by Greg Cox
An angry Klingon.
“Dishonorable curs!” she snarled, displaying the sharpened canines of a born carnivore. Her scorched attire was of typical Klingon fashion, consisting of tight-fitting golden chain mail over a knee-length black leather dress fashioned barbarically from the hides of animals. A blood-red gemstone gleamed from a pendant at her throat. Studded wrist bands adorned her arms, while high black boots protected her feet and lower legs. Raised scars ridged her brow and a mane of wild black hair fell past her shoulders. Dark eyes, accented by horizontal stripes of black and blue eye shadow, flashed with unchecked fury from a youthful face. “How dare you abduct a daughter of the Empire?”
Her furious gaze lighted on Boyce’s patient and she lunged at the injured Cyprian. Yamata tried to tackle her, but she elbowed him in the face, then sent him sprawling backward with a roundhouse kick to his gut. He landed hard upon the deck, groaning and clutching a bleeding nose. Barely giving him a second look, she turned back toward the defenseless Cyprian. She bared her teeth and growled.
“Keep back!” Boyce sprang to his feet, placing himself between the Klingon and the obvious target of her wrath. He held up his hands to block her. “This woman is injured.”
“Only injured?” the Klingon growled. “Good! That means I get to kill her myself!”
“Not a chance!” Boyce refused to budge. “You’re not getting near my patient as long as I—”
She seized him by the throat, choking him. Boyce struggled to free himself from her grip, but she was clearly stronger than the elderly physician. Strangled gasps conveyed his distress.
“Out of my way, old man! My quarrel is not with—”
Spock’s fingers clamped down on the junction of her neck and shoulder. He had never attempted a nerve pinch on a Klingon before, but it proved as effective on their hostile visitor as it had on myriad other humanoids. The stranger went limp, her own fingers losing their grip on Boyce’s throat as she slid insensate to the deck, landing in a heap not far from her intended victim. Closed lids hid her previously hate-crazed eyes. She breathed softly, dreaming of whatever Klingons hunted in their sleep. It was, in fact, the most peaceful Spock had ever seen a Klingon.
“Thanks, Spock!” Boyce massaged his bruised throat. He peered down at the subdued Klingon. “But what kind of all-fired mess have we waded into?”
“An excellent question, Doctor.” Spock remained on guard as he knelt to inspect the Klingon, wary to the possibility that she might be dissembling. Taking no chances, he swiftly verified that she was both unconscious and, oddly, unarmed. “She has no weapons on her person. Highly unusual for a Klingon.”
“I’ll consider myself lucky, then,” Boyce commented, before taking a closer look at his attacker. “Well, at least she seems to be in better condition than our other visitor.” He employed a medical scanner to inspect the Klingon for hidden injuries. His eyes widened in surprise as he inspected the results. “What the devil?”
Spock took note of Boyce’s reaction. “What is it, Doctor?”
“This is no Klingon.” Boyce stared in shock at her. “This woman is Cyprian!”
* * *
“The Klingons are hailing us, Captain.”
The imposing battle cruiser loomed ominously on the viewer, making Pike glad that the Enterprise’s shields were back in place. Readouts on the bridge confirmed that two humanoids had been beamed aboard the ship, although he was still waiting for a direct report from the transporter room regarding the status of the new arrivals. The atomized remains of the Ilion were already dispersing into the empty space between the Enterprise and the battle cruiser. Pike had to wonder how the Klingons would react to losing their prey.
Not well, he guessed.
“Put them through,” he ordered Garrison. “Let’s hear what they have to say.”
Pike sat up straight in his chair and assumed his steeliest expression. If there was one thing he knew about Klingons, it was that they respected strength and despised weakness. It was vital that he faced them as an equal from the start.
Garrison nodded. “Aye, sir.”
