by Dayton Ward
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For Gene Roddenberry
Thank you for giving us such a wondrous sandbox
in which to play.
Historian’s Note
This story takes place early in the year 2268, several months after the U.S.S. Enterprise’s mission to ferry Federation diplomats to the conference on the neutral planetoid Babel (“Journey to Babel”), and immediately following the Romulan attack on the planet Centaurus (Star Trek: Legacies—Book 2: Best Defense).
One
Pivoting on her heel and flattening the wooden training bat’leth as she lifted it from its resting place on her left shoulder, Visla swung the weapon with her right arm and let its heavy blade arc across her body. The impact against her opponent’s simulated blade made her arm shudder but she ignored it. Instinct guided her to her left and she ducked under her adversary’s counterattack, feeling the rush of air as the training weapon sliced through the air above her head. Adjusting her stance and raising her own bat’leth in preparation for another attack, Visla realized something about her counterpart’s movements was not quite right.
“Mev!”
The response to her command was immediate, with her opponent, Lieutenant Koveq, halting his own movements and returning to a basic ready stance. With both hands, he held his bat’leth before him, cutting edge pointed toward the deck plating.
“Commander?”
Visla eyed him. “You do not attack me with full force. Why?”
“I do not understand,” replied Koveq, his heavy brow furrowing in confusion. “This was to be an exercise interval.”
“I have no wish to be coddled like a child.” Feeling her grip tighten on her own weapon, she relished the anger flowing through her for another moment. “Attack me. Spare none of your strength and skill.”
Regarding her with obvious doubt, her weapons officer replied, “Are you certain, Commander?”
It was not an unreasonable question, Visla conceded. Her subordinate was well trained in close combat, both with bladed weapons and his own hands. He outweighed her by a considerable margin, and there was no denying that his brute physical strength was superior to her own. There also was the simple fact that she had engaged Koveq in this exercise as a training bout, for which there were rules and protocols in order to reduce the number of preventable, even stupid injuries.
She cared nothing about any of that today.
“Stop questioning my orders, attack me!”
In response to her command, Koveq said nothing more. His expression darkened and Visla recognized the determined set to his jaw. He raised his bat’leth blade, angling the weapon so that the end to Visla’s left was higher and tilted toward her. With skill born from countless hours of training and actual combat, he advanced, neither rushing his movements nor offering any insight into what he was planning. Visla felt her pulse quicken in anticipation, and she could not resist a small smile of satisfaction as she hefted her blade and began stepping to her right.
She expected Koveq to feint to his left before launching an assault to her left flank, but the weapons officer surprised her by lunging left, shifting the angle of his bat’leth, and then continuing with his original attack angle. Visla brought her blade up and over in time to block the strike, by which time Koveq was pivoting away, using his momentum to swing his weapon with one hand back toward her head. She parried that attack, backpedaling to give herself maneuvering room, but her subordinate had already gathered himself and was charging again. She started to counter his move, but he spun at the last instant, turning away from her blade as she took one step too far and overextended her reach. Koveq’s bat’leth swung across his body, and Visla felt the sting of the training weapon across her back. The force of the strike pushed her off her feet and she stumbled, stopping her fall with her free hand and pushing herself back to her feet.
“Mev,” said Koveq, dropping his bat’leth to a carry position that indicated he was neither attacking nor defending.
Visla glowered at him. “I did not command you to stop.”
“I know, Commander. As the ship’s combat training officer, it is my prerogative. This exercise is concluded.”
“Why?” She used her forearm to wipe perspiration from her brow. “You were winning.”
“Training is not about winning or losing, Commander,” said Koveq, his voice calm. “It is for learning.”
Growling in irritation, Visla shook her head. “You sound like a Vulcan when you talk like that.”
“Despite their annoying tendencies to incessantly ramble about subjects of little consequence, Vulcans are quite adept in the fighting arts.” Crossing the room, Koveq paused before the bench that angled outward from the training room’s slanted bulkhead. There, he retrieved a towel and began to wipe down his training bat’leth. “I have studied some of their unarmed combat disciplines. There is much to learn and to admire.”
Her ire rising, Visla held up her own simulated weapon. “Before I find a way to kill you with this toy, what does any of the nonsense you spout have to do with anything?”
Setting the bat’leth on the bench, Koveq turned back to her. “The Vulcans are masters of opening their minds to new ideas and new ways of doing things. For this reason, they are most adaptable to almost any situation, including combat. It is this attitude that facilitates their learning and their ability to meet any challenge. For one to learn, one’s mind must be attuned to the task at hand. Your mind is elsewhere, Commander.”
She was opening her mouth to respond when Visla caught herself. Several heartbeats passed before she took a step backward, drawing a deep breath and letting the wooden bat’leth drop from her hand. The weapon clattered as it struck the metal deck plating. For the first time since entering the training room, she smiled and released a small laugh.
