Chapter Text
Part Four
“Help me!”
She didn’t even react to the voice any more.
She stood in her quarters, back in front of the mirror, staring at herself. More specifically, staring at the uniform.
The ensign in the corridor was going to stay with her, she could see that now. His bloodied face, his twisted body, his cry for help, that wasn’t going anywhere. The only question was whether she was going anywhere.
She considered the clean lines of the freshly replicated uniform. Could she just brush her experience on the Navajo under the table, push everything else to the back of her mind, join Cameron onboard the Copernicus and just carry on with her Starfleet career? Like a freshly replicated uniform, she could be reborn. No trace of what the uniform had been before, or where it had come from. Just the crisp, clean lines of Starfleet, brought to life out of thin air.
Her gaze wandered over to what was behind her in the reflection, the empty quarters. The bare walls and furnishings of a guest room bereft of any sort of personal items, any sign of who she was. What sort of person lived here? A blank slate. Just like the uniform. She could be a blank slate, dressed in a blank slate.
Lieutenant Tabula Rasa, reporting for duty.
And yet, as her attention returned to the Starfleet insignia, the pips on her collar, could she live with herself in this uniform? Given all it stood for, could she ever feel like she wasn’t making a mockery of it every time she put it on?
She sighed deeply and tore her attention away from the mirror. She couldn’t wait any longer. A decision needed to be made. And deep down, she realised that she’d already made it. Or maybe there had never been a decision to make in the first place.
She moved over to the door and stepped into the corridor with as much purpose as she could muster, despite the weight of her sins on her shoulders.
She walked on, down the empty corridor. Feeling like she was being followed by the ensign’s face.
* * * * *
The Klingons continued their standoff on the hilltop, as Sunek tried to process what he was being told.
“Um, Klath,” he offered eventually, “What the hell’s he saying?”
“Nothing,” Klath replied quickly.
“Good. Cos, just for a second there, it sounded like the crazy Klingon with the disruptor pistol over there just called you a war criminal.”
“Yes,” Kolar hissed, “That’s exactly what you are, isn’t it, Klath?”
Klath didn’t respond, but he felt the pang of shame growing inside him. Kolar took advantage of his silence to keep talking. “You see, many years ago, Klath indeed served with the Klingon Defence Force. A fine officer as well, most honourable. He even reached the rank of captain.”
“Huh,” Sunek mused uncomfortably, “You think you know a guy…”
“And that,” Kolar continued, “Brought him command of the IKS Grontar—”
“Stop this,” Klath growled, “This is between us!”
His words did little to throw the other Klingon off his story.
“Klath, Son of Morad, commanded that ship during the Klingon Civil War. The Grontar was loyal to the forces of Gowron—”
“Enough!” Klath roared, instinctively drawing his bat’leth. Kolar kept his disruptor trained on him, but took a step back.
“Woah, woah,” Sunek said quickly, “Remember, buddy, disruptor beats sword.”
Klath stared back at the disruptor and lowered his bat’leth, but kept it in his hands should a chance present itself. Kolar, unperturbed by his sudden outburst, returned to the tale he was telling.
“One day, while patrolling along the outer edge of Klingon space, the Grontar detected an unidentified ship in the Tygon Nebula, and honourable Captain Klath immediately set a course to investigate.”
The battle-scarred Klingon couldn’t have put more sarcasm into the word ‘honourable’ if he had tried. Across from him, Klath growled impotently.
“They were attempting to hide from our scans. It merited investigation,” he explained, to himself as much as to anyone else, “We were acting on intelligence that suggested those loyal to the House of Duras were running illegal weapons across the borders near that very nebula.”
Sunek listened with rapt attention, having forgotten all about his useless efforts to release himself from his bonds.
“Yes,” Kolar muttered, his eyes flashing with anger, “That was your mission, wasn’t it. And what did you find in the nebula? A ship belonging to the Sons of Marlek.”
“A ship that was covertly operating well outside of recognised procedures!”
“Captain Klath wasted no time. For the glory of the empire, and for Gowron, he opened fire as soon as he was in weapons range—”
“The vessel was working for the House of Duras. It was a legitimate—”
“It was a freighter!”
Kolar bellowed out into the night, silencing Klath on the spot. Sunek didn’t know a lot about Klingon culture outside of the basics, but he was getting the picture.
“A simple old freighter on a resupply mission,” Kolar spat, “No weapons. Limited shielding. Versus a fully armed Bird of Prey. The Grontar cut through it in seconds. They didn’t stand a chance.”
