by Diane Duane
“Hurry!” Kamarag yelled through the intercom. “The human is loose in the ship!” As the warriors abandoned their meals and ran out, the ambassador secured all airlocks.
Valdyr headed for the bridge doors.
“And where are you going?” Kamarag demanded as the doors slid open before her.
“I’m going to recapture my prisoner,” she informed him matter-of-factly. He seemed about to protest, but Karg’s shouting as he hammered against his prison door quickly distracted him. She was in the hall before he had another second to think about it.
The human will head for the bridge,she decided. It would be the only way he could effect a genuine escape. Leaving the ship would merely strand him on a planet where he would be the only one of his kind, and entirely too easy to find. No, he’d need to get to the bridge, commandeer it. No doubt he’d figure out where it was in a matter of minutes. He was clever, this human.
Those of us that are not as strong must develop our minds all the more,she thought, grinning with the excitement of the pursuit. She was eager to go against this man.This warrior, she thought, shocking herself. And what else should he be called? Starved, dehydrated, and inactive for days, this human had managed to have both the strengthand the cunning to overcome two of Kamarag’s best warriors.
Valdyr raced down the corridor, heading toward the prisoner’s cabin. She realized then that she had no weapon but her knife, and her fighting skills. She could not stun the man; she would have to fight him barehanded. She frowned. Would he fight her? Or would he give her thatlook, that patronizing expression warriors always gave her?It would be shameful for a warrior to fight a woman, she was always told.
And she always responded,No, it is only shameful to fight her…and lose. Gritting her teeth, she slid to a halt behind a juncture of corridors. This was the path to the bridge. To reach it, he would have to come through her.
Valdyr heard the thudding of feet on deckplates, then a Klingon warrior’s guttural shout. She peered around the corner, her body hidden by the angled wall. The human, who’d been headed her way, spun around to face a Klingon racing toward him from the rear. Young Kirk waited until the warrior was nearly on top of him, then with an earsplitting yell of his own, leaped high in the air, smashing both feet into the warrior’s face. The Klingon hit the deckplates so hard they shuddered. Kirk landed badly himself, pulling himself up with an effort. Panting for breath, he moved steadily toward her.
The Klingon woman stepped into his path from behind the curve and he stopped short. Chest heaving, he gulped for air. It had cost him, this fight, and she could see he was near the end of his strength.
“It is over,” she said clearly in English. “You have fought well. Be proud. Now yield, and come with me.”
Kirk was clearly surprised to hear her use his language. His shoulders sagged, as if in defeat, but she didn’t trust him and went into a defensive stance. His gaze moved over her, taking in her posture, and his expression hardened with determination. “In a pig’s eye!” Kirk answered.
She blinked, unable to translate the idiom. “You will yield!” she ordered, and launched herself at him.
Valdyr felt ashamed of her advantage. She doubted he would use the same force on her as he’d been willing to use on the Klingon males. His unwillingness to do that would allow her to conquer him, but she wouldn’t enjoy it. She was still thinking that when his fist hit her cheek with stunning force.
Her head snapped back harshly, and she growled as blood poured from the corner of her lip. Drawing back, she landed a powerful right to his jaw, and he staggered. She moved to follow it through with a left, but he blocked the blow. Kirk brought his hand down in a hard chop at her neck, but she dodged and it landed ineffectively on her leather shoulder pad. Bringing the heel of her hand up under his chin, she snapped his head back with the force of the blow. Kirk grunted and went down.
Before he’d even finished landing, however, he’d scissored his legs between hers and knocked her to the deck. He landed on her roughly, struggling to get a grip on her hair and slam her head against the deckplates. Swinging her legs up, she flipped both of them end over end, then straddled him. “Yield, human!” she bellowed, and struck him hard in the face. His head cracked against the floor, he gave a sigh, and his eyes rolled up.
