But the giant whirled around. Before Kromm realized what was happening, the revolting monster was on his back in front of him, grabbing his foot with both hands and turning it abruptly. Bones cracked; the sound drowning out even the groaning of the spectators. Kromm felt as if someone was inserting red-hot blades into his ankle. His immediate reaction was to stare incredulously. Then fury kicked in, eliminating the agony along with any rational thinking.
“Prepare to meet your makers!” the Klingon hissed, white foam spraying from his trembling lips. He screamed furiously, and the sound echoed around the bar. Clenching his fists, Kromm pushed himself off the ground with his uninjured leg and pounced onto the sneering Chalnoth.
What had begun as a simple fight over a game of Dom-jot had turned into a fight to the death. Kromm was in a state of blood frenzy, fueled by alcohol. There was no logical reasoning with him; all he could think of was defending his honor. The fraudulent giant had taken him for an idiot once too often. Now he would pay for that, even if it was the last thing Kromm did.
The crowd jeered when the mismatched opponents went at each other’s throats. Everyone backed away when the Klingon and the Chalnoth rolled over the floor. Dimly through his bloodlust, Kromm could hear new bets being formed in the crowd.
He clasped his hands around the Chalnoth’s neck, squeezing tightly, and his opponent started wheezing. The giant tried to hit him and kick him but Kromm was relentless, ignoring his agony. All he needed to overcome his pain was the furious glint in his victim’s eyes.
Suddenly, the Chalnoth’s head shot forward, and he bit Kromm.
It was like an explosion at Kromm’s neck. He roared when his opponent’s enormous tusks sank into his flesh. Reflexively, he lost his grip of the giant’s neck. Instead, he used his bony forehead as a weapon and head-butted him.
At that moment, someone fired a disruptor in the taproom, and its noise was even louder than the crowd, echoing across the taproom.
Instantly, silence fell. The entire bar, it seemed, held its breath for a brief, perplexed moment. Three dozen heads turned, looking from the fight at the Dom-jot table to the Chic’s entrance.
The woman in the doorway was as lovely as sin. Long, dark hair flowed down her back, framing her thin face. Her cranial ridges were small, but not too small, and her curved eyebrows were almost divine. She wore the uniform of the Imperial fleet… and held a disruptor in her raised right hand.
“I’m glad I finally got your attention,” she said. Everyone in the bar stared at her, but her brown eyes were fixed on Kromm. Every syllable of her words expressed disgust and fury. “I need to talk to you… Captain.”
She deliberately spat the last word out like an insult. Kromm sighed deeply, hit the Chalnoth between the eyes one last time—which rendered him unconscious—and scrambled to his feet.
“Commander,” he shouted, dusting his uniform off with one hand, needing the other hand to support himself on the gambling table. “What do you want? Did you miss me?”
The crowd stared at him. Captain? This guy?
Grinning, Kromm raised his hand and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t care what they thought, and it didn’t do any harm to be underestimated.
Commander L’emka still stood in the Chic’s doorway. Furiously she glared at her commanding officer, still aiming at the bar’s ceiling with her disruptor.
“Aww, c’mon,” Kromm slurred. Spreading his arms he staggered toward her. “What’s wrong with a little fun? Would you rather I died of boredom in that rattrap up there? I’m not like you, Commander.”
L’emka lowered her weapon. Jutting her chin out, she took one step forward. “No, sir,” she replied, sounding even more scornful than the unconscious Chalnoth had done earlier. “That you are not. And the former flagship of our fleet is not a ‘rattrap’, either.”
The music resumed. The Cardassian behind the counter had obviously decided that the brief moment of shock was over. From the corner of his eye Kromm noticed the Orion women taking to the stage again, while the other guests of the establishment returned to their filthy tables.
“Former flagship,” he repeated under his breath, before letting out a loud belch. The I.K.S. Bortas was past her prime. The war was over. Why open up old wounds? “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” he snarled at L’emka, coming to halt in front of her. He blinked until he got rid of his double-vision. “Is your communicator broken?”
