by Dayton Ward
The helmsman nodded in agreement. “Well, you’re the chief of security. It’s your job to handle him. I can’t risk damaging my hands, you know.”
At the podium, Kaljagh stood absolutely still, staring out into the audience and waiting for the applause to die down. When he spoke, it was with a deep, resonating voice that was used to being heard.
“Greetings, Federation officials, Starfleet officers, and warriors of the Empire. It is with a profound sense of honor that I address you this evening. I have been charged by the High Council to represent our people at these historic proceedings, during which we will forge the beginnings of a bond with our former enemies. There are many who believe such a union is long overdue, but there are also those who believe we are somehow undermining those things which made our Empire what it is. I stand before you today as an emissary of the former viewpoint. It is time to cast aside our distrust, our anger, our fear, and embrace one another as brothers. May the negotiations we pursue here lead to that momentous event.”
There were more applause, though Kirk couldn’t help noticing that there was decidedly less enthusiasm shown by the Klingon attendees than by those wearing Starfleet uniforms. In addition, many of the more senior Starfleet officers, captains, and admirals sprinkled among the audience were more reserved in their appreciation than their more junior counterparts. As with Kirk himself, experience had jaded the perspective with which the more veteran officers were viewing the current proceedings.
“Before we go any further,” Kaljagh continued, “I must perform one important duty. Our coming here today, as many of you know, was prompted by an unfortunate course of action undertaken by a spirited yet inexperienced Klingon officer. Were it not for the prudent actions of a tested Starfleet captain and his crew, we would possibly be at war today, rather than discussing peace.”
The ambassador looked up at Kirk as he spoke, and the Enterprise captain felt eyes on him as audience members turned in their seats to face his table. Though the life he’d chosen had long ago accustomed him to being an object of scrutiny, he found himself growing uncomfortable with the sudden heightened attention Kaljagh had foisted upon him.
“There is a man among us who is regarded by many as a prime enemy of the Empire. He is a man whose death would bring celebration in our capital cities. It is the height of irony that he is also the one most responsible for seeing to it that the rash actions of an ambitious youth did not cascade into disaster for us all. The High Council extends its most sincere apologies and gratitude to Captain James Kirk and the crew of the USS Enterprise.”
Applause engulfed the room once more as, following Kirk’s lead, the command staff and those officers from the Enterprise who were in attendance stood. Kirk took in the mixed reactions of those around him, most especially the Klingons. While some clapped heartily, many others were more subdued. Peace, trust, and harmony might be the goals of the conference, but none of those qualities were in abundance at the moment.
McCoy leaned closer. “Ready for that drink yet?”
Chapter Eight
FOLLOWING THE OPENING SPEECHES, the dinner had officially been declared under way. Admiral LeGere, the commander of Starbase 49, and his staff had created a buffet menu featuring selections from across the Federation as well as the Klingon Empire. At first LeGere had been worried about the informal setting, but the Klingon ambassador had quickly put him at ease, in his own way of course. “The weak will starve,” Kaljagh had said, allowing the remark to hang over the admiral’s head for several seconds before a tremendous wolfish grin enveloped his face.
The lines moved slowly, and Spock had elected to wait before eating. He was moving about the outskirts of the room, studying the paintings and other artwork adorning the walls, when a voice called out from behind him.
“Captain Spock?”
He turned to see a Klingon, dressed not in the uniform of a soldier but rather the flowing robes of a delegate. They were not as rich or colorful as those worn by the Klingon ambassador and the other dignitaries in his party.
“Yes?” the Vulcan replied.
A smile broke out on the Klingon’s face. “Excellent. I am Toladal, aide to Ambassador Kaljagh. It is an honor to meet you, Captain. Your reputation is well known within the Empire.”
Spock’s eyebrow rose at that. “Indeed?” In actuality, he was quite aware that he was a target of scrutiny, given the Enterprise ’s numerous encounters with Klingons over the years.
Toladal nodded. “We have followed the careers of several Starfleet officers for many years, and you are among that select group. Your interactions with members of the Empire have always been forthright and honorable, even during battle.”
“Klingons appear to value such traits, particularly in battle,” Spock replied.
“That may not have always appeared so, Captain, but rest assured that the Empire has grown beyond the warlike band of savages that the Federation first encountered many years ago. We too have evolved as a species. While there is still much work to be done, many of us believe we have progressed far enough to make this effort at negotiation worthwhile.”
Spock absorbed Toladal’s words, noting how strange such sentiments sounded coming from a Klingon. He knew that McCoy would relish the thought of his having allowed, even fleetingly, a notion of suspicion as he listened to the aide.
He scolded himself for his moment of doubt. Toladal’s words, odd as they may have sounded coming from the mouth of a Klingon, could not be discounted. If one did not listen to the words, then one could not understand the ideas behind them.
Spock formed his own response with practiced care, effortlessly conforming to the diplomatic atmosphere permeating the conference hall around him. “It cannot be forgotten that the Klingons are a proud people, with a rich history of tradition and military successes. In our haste to put aside our differences, the Federation must also be conscious of the Klingon culture and take steps to see that it does not fall victim to dishonor or disrespect. The peace process must be beneficial and agreeable to all concerned, or we are doomed to failure before we even begin.”
Toladal smiled in unabashed appreciation. “You give voice to thoughts shared by an increasing number of my people, Captain, including some members of the High Council.” The aide paused momentarily, and Spock watched his body language shift noticeably as the Klingon insured that no one might be overhearing their conversation. When he resumed speaking, it was in a much softer voice.