Valdyr eased off her prisoner carefully, fully aware that he might be feigning unconsciousness. Klingon boots thundered down the hall, and when she looked up, Karg, Treegor, the two crewmen, and her uncle were there, their eyes moving between the unconscious human on the floor and her. She was panting and sweating over him, the blood from her lip dripping puce droplets onto her armor.
Raging, Karg snarled, “Let me kill thisHa’Dlbah now!” and lunged for the helpless body.
“You will not!” Valdyr heard herself shout as she thrust herself between them, shoving the warrior back roughly.
He moved on her, but by then her dagger was out of its sheath and in front of his face. He paused. Valdyr’s warrior blood was coursing through her now. “Is this how a Klingon warrior kills his enemy?” she taunted her betrothed. “Waits until he’s helpless and kills him in his sleep? Is that your path to honor, Karg?”
No one in the corridor moved. Karg’s face flamed with shame. Valdyr was surprised when her uncle said nothing, merely stared at her reflectively.
Treegor grumbled at her, “Thishuman is not worthy to be our enemy. He is aparasite, brought down by awoman. He deserves no honorable consideration.”
“Be careful, Treegor,” she warned. “This human broughtyou down with one blow, and outfought and outwitted the rest of you. He did that after a long fast and in a weakened state. He has earned the respect due a warrior.”
Without another word, she sheathed her dagger. Then, reaching down, she grabbed the unconscious human by the wrists, hauled him up, and slung him over her shoulder. Valdyr struggled not to stagger; Kirk was heavier than he looked, but she could not afford to show weakness in front of this group now.
“Valdyr,” said Kamarag quietly, “where are you taking him?”
“To the prison cell you have prepared for him,” she said, managing to speak clearly in spite of her burden. “I will take him in the aircar we brought. He is my prisoner, is he not? He needs medical attention, and possibly force-feeding. Your orders on the matter of his care were very clear.”
“Do…you not wish help?” Kamarag asked.
“Do you think I need it?” she challenged, meeting his eyes.
He raised his head as if insulted, but when Karg attempted to speak, he held up his hand to silence the warrior. Karg looked outraged. “No,” Kamarag said quietly. “I do not think you need help.” And with a gesture that was almost a salute, he permitted her to leave.
As Valdyr stumped toward the airlock with her heavy burden, she heard Karg say angrily to her uncle, “I will not tolerate such insolence when we are wed! I will beat that smugness out of her the first night!”
To her pleasure she heard Kamarag reply, “I do not believe a warrior’s heart is so easily conquered, Karg. You may have to rethink your approach.”
See,Peter told himself,you were right the first time. You should’ve never woken up! He lay perfectly still on the unyielding surface where he’d been tossed. The truth was, he was afraid to move. Every single part of himhurt —not just a little, but with a bone-jarring, muscle-deep, migraine-type pain the likes of which he’d never known.
Well, what did you expect, mister? You took on the whole damned Klingon army.
Klingons! He’d been kidnapped by Klingons. Well, everything he’d ever read about them was true. They could fight like mountain gorillas, and they seemed about as strong. His aching body testified to that.
But why would Klingons want to kidnap him in the first place? Ever since Jim Kirk and his crew had saved Chancellor Azetbur, his uncle had become a favored person among the Klingon populace.
But not every Klingon, he knew, supported Azetbur’s rule.
He trie
d to recall the two soldiers who’d come for him. Their garb had been military—black and dark gray leather studded with metal, spiked boots and gloves—but the official insignia of the Klingon Empire was not pinned on their left sleeves. Instead, there’d been another insignia stitched on the leather, intertwined with what must have been the sigil of a high-ranking house.
He tried to gauge the gravity of this place by the weight of his body as it lay still. It was hard to say without moving. He was heavier than he was on Earth, just a fraction, perhaps, but there was a difference. Of course, some of that could be due to swollen muscle tissue! He wondered if he was on one of the Klingon worlds, or on Qo’noS itself. And he wondered if he’d ever find a way out of this mess. Despair washed over him like a bucket of ice water.