“You understand that not even my first officer is permitted to address me in such a manner, and I actually like him.”
The comment elicited a deep belly laugh from the weapons officer. “Yes, but you have entrusted me with being the keeper of your conscience, Commander. It is not a responsibility I take lightly. You are obviously troubled, and it affects your focus.”
Though Visla valued his counsel, there were times when Koveq’s calm, unflappable demeanor made her want to drive his face into the nearest bulkhead or simply fire him from one of the ship’s torpedo tubes. When he spoke to her this way, it only heightened her annoyance because she knew he was well aware of the source of her anger.
“You know I hate it when you cloak your words,” she said, reaching for the bat’leth she had dropped and returning it to its place with the other training weapons on the far bulkhead’s storage rack. “Say what you wish to say, Lieutenant.”
Moving to stand beside her, Koveq placed his own weapon on the rack. “You are conflicted. You are grateful that your son lives, and yet you feel that he, much like yourself, has had his honor taken from him through forces over which he has no control. You fear that he will be reduced to a mere servant of the Empire—fated to serve in obscurity, with no opportunity for advancement, commendation, reward, or respect.”
Her jaw clenching as she listened to her trusted friend, Visla turned and punched the bulkhead. The force of the strike did nothing to damage the metal plating, of course, though
she felt the satisfying jolt of pain in her hand even through the heavy leather glove designed to protect it. Still, the punch produced a dull echo in the wall, and she imagined the reverberation carrying through the entire skeleton of her ship. Then she laughed at the absurdity of such thinking.
You and I, we are both stubborn. We never buckle. We never surrender.
While this old bucket might be well beyond its prime, the I.K.S. Qo’Daqh still retained some measure of mettle and pride. The D5-class battle cruiser was a relic, an obsolete deathtrap that should have been consigned to scrap a generation before Visla even was born, but it possessed a history filled with both glory and shame. The latter, of course, was all that mattered, along with the dishonor brought to it and the Klingon Empire in a battle fought and lost decades earlier. Like the battle, the commander of that ill-fated campaign, Visla’s grandfather, had been all but erased from official records, and no one she knew had spoken aloud of that ignominious day. He had never spoken of it, preferring to shoulder the burden of humiliation in silence until the end of his life.
Under almost any other circumstances, the Qo’Daqh would have been destroyed, but someone somewhere decided that it retained some small portion of value. As those who had crewed it were consigned to disgrace, so too was this vessel damned in similar fashion. It was forever barred from performing anything save the most menial of tasks, let alone taking any action that might see its honor and legacy restored. Anyone sent to serve aboard it did so knowing that the Empire held them in the lowest regard, and that was especially true of the Klingon condemned to its captain’s chair. It was to be Visla’s punishment for having the temerity to be born into a house that had dishonored the Empire.
“My son was already doomed to follow me down the path of disgrace,” she said, moving from the weapons rack to where she had left a coarse canvas towel lying on the nearby bench. “It was his misfortune to have me as his mother. His shame is only compounded now.”
Visla had not slept since receiving word the previous evening that the I.K.S. HoS’leth, the cruiser to which her son, K’tovel, was assigned, had been lost in battle against a Romulan ship near the planet Centaurus. The location of the battle was interesting, given that peace talks had been under way between envoys from the Federation and the Klingon Empire. The HoS’leth, under the command of a renowned Klingon general, Kovor, had fought the Romulan vessel with the unlikely assistance of a Federation starship, the U.S.S. Enterprise. Details of the encounter remained unreported, though Prang, the Klingon attaché assigned to Councillor Gorkon during the peace talks on Centaurus, had told Visla that the confrontation was an outgrowth of some important discovery on Usilde, a remote world in the Libros star system. Prang had not offered any other information, leaving Visla to speculate that whatever had been found on that planet, it obviously was of great interest to the Romulans as well as the Klingons and the Federation.
Further, someone had deemed that discovery to be of sufficient value to spur General Kovor to ally himself with the captain of the Federation ship, James Kirk. Visla had found this hard to believe, considering what she had read of the Earther’s recent engagements with other Klingon vessels. Those encounters had earned him scorn as well as grudging respect within the High Command. Numerous ship commanders had already made clear their desire to engage the human captain in combat, to see if the reports of his tactical prowess and guile were true. For her part, Visla suspected the accounts had been embellished to mitigate the incompetence of the Klingons who had suffered defeat at Kirk’s hands.
As for the HoS’leth, all Visla knew at this point was that a group of survivors from the destroyed cruiser awaited pickup on the planet Centaurus, and that K’tovel was among them. How her son and his shipmates had evaded their vessel’s destruction during the battle also was a question that would remain unanswered until the Qo’Daqh arrived to retrieve them. Visla was already anticipating the reaction she would receive from the Klingon High Command when it was learned that K’tovel was among the HoS’leth survivors.