Klath experienced a fresh rush of shame. He felt Sunek’s gaze on the back of his neck. He refused to turn and meet it, telling himself that was because he didn’t want to take his eyes off his adversary, rather than because he didn’t want to have to make eye contact with his friend.
“There had been traps sprung on our forces before, from battleships hiding away from sensors,” he explained, “The nebula interfered with our attempts to identify the vessel—”
“And yet you could identify that it was a ship loyal to Duras,” Kolar shouted out, “You were still able to target your weapons and plot your attack run. You were able to do a great many things, for a vessel so crippled by this nebula.”
Klath reached for a response. He failed to find one.
“Twenty-seven Klingons aboard,” Kolar continued, “Every one of them condemned to a death without honour!”
“I mean,” Sunek offered meekly, “It was still a battle—?”
“It was no battle. It was a slaughter! And my brothers, the Sons of Marlek, were denied their right to enter Sto-vo-kor. And I was condemned to a life of misery.”
He absently ran his free hand back down his scars, his eyes narrowing at Klath. “Tell me,” he continued, “Was there a great feast onboard the Grontar that night? Did you toast each other with bloodwine and sing songs about the glorious battle of the Tygon Nebula?”
“The High Command punished me for my actions,” Klath replied, “When the war was over, they judged that my actions had not been honourable. I was…discommended. And I carry that punishment with me every day.”
“Not good enough.”
Klath stared back at the other Klingon. He felt the shame that he had carried for so long rising up inside him. He wasn’t entirely sure that he disagreed with Kolar’s comment.
“So,” Klath offered, “You have been killing the crew of the Grontar.”
“Each of them left without their honour,” Kolar affirmed, “All suffering the same fate as the one you bestowed on my brothers.”
Shaking with the rage he felt, he brought the disruptor to bear once again, pointing it straight at Klath’s chest.
“And now, it is your turn.”
* * * * *
Some distance away from the lonely hilltop, Natasha walked briskly down the corridor of the starbase, experiencing a different kind of loneliness.
She had been walking for some time, ignoring the other Starfleet personnel she had been passing along the way. In fact, if she’d counted right, this was her fourth lap of this particular length of corridor. And she was approaching the door again.
The first time around, she had walked straight past it, without even a glance. The second time, she had at least slowed her pace and looked the door straight in the metaphorical eye. But at the last second, she had sped up again and embarked on another lap. Third time lucky, she had actually stopped in front of the door for several seconds. To the point that, if the person on the other side had walked out, they would probably have had the fright of their lives. But eventually, she had set off on lap number four.
And now, here she was again.
She stopped in front of the deep red coloured door and stared it down again. It looked identical to every other door on this level, and most other doors on the starbase. Each one of the doors on this level led to a set of quarters.
After a few more moments of staring, she reached out towards the door chime. Her finger paused over the sleek black surface of the controls.
“Doctor, help me!”
Just as they had done over the controls to the escape pod on the Navajo, when she saw the face of the ensign in the corridor.
The one she had left behind.
She took her hands away from the control panel as if it was on fire. If she hadn’t known before, she definitely knew now. This was the wrong door.
She turned away and walked off back down the corridor. Just as she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, the door opened and Cameron peered out, looking both ways down the corridor.
Behind him, on the floor, a small pile of luggage stood, ready for him to beam up to the Copernicus before they left orbit. But as he was placing the last container down, he thought he’d heard somebody. In fact, given that he still hadn’t heard from Natasha, he rather hoped he’d heard somebody.
He shrugged and walked back inside his guest quarters.
Must’ve been nobody.
* * * * *
A short time later, Natasha stood in front of a similar, but somehow more imposing door. But she had no issue pressing the door chime of this one, despite the lateness of the hour.
“Enter,” a familiar voice boomed out from inside.
She took a deep breath, and stepped through into Admiral Jenner’s quarters.
The admiral himself sat at his desk, still in uniform, with a stack of padds piled in front of him. He looked surprised to see her, which she couldn’t exactly blame him for.
“Lieutenant Kinsen,” he said, keeping his tone even and calm, “I don’t usually get visitors at this hour unless someone’s declared war on us. And it’s a really bad sign if the medical staff are reporting that sort of thing.”
She stood in front of his desk, at attention. She licked her lips and took a gulp of dry air.
“I apologise, sir,” she managed, “Actually, I’m here to resign my commission.”