Klingons rarely kept prisoners, but when they did…there was plenty of speculation about what happened to those unfortunates. Would they kill him? Torture him? Tales of the infamous Klingon mind-sifter ran through his memory. Determinedly, Peter took deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth, until he felt calmer.
“I know you are awake, human,” a highly accented feminine voice growled at him.
He knew that voice. He’d heard it at least once before. Yes. Before its owner whipped the tar out of him. He allowed one eyelid to creep open.
There she was, all right, the woman of his nightmares. She loomed over him, but carefully remained out of reach. As if he had enough energy even to lift his head, never mind take her on again. What apunch she had!
“You are dehydrated, human,” she told him. “You need water and food. I am prepared to force-feed you if you will not cooperate with me. The choice is yours.”
Her English was amazingly good, if oddly accented, Peter realized. He opened the other eye.
She was small, barely tall enough to reach Peter’s shoulder, and slenderly built. Her long dark hair, braided into a rope as thick as Peter’s wrist, hung over her shoulder and fell to her thighs. The Klingon woman’s skin was the color of warm honey, her features delicate and feminine. Even the ridges on her forehead were elegant—sharply defined, but not as massive as those of the male Klingons. The effect was almost charming.Like the lovely head of the cobra, Peter thought wryly.
She wore the same military-like garb that the males had, with the same insignia on it. As Peter’s eyes met hers, she lifted her chin and stared back at him levelly.
“You will sit up, or I will pull you into a sitting position,” she ordered him.
The last thing he wanted was for this Amazon to handle him again. He rolled onto his side and struggled to sit up without groaning. Easing his legs over the ledge of whatever he was lying on, he settled into the ordered position, only to sag back against a wall.
“I know you now, human,” the female Klingon informed him, “so do not attempt to deceive me. I defeated you once and will happily do so again.”
Holding up his hands, Peter tried futilely to moisten his mouth and speak. He craved water as he’d never craved anything before; he didn’t even care if it was drugged. In fact, he wished it was. It might alleviate some of this pain.
“Here, drink this,” she ordered him, holding a squeeze bottle out to him.
He clutched at it, his hands covering hers, as the fluid streamed into his mouth. It was clear, clean, pure water, and tasted more wonderful than anything he’d ever consumed. Cruelly, she pulled the bottle away before he’d had more than a few swallows.
“Slowly!” she snapped. “You have been weakened by your battle. Too much fluid too soon will only make you ill. Here, swallow these, and you may have more water to wash them down.”
He stared uncomprehendingly at some tiny pills in her palm.
“They are human medication. They are for pain. Take them…or no more water.”
He took them willingly and again clutched her hands as she allowed him more water from the squeeze bottle. Her skin was sowarm.
This time, when she took the bottle away, her face seemed to soften a little. He released his grip on her reluctantly, wondering when she’d offer the water again.
“There is warm broth in this bottle,” she told him, showing it to him. “It is Klingon, but it is specially made for injured warriors. It is food and medicine all in one. I have consulted with the information we have on human physiology and I assure you it will bring you no harm. You will drink it…or I will feed it to you like an infant.”
Peter nodded at her. He’d drink it…the water had awakened an echo of hunger. He moistened his lips again and asked, “Why do you care?” His voice was little more than a croak.
She frowned, confused.
“Why should you care if I eat or not? Whether I drink too much water and get sick? Why do you care?”
“My uncle has assigned me to see to your welfare,” she explained, her tone curt, but no longer fierce. She handed him the bottle of broth. “I am to restore your health.”
He nodded. Her job. That explained everything, and nothing. He sipped the warm brew gingerly, no longer interested in the politics of hunger-striking. Surprisingly, the liquid was savory and satisfying. As its warmth traveled through him, he found his spirits improving. Peter wondered how long it would be before the pills took effect. He was tired of pain following every faint movement.
Taking another sip of the broth, he looked around his new environment. All his great battle had done was earn him more scars and a new cell. This one was not much larger than his prison aboard the ship, but he knew very well that he was no longer in space.