The commander reached out with her left hand for Kromm’s wrist. At first he wondered whether she intended to attempt to restrain him, but then she ripped his communicator from his wrist.
“No, not mine,” she growled, presenting his obviously destroyed device.
Kromm’s eyebrows remained arched. “Mhm, collateral damage.”
“Indeed.” She sighed. “Captain, you must be available at all times. Always. How often must I tell you…”
He raised his hand defensively. “It was destroyed during an honorable fight!”
L’emka’s expression said more than a thousand words. Most of all it said how little the Chic had to do with honor in her eyes. “Could you at least accompany me?” she asked a little too forcefully for his liking.
“To the ship?” Kromm grimaced. “Over my dead body. It may have escaped your attention that our bloodwine supplies are desperately low, and if I have to listen to one of Nuk’s mind-numbingly boring stories ever again I swear I’ll go berserk.”
“You have an urgent call, sir,” L’emka said reproachfully. “On the ship. We would have put it through to you but…” Again, she held up the useless remains of his communicator.
Kromm hesitated. Usually, the fleet only contacted him to make sure that he hadn’t drowned in a wine barrel yet. There was nothing urgent about these calls. Nobody put pressure on a son of the House of DachoH, which was one of the wealthiest and most influential houses on the homeworld.
“A call? Who from?” he asked skeptically.
L’emka told him. Captain Kromm instantly sobered up.
11
NOVEMBER 5, 2385
I.K.S. Bortas, in orbit around Korinar
The I.K.S. Bortas was a ship of the Vor’cha-class. She orbited around Korinar like a lazy bird of prey would hover above its victim when it wasn’t particularly interested in it. Behind the flat, bifurcated bridge module with the huge primary disruptor weapon at the front of the ship followed a massive neck that flared out into broad wings with their red-glowing warp nacelles. The attack cruiser had twenty-six decks and was capable of a maximum speed of warp 9.6. Powerful disruptor cannons were mounted in both the ship’s bow and aft sections, and it also had a considerable supply of torpedoes and a cloaking device at its disposal.
Songs should have been sung about this ship; it was a ship for heroes.
Alas, at present it was anything but heroic. Squaring his shoulders, Captain Kromm brushed his hair back to smooth it out after having been disheveled by the brawl, before limping into his small ready room. Dim light from circular lighting sources illuminated the weapons and trophies mounted on the walls. They were supposed to emphasize the commanding officer’s strength and dignity. Everyone aboard knew that Kromm didn’t earn most of these merits. The majority of his trophies originated from other members of his famous House.
Kromm cleared his voice while sitting down on his hard chair. Expectantly he looked at the comm console on the wall across the room where the Empire’s emblem was displayed.
“I’m ready, Klarn,” he shouted, knowing that his communications officer on the bridge would open the communication frequency.
Two heartbeats later the emblem disappeared from Kromm’s monitor and was replaced by Chancellor Martok’s face.
“Qapla’,” Kromm offered the traditional greeting of warriors, beating his right fist against his chest. Wincing he realized that his ribs were still hurting from his fight with the Chalnoth.
Martok’s healthy eye glared at him, impatiently. “Captain Kromm. How g
ood of you to make it, finally.”
“Begging your pardon, Chancellor, but I had urgent business to attend to on the planet’s surface.”
“On Korinar.” The corners of Martok’s mouth upturned slightly, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “How are the prices for bloodwine down there? Urgent?”
Kromm gulped. “Chancellor, I…”
But Martok waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not calling to reprimand you, Captain. Scolding a hero of the Ning’tao would be improper; even I know that, believe me.”
Kromm wanted to protest but Martok simply continued.
“And we both know that you weren’t transferred to the Bortas because you were expected to perform galactic masterpieces. So, please, spare me your pack of lies, Kromm. Let’s just say that certain truths best remain unspoken.”
Kromm jutted his chin. Chancellor or not, he was rapidly losing his patience with this conversation. “Then what will be spoken of in this call?” he asked brusquely.
“Desperation,” Martok answered quietly. He looked down for a moment. “Trust me, Kromm, it was born from pure desperation.”