The battle cruiser vanished from the screen, supplanted by a close-up of a scowling Klingon soldier, whose grizzled countenance conveyed both experience and authority. A bald pate capped his skull, but gray infiltrated his bushy black beard and eyebrows. Ridges on his forehead indicated that he’d escaped the genetic disorder that had given many of his contemporaries more human features. The golden sash stretched diagonally across his chest bore medals and insignia befitting a general. The sash matched the metallic gold vest he wore over his black military uniform. His head and shoulders filled the screen, offering only a glimpse of the battle cruiser’s bridge, which was suffused with a ruddy, incarnadine light.
“Identify yourself!” the Klingon demanded.
Ordinarily, Pike would be happy to do so, particularly as he was a newcomer to these parts, but he wasn’t about to let the Klingons get the upper hand right from the get-go. He needed to push back a bit, if only to win their respect.
“You first,” he countered.
“This is our territory,” the Klingon general growled. “You are the trespassers here.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Pike said. “As I understand it, there’s some ambiguity as to where the actual border lies.”
The Klingon bristled. “Are you challenging our claims to this region?”
“Not in the least,” Pike insisted. Standing one’s ground was one thing; allowing this encounter to escalate into a full-blown border dispute was something else altogether. “We have no territorial ambitions here. As we alerted you before, we’re here on a mission of mercy, nothing more.”
“Mercy?” The Klingon uttered the word with obvious disdain. “Is that what you call this?”
Pike saw an opportunity to probe for more information. “What would you call it?”
“The brazen kidnapping of a Klingon national from an outpost under my command!”
Kidnapping?
Okay, I didn’t see that coming, Pike thought. He felt like he was boxing in the dark, not knowing what was at stake or even who the good guys were. He decided to throw the Klingon an olive branch, if only to buy time to get his facts straight.
“This is Captain Christopher Pike of the United Space Ship Enterprise. I assure you, General, that I know nothing about any kidnapping, but I am perfectly willing to discuss this matter with you, once I check on the condition of the survivors. Bear with me for just a moment.”
He signaled Garrison to mute the audio component of the transmission, while he got on the intercom again.
“Transporter room, report!”
Spock’s voice emerged from the speaker. “My apologies for the delay, Captain. There were complications that demanded our immediate attention.”
Pike didn’t like the sound of that. “What sort of complications?”
Spock’s report was admirably concise as he informed Pike of the tumultuous arrival of the survivors—and Boyce’s surprising discovery regarding the kidnapped “Klingon.”
“She’s a Cyprian?” Pike echoed. “Are you sure of that?”
“Absolutely,” Boyce said, breaking into the conversation. “I’ve double- and triple-checked the readings. Appearances aside, this woman is no more Klingon than you or me.”
Pike tried to make sense of it. A Cyprian abducting a Klingon who was actually a Cyprian?
“I’ll take your word for it, Doctor. Look after both our guests. Pike out.”
He contemplated the viewer, where the unnamed Klingon was fuming visibly. Spittle sprayed from the general’s lips as he barked silently at the screen. He shook his fist.
“The Klingon commander is getting impatient,” Garrison reported unnecessarily.
“I don’t doubt it,” Pike said. “Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”
The general’s voice boomed from the screen. “—or risk the wrath of the Klingon Empire!”
“Pardon the interruption, Gener
al.” Pike ignored the tail end of the ultimatum. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
The Klingon grunted in exasperation. “You are addressing General Krunn of the Klingon Empire, presently in command of the Imperial Battle Cruiser Fek’lhr, and I demand the immediate return of my stolen kinsman, as well as custody of her perfidious abductor. Surrender them at once, if you care for the safety of your ship and crew.”
Pike overlooked the threat for the time being. “I’ve been informed that we have indeed rescued two survivors from the Ilion, but their identities have yet to be determined. Perhaps you can assist us in this regard?”
“Their identities are no mystery to us,” Krunn said. “The Klingon is Merata, a daughter of the Empire. The Cyprian is the so-called ‘trader’ who abused our renowned hospitality by stealing Merata away like a thief in the night. Return them both or suffer the consequences!”