The windowless walls were closely fitted blocks of stone that had been cemented over, not altogether successfully, because patches of the ancient brownish gray stonework showed through. He was perched on a sleeping platform consisting of a slab of stone with some kind of woven blanket thrown atop it.
On his left was a hole in the ground, what he now recognized as the Klingon version of a no-frills head. This one didn’t appear to have been used within the last century. The door was ancient wood reinforced with metal, but the locks holding it closed were modern—incongruous against the old wood. Beside the door was a clear observation panel with a speaker set beneath it. A four-legged stool was placed near it.
The walls around him seemed as tough as neutronium. He thought of a book his uncle had brought him once—The Count of Monte Cristo.
Sure,he thought.Give me a spoon, and I’ll be out of here in a mere fourteen years….
This was definitely not the Klingon Hilton.
Peter took a deep breath, trying to take stock of his situation.What would Jim Kirk do? he wondered; then, glancing at the young Klingon woman’s slender but attractive figure, he repressed a grim smile.Yeah, right. I know just what Uncle Jim would do! Even with a Klingon, if she was as nicely built as this one…too bad I don’t have his luck.
Taking a few more healthy swallows of the broth, he savored the taste. It was spicy, burning his tongue, but he’d always won the chili cook-offs in school. He loved hot food. He looked at the bottle, surprised to be feeling some of his aches easing up already. “This is very good broth.”
She cocked her head at him suspiciously. “I had always heard that humans were too weak to tolerate our food.”
He shrugged cautiously. “I’ll make you chili some day and we can discuss it. I like this well enough. And I’m feeling better. Thank you.”
She seemed wary, then uncomfortable, but finally said, “I, too, thankyou.”
He stared at her, at a loss. “What for?”
“For fighting me. For treating me as an honorable opponent. It was a good battle! I believe…that if you were well…you might have won!”
Peter sat up straighter, forcing his brain into alertness. Klingons put a lot of store in honor—it was everything to them. But women didn’t get much benefit from the heavily patriarchal system. He started to introduce himself. “My name is—”
She cut him off abruptly. “I know who you are.”
He raised an eyebrow. Of cou
rse she knew who he was. She’d helped kidnap him, hadn’t she? “And…my honorable opponent is…?” he prodded. The ploy was deliberate. It would become harder to think of him as her victim if he started becoming aperson to her.
She hesitated, and he wondered if she knew that. Finally, she said quietly, “I am Valdyr.”
He nodded. Interesting name. He wondered if it meant anything.Yeah. She-who-mops-the-floor-with-Starfleet-cadets! “Valdyr, have I earned the right to know why I’m here?” He was pushing it, he knew, but what could she do, besides refuse?And beat the hell out of you again?
She seemed suddenly troubled, and glanced around the cell. He didn’t speak, just took a few more sips of broth and waited patiently. Finally, she spoke.“My uncle has declared a blood feud againstyour uncle. The government no longer wants vengeance against James Kirk, since he saved the life of Chancellor Azetbur. So, to regain his honor, my uncle must act on his own. James Kirk will be sent a message to come alone to a certain place in space. There my uncle’s guards will take him, and bring him here. Once he is here,” she paused, staring at him for a long moment, then finally continued, “you will be released.”
She’s lying,Peter thought, but decided not to pursue it. He didn’t have the strength to face his possible future as a Klingon prisoner. “What will happen to my uncle once Kamarag has him?” Peter asked, even though he already knew.
Valdyr refused to meet his eyes. “My uncle has a debt of honor to settle with him. If you know what that is, you know what will happen.”
Torture and, eventually, execution,Peter thought grimly. “Why the blood feud, Valdyr? I know my uncle has fought your people throughout his career, but our peoples are working toward peace, now.”
“Your uncle left a Klingon to perish on an exploding world,” Valdyr said quietly. “That warrior was my uncle’s closest friend and protégé.”