The hot-headed warrior remained silent for the next few minutes—while his amazement increased steadily. Martok told him about the tragedies near the Lembatta Cluster, about the fate of Starbase 91 and the dastardly attack on the dilithium mines in the Tika system. With every passing minute, Kromm’s anger intensified. Only when Martok finished did the captain realize that he was clenching his fists.
“Do you want me to go to Onferin?” he asked, hardly able to believe his luck. “Should I let these cowardly red-skins know that they have made a poor choice in enemy?”
Martok didn’t share his enthusiasm, that much was obvious. “I want you to fly to the edge of the Lembatta Cluster,” he replied. “You will meet up with a Federation ship and…”
“Chancellor!” Interrupting the head of the Klingon High Council in this manner was unthinkable, yet Kromm couldn’t help himself. What he’d just heard was tantamount to a sacrilege that seemed to outweigh his own inappropriate behavior. “The Federation? With all due respect, sir, these bigmouths haven’t got a clue when it comes to taking drastic measures. Just look at them! Do we really want to allow them to water down our justified anger with their Federation diplomacy?”
Martok sighed, but it sounded stern and not suffering. His gaze was fixed on Kromm. “We don’t want anything, Captain. I want. And last I checked I was still the leader of our glorious empire. Which makes me your commander, or would you care to dispute that?”
Kromm didn’t say anything. He felt reprimanded—but he also felt that he was right. He was a hero from the Ning’tao, damnit, and not a stupid boy. Didn’t that count for anything anymore?
“Captain Kromm?” Martok prompted him.
Finally, he nodded. “You’re the leader of the empire. It… it’s my honor to serve you and the empire.”
Martok’s eye glinted again. “Glad to hear it,” the old Klingon growled, pointedly straightening his ceremonial robe. “The Prometheus is waiting for you near the debris of Starbase 91. If my files are correct you should be able to make that journey within four days. Therefore, you’re my closest ship, Kromm—whether you and I like it or not.”
“Four days,” he promised without checking. He had no idea how far they had to travel but he didn’t want to give Martok any more ammunition. “We will not let you down.”
“I hope not, son of Kaath,” his chancellor stated. The little reference about Kromm’s successful father who led the House of DachoH, stung. “In fact, I sincerely hope not.”
Kromm gulped once again. “If that would be all, sir…”
“You’re dismissed, Captain. Set course for Starbase 91, or rather what’s left of it. And I suggest you find it in yourself to resist the temptations of your… urgent business. At least this once.”
Kromm briefly closed his eyes. Otherwise, shame, anger, and his sense of honor might have induced him to say things that he would probably regret later.
“Oh, one more thing,” Martok said, and Kromm opened his eyes again. “I’m placing a diplomat by your side—the Federation’s ambassador to us, Alexander Rozhenko. He will serve as a liaison between you and the Prometheus. The ambassador has already departed on the U.S.S. Aventine, which will meet up with you.”
A watchdog! Worse still… one selected from the bunch of diplomats that knew much more about desks and office hours than the realities of battles. Marvelous!
Don’t think about the ambassador, Kromm chided himself. And ignore Starfleet and their weaklings. This is a chance like you hadn’t thought possible for years. The Renao—use them to prove yourself to Martok. Take advantage of their wrath!
“The Bortas will serve the empire honorably, Chancellor.” His voice quivered with anticipation, frustration, and bloodwine.
Martok nodded. “Qapla’, Captain!”
And he signed off.
12
NOVEMBER 5, 2385
U.S.S. Prometheus, en route to the Lembatta Cluster
Crouching, Lenissa zh’Thiin circled around her opponent. Her antennae were bent forward intently, while she watched the man’s every move. She was poised to react should he attack. At the same time, she was anxious to find a gap in his defense. Both her hands were raised, ready to fight. To her crewmates from Earth she would probably resemble a boxer from their homeworld, but Lenissa didn’t fight with bare hands; instead, she held an Ushaan-tor in each hand respectively. The flat, semicircular blade with the handle on one side and a jagged edge on the other side was Andor’s traditional tool in the ice mines. It could be found in almost every household, especially in rural areas. Children used it as a toy.
