel. There was enough material for a viable clone. Even limited memory reconstruction. And, of course, genetic augmentation. A monster to strike terror into the heart of the sturdiest Starfleet officer."
She met Kat's eyes, and for a second, she thought there was a stirring of recognition.
"Don't be concerned," said Chang. "We're moving into the operation's next phase. There's no need for you to be killed and eaten."
"Captain Georgiou," Kat whispered, but from the woman below, there was no response.