“Not so fast.” Pike was not about to make a decision regarding the survivors before he got the full story. Who exactly had kidnapped whom here? “Both parties are currently under the care of our ship’s surgeon. There will be time enough to sort things out once we’ve attended to their medical needs.”
“Medical?” Krunn asked sharply. “Is Merata harmed?” Pike thought he detected a note of genuine concern in the general’s voice before his belligerent attitude returned with a vengeance. “If Klingon blood has been spilt—”
Pike held up a hand to forestall any further threats. “My understanding is that the woman you call Merata has not suffered any serious injuries,” he said, neglecting to mention a certain Vulcan nerve pinch. According to Spock, she had been fit enough to start a brawl in the transporter room and nearly choke the life out of Boyce. “But we’re taking every reasonable precaution to ensure the continued health of both our guests.”
Including not turning them over to any irate Klingons just on their say-so.
“We do not ‘call’ her Merata,” Krunn protested. “That is her name, and she belongs here with her own people, not on a Starfleet vessel.” He spit out the word “Starfleet” as though it tasted bad in his mouth. “And not alongside the vile Cyprian bandit who kidnapped her!”
Pike debated pointing out that this Merata person was apparently Cyprian, not Klingon, but decided to hold that card in reserve until he had a better idea of what was actually going on here. What if Krunn was unaware of Merata’s true origins? Exposing that secret might just make a volatile situation even more explosive. If Merata was, for instance, a Cyprian spy, she might not appreciate having her cover blown, and Pike could readily imagine other tumultuous scenarios as well. All that was clear at this point was that they had stuck their noses into a very murky situation. Pike almost wished that the Enterprise had not picked up that fateful distress signal in the first place, but then, he recalled, two lives would have surely been lost when the Ilion combusted. Saving those lives justified any present risk or uncertainty.
“That remains to be verified,” Pike stated. “You’ll forgive me if I investigate this matter more thoroughly before taking any further action regarding the final disposition of the individuals in question.”
“This is none of your concern, human!”
“I respectfully disagree,” Pike said. “We saved their lives, which makes them our responsibility, at least for the present.”
It was an old principle, common to many civilizations and cultures through the galaxy. Pike hoped it would carry some weight with Krunn.
No such luck.
“And our honor demands that you turn them over immediately!” Krunn raged. “Look to your own lives, humans, which are growing shorter by the moment!”
“Captain!” Weisz reported from the science station. “The Klingons are charging their disruptor cannons.”
Pike maintained a poker face for the Klingon’s benefit, even as his nerves were stretched tighter than a drum. How far was Krunn willing to take this? Would he risk war with the Federation just to rescue one “Klingon” of uncertain provenance? And how far will I go, Pike wondered, to protect two strangers, one of whom may be a criminal?
This wasn’t just about the survivors of the Ilion anymore. Pike’s ship and crew were in jeopardy. He could feel the tension increasing aboard the bridge. The very atmosphere felt heavier somehow.
“Hold on a second,” Pike said. “Let’s talk.”
“I grow weary of mere words,” Krunn said. “Make your choice, human. Return what belongs to us, and you may live to see another day.”
“The name is Pike,” the captain said. “And you should know that I don’t take well to threats. We don’t want a fight, but we’ll defend ourselves if necessary. And that’s not likely to end well for either of us.”
Krunn laughed harshly. “You think I fear combat?”
“No, but I’m hoping you’re wise enough to choose your battles . . . and not risk war over a possible misunderstanding.”
“There is no misunderstanding! You are holding one of our own against her will!”
That might be so, Pike conceded. From what Spock said, Merata had been none too happy when beamed aboard the Enterprise, but her fury had mostly been directed at the other Cyprian. Neither he nor his people had been able to truly interview her yet.
“I have yet to hear that from her own lips,” Pike said honestly. “Until then, I suggest you hold your fire . . . for everyone’s sake.”
“Do not presume to stay my hand,” Krunn said. “A Klingon does not make idle threats.”
“Captain, they’re firing their disruptors!” Tyler announced. “Here it comes!”