More dishonor upon our house.
“I have read the report,” said Koveq. “Though it lacks detail, it is obvious that the Starfleet captain acted without regard for our traditions. The HoS’leth crew, including your son, were prepared to die with their vessel, but were robbed of that prize. This should be taken into account when passing judgment upon the survivors.”
Wiping her face with her towel, Visla scowled. “And how likely is that to happen?” She shook her head. “No. The High Command has never squandered an opportunity to remind my family of its place. They will not do so here, and the insult is only compounded with me being sent to retrieve them. It is an endless cycle, Koveq, and one from which there is no escape.” Pausing, she regarded him for a moment. “How is it that you don’t allow your feelings to spill forth? You have also had your honor stripped away. Does it not anger you?”
“My dishonor is by my own hand, Commander.” The weapons officer stared at the metal deck plating. “I hesitated in battle. It was my first time facing an enemy, and one might look to youth and inexperience as an explanation, but the simple fact was that I was afraid. That fear kept me from acting, and that failure resulted in the death of two warriors. I live with that knowledge, and with each new day I try to be a better warrior than I was the day before, but I know that I can never atone for that mistake. All I can do is work to ensure it never happens again.”
Visla nodded. Like her and Koveq, every member of the Qo’Daqh’s crew had such a story, some failing or shortcoming that was viewed as having brought discredit to the Empire. There were other ships just like this one, filled with castoffs and rejects who ultimately possessed but one purpose: die so that other warriors, better and more honorable, might live to fight another day.
We shall see about that.
“You and I are of similar mind, my friend,” she said. “I have no concerns over restoring my own personal honor, as doing so is not within my control. However, that does not free us from our duty as warriors, and if that means correcting an insult directed against the Empire, then that is what we should do.”
Koveq eyed her with confusion. “I do not understand, Commander.”
The intercom panel near the training room’s entrance emitted a series of beeps before a deep male voice said through the panel’s speaker, “Bridge to Commander Visla.”
Smiling at her trusted friend, Visla said, “You will understand in due course, Lieutenant.” She gestured for Koveq to follow her to the communications panel, and she pressed the unit’s activation control. “This is Visla.”
“I apologize for interrupting your personal exercise period, Commander,” said Woveth, the Qo’Daqh’s first officer, “but we have received a subspace message from the Klingon High Command. They are demanding to know why you have not acknowledged our orders to set course for Centaurus.”
Visla exchanged a glance with Koveq, whose brow again had furrowed.
“That is because we are not going to Centaurus, Lieutenant,” she said. “Plot a course for the Libros system and engage at maximum speed. Once we are under way, notify me with our time of arrival.”
A pause was Woveth’s initial response, and Visla thought she could hear him breathing through the open channel. Then the first officer said, “Commander, I do not understand. Did I fail to note a change in our orders?”
“No, Lieutenant. This is at my discretion, and I accept full responsibility. We will discuss it in detail when I return to the bridge. For now, execute the course change.”
The first officer, obviously confused, nevertheless offered no resistance. “Understood, Commander. Plotting the new course.”
“Excellent.” Visla pressed the panel control to sever the communication.
“Commander?” Koveq was making no effort to mask his skepticism. “An unauthorized deviation of our course will not go unnoticed by High Command.”
Vis
la nodded. “Quite true. My hope is that they will not notice our attempt to redeem the HoS’leth crew and restore the honor taken from them.”
“The crew.” Koveq’s eyes narrowed. “Including your son.”
“Yes, including my son.” Visla turned to face her weapons officer. “Do I have your loyalty, Lieutenant?”
Koveq nodded. “Always, and without question, Commander.”
“Good.”
Feeling the all but imperceptible tremor in the deck plates beneath her feet that signified the Qo’Daqh was increasing speed and drawing more power from its engines, Visla allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. She, her misfit crew, and her dilapidated vessel were going to seize back for the Empire and the HoS’leth that which had been taken from them by one foolhardy Earther.
James Kirk would pay for his insolence.
Two
First the lights flickered. Then the artificial gravity wavered just enough to throw Kirk off his stride. He reached for the nearby bulkhead just as the omnipresent drone of the Enterprise’s warp engines changed. Even with inertial damping systems, Kirk still felt himself just for the briefest of moments pulled toward the front of the ship. The sensation faded in the same abrupt manner it had been conjured, its only lingering effect a slight shifting in his stomach.
Not alone in the corridor on deck five, Kirk exchanged confused looks with the dozen or so crewmembers visible in this stretch of curved passageway. He was just moving toward an intercom panel when the system’s whistle filled the air, followed by the voice of the Enterprise’s first officer, Commander Spock.
“Bridge to all personnel. The ship has unexpectedly dropped out of warp. Engineering is already assessing the situation. All damage control teams, submit updated reports to your department heads. Stand by for further instructions.”