At the same time, the Ushaan-tor had a ritual connotation because it was used during Ushaan duels, when two rivals fought for life and honor following a complex code and while being chained together.
Both blades in Lenissa’s hands were blunt, just like the blades in the hands of the Caitian first officer Roaas. Lenissa and Roaas were in a secluded part of the sports facility on the Prometheus. Next door, several men and women built up their strength and endurance on multifunctional pieces of sports equipment. Lenissa and Roaas, on the other side, practiced their fighting skills with exotic weapons.
Roaas attempted a lunge. The blade in his left hand swung around in a shimmering arc, coming down on Lenissa from above. With lightning reflexes, she blocked the hit with her own weapon. Within the blink of an eye, she also parried the Caitian’s low attack. She slightly twisted the second blade, catching the edges of their Ushaan-tors. Whirling around past Roaas’s arm, she attempted to thrust her first weapon into his side. But the Caitian also turned away from her, and she hit thin air instead. The momentum of their movements separated them, and they took their respective stances again about three steps apart.
“Very good counter,” he praised her reluctantly, “just a little slow.” His tail swayed behind him like a snake that was dancing to a hypnotic flute.
“You’ll get tired eventually, old man,” Lenissa taunted.
“Your words merely show how little you know about us Caitians,” he replied, his whiskers twitching in amusement. “The steppes on Ferasa are hot and vast.”
“I seem to recall that the Caitians stopped being nomads and hunting for their nourishment centuries ago. Doesn’t your species consist predominantly of vegetarians these days?”
“We’re not running across the wilderness in search of food,” Roaas said, “we consider it relaxation.”
Lenissa smiled knowingly. “Let’s see how relaxing you find this.” With an outcry, she sprang into action.
When the Andorian woman had joined the Prometheus as chief of security six months earlier, she had realized soon after that she had found a soulmate in the older Caitian. He was a warrior, just like her, and his extensive knowledge about combat styles and weapons of various cultures had quickly fascinated Lenissa. She had enjoyed fairly comprehensive combat trainin
g during her time at Starfleet and hadn’t realized how many gaps she still had in her knowledge. Roaas not only helped her close these gaps, he also taught her a Caitian method of motion meditation that helped her find her inner balance in times of turmoil.
Today, he wasn’t the teacher—she was. Roaas was familiar with the usual Ushaan-tor combat style, of course. But when Lenissa wasn’t involved in ritual duels she preferred the technique with two blades, and that was how they pitted themselves against each other at this moment.
The Andorian used a quick succession of hits to chase her opponent across the training area. Much to her dismay, Roaas parried her every move, although he wielded the Ushaan-tors for the first time today.
“You’re pretty good with these blades,” she admitted, gasping.
“Perhaps I should’ve mentioned…” Abruptly, Roaas crouched down, whirling around with one leg stretched out, and swept her feet out from under her. She hit the gym mat hard and wanted to roll sideways but the older Caitian suddenly knelt on top of her, pinning her upper arms to the floor. The tip of his right blade stopped approximately one centimeter away from her throat.
“… that Caitians are masters in dual-wielding. It’s in our genetic code.” He flexed his furry fingers with the retractable claws suggestively.
Then he rose to his feet, taking both Ushaan-tors into his left hand and offering Lenissa his right hand to help her up. She didn’t really need his help but she appreciated the gesture.
“You also made one mistake, Lenissa,” Roaas continued.
“Which is?” she asked. Her sports tunic had slightly rolled up when she fell to the ground, and she straightened it with one hand.
“You tried too hard to win against me, and to finish the fight quickly. That made you neglect your defense. Being overeager never helped anyone. A fighter always needs to be in control. It’s essential that you remain patient, waiting for the right moment to attack—and you obviously need to be aware when this moment has come.”
“True,” said Lenissa, “patience is not my forté. Someone who waits is simply too scared to act. You need to be offensive if you want to keep the upper hand.”
Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire Page 10