There was no time to alert the rest of the ship. The disruptor beams slammed into the Enterprise’s shields, rattling the bridge. Emergency alarms went off, competing with echoes of the blast, and a blinding green flash drove Krunn’s menacing visage from the viewscreen. Pike blinked and averted his eyes from the glare, which quickly faded, leaving nothing but snow and static upon the screen. He braced himself for another salvo while calling out orders.
“All decks, condition red!” he said over the intercom. “Bridge crew, report!”
“Shields down six percent,” Tyler said, “but holding.”
“Damage reports coming in,” Garrison added. “Nothing serious. No major casualties reported yet.”
Could be worse, Pike thought, wondering why Krunn hadn’t launched a second attack or deployed his torpedoes yet. For all his bluster, the general was showing uncharacteristic restraint for a Klingon, just as he’d seemingly gone to great lengths to avoid destroying the Ilion while Merata was still aboard the Cyprian ship. It appeared Krunn was equally reluctant to attack the Enterprise for fear of harming their puzzling new guest.
On the screen, a flurry of visual snow resolved back into Krunn. A burst of static heralded the return of his harsh, guttural voice.
“I trust I made my point, Pike. That is just a taste of what you can expect if you persist in your present course.” He scowled at Pike across the gulf of space. “Make your inquiries, but do not try our patience. The matter is far from concluded. We will not rest until our daughter is restored to us . . . and her captor faces Klingon justice.”
The transmission cut off abruptly. Krunn’s baneful visage vanished from the screen, which once again showed the Fek’lhr facing off against the Enterprise. If anything, the battle cruiser appeared even closer than before, as though deliberately invading the Enterprise’s personal space.
“The Klingons’ disruptor beams are powering down, sir,” Weisz reported. “Torpedo launcher inactive.”
“Whew.” Tyler let out a sigh of relief. “Looks like you called their bluff, Captain.”
“For now,” Pike cautioned.
The battle cruiser wasn’t going anywhere. The only thing holding them back, Pike assumed, was Krunn’s apparent unwillingness to risk harming Merata, who wasn’t even really a Klingon. An unusually cautious attitude for a Klingon commander; in Pike’s experience, the war-like aliens placed little value on in
dividual lives.
Which begs the question, Pike thought. Just who is she, anyway?
Four
Sickbay was already packed with victims of Rigelian fever. Extra beds had been installed in the main examination room, which had been declared a quarantine zone, while the rec rooms, gymnasium, and bowling alley had been drafted into service to handle the overflow of incoming patients. Sterile field generators fought to contain the spread of the disease, but many of the nurses, orderlies, and lab technicians were wearing protective gloves and masks as an extra precaution. Doctor Boyce and his staff scurried to tend to the flood of fever victims, many of whom were already flat on their backs. Pike hadn’t seen anything like it since that pandemic on Urtomar IV a few years back.
Most of the patients were still in stage one of the infection, suffering severe flu-like symptoms, including chills, fatigue, and rising temperatures. Pike saw them shivering beneath insulated blankets even as nurses applied cold compresses to their brows. Even more disturbing was the handful of patients who were already advancing into stage two; as the infection spread into the lungs, they coughed and wheezed and gasped for breath. Handheld respirators brought some relief, but Pike knew that was only a stopgap solution, treating the symptoms rather than disease. He didn’t immediately see anyone suffering from stage three yet, thank goodness, but, unless they got their hands on some ryetalyn, that was only a matter of time.
“The crisis is escalating at a worrisome rate,” Spock observed, having entered sickbay alongside Pike. “Beyond the direct threat to the crew, the ship’s operations will inevitably be compromised if too many personnel fall ill.”
Pike glanced at his science officer. Spock appeared unmoved by the suffering before them, but the captain chalked that up to the man’s Vulcan reserve. For himself, Pike wished that he had time to visit with the sick. Unfortunately, he had the Klingons to deal with, not to mention a couple of unexpected new passengers.
“Sorry for the interruption, Doctor,” Pike said, approaching Boyce. “But I understand one of your other patients has regained consciousness?”