“One of our more recently elected members, Gorkon, frequently speaks of the need for peace and cooperation between our peoples. While some of his ideas bring resistance, others have been rapidly gaining support. In fact, it was Gorkon who led the initiative to bring about this conference.”
“Fascinating,” Spock said. “This Gorkon sounds like an individual I would very much like to meet one day, circumstances permitting.”
“Perhaps if you were to enter the political arena, Captain,” Toladal replied, indicating the conference hall and its abundance of diplomats with a wave of his massive arms. “It is common knowledge that your father is a formidable and well-respected ambassador in his own right. You would do well to consider following the path he has traveled when your career in Starfleet is finished.”
Not for the first time, Spock was intrigued by the idea of diplomacy as a second career after Starfleet.
“There are always possibilities.”
“I don’t see the famous McCoy beans anywhere, Bones.”
McCoy cast a disparaging look at Kirk as they moved through the serving line. “It’s not my fault the cooks on this starbase have no idea what constitutes good Southern cooking.” He indicated one dish with a wave of his fork. “Now, will somebody tell me what that’s supposed to be?”
Behind him, Uhura eyed the platter. “Whatever it is, it’s moving.”
“It is gagh,” a voice said from behind them. “And it is always served best when still alive.”
Though the voice sounded confident, almos
t arrogant, there was a certain lyrical quality that Kirk immediately recognized. Turning around, he found himself staring into the dark, calculating eyes of Captain Koloth.
A huge Klingon smile, replete with jagged teeth, greeted him. “My dear Captain Kirk, it has been entirely too long. It is my good fortune that our paths should cross again on such a glorious occasion.” The mighty warrior was carrying a plate of food, including a generous helping of . . . whatever it was he had called it.
“The pleasure is mine, Captain,” Kirk replied. For a brief moment, he didn’t comprehend that he was staring at the Klingon. Though his appearance had indeed changed drastically since their first encounter twenty years ago, it was still undeniably Koloth.
Kirk indicated his companions with a sweeping gesture of his arm, introducing Uhura, Scott, Sulu, and Chekov. “And I believe you may remember Dr. McCoy.”
Koloth greeted each of the Enterprise command staff as pleasantly as he had Kirk. “Yes, the good doctor. As I recall, it was you who played a rather instrumental part in that little encounter of ours on your space station. I never did get to congratulate you on your powers of deductive reasoning.”
“Just my lucky day, I guess,” McCoy replied.
The Klingon laughed. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, he returned his attention to Kirk. “I must be getting back to my men, Captain, but we will regale one another with tales of our glorious battles before our duties take us from this place.” He indicated the banquet table with a nod of his head. “Be sure to sample some of the Klingon cuisine. It is food fit for a warrior.”
The writhing substance on the Klingon’s plate beckoned to Kirk. Koloth saw the expression on the Enterprise captain’s face and laughed again. Taking a fork, he speared a small helping of the food, and Kirk imagined he could hear the squirming mass scream in agony.
“Come now, Captain. Surely the battle-tested commander of a Federation starship can handle a little gagh, no?”
The gagh was still wriggling on the end of the fork, and Kirk swallowed the nervous lump that had formed in his throat.
“You know,” McCoy said, “the last time I ate something that was still alive, I was eleven and it was a double dog dare. I lost that bet, by the way.”
Ignoring the comment, Kirk shrugged. “What the hell,” he said as he took the fork from Koloth. Giving the wormlike food a last look, he closed his eyes and put the fork into his mouth.
It was still wiggling as Kirk swallowed. He felt it hit his stomach, where it continued to move somewhat for a few more seconds before the acids in his stomach prevailed. The flavor was one he couldn’t identify, though it wasn’t unpleasant.
“Actually,” he said after a few more seconds, “it doesn’t taste that bad.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Scotty said, watching the proceedings with a mixture of disgust and awe.
Kirk smiled at Koloth, intending to thank the Klingon for introducing him to the delicacy, when a sudden feeling of weakness rushed over his body. He felt sweat break out across his forehead, chest, and back. The color washed from his vision and he reached out for the banquet table to steady himself.
“Jim?” he heard McCoy say, the concern evident in his voice. “Are you all right?” A chorus of similar entreaties followed from Uhura and the others.
“Queasy,” was all Kirk could stammer before the universe spun away from him and he fell like a rag doll to the floor.
The transporter beam faded around the kneeling form of McCoy, who held the head and shoulders of an unconscious Kirk in his arms. The technician manning the transporter console rushed from behind the protective shield to offer assistance.
“Where the hell’s that damned stretcher?” McCoy snapped. His fingers moved to check Kirk’s pulse and confirmed again that it was rapid, the captain’s heart beating much too fast.
“Medics are on their way right now, Doctor,” the technician replied. He exhaled in relief when the doors to the transporter room opened and a pair of medical assistants charged in, each carrying one end of an emergency antigravity stretcher.
As the medics loaded the captain onto the stretcher, McCoy grabbed for the medical kit they’d brought and retrieved a portable scanner. In seconds he had activated the unit and was running it over Kirk’s chest and abdomen.
“Acute allergic reaction,” he noted from the scanner’s readings. He reached into the kit again and extracted a hypospray. Setting the injector to deliver a general sedative, McCoy jammed the hypospray into Kirk’s arm and injected the drug.
“That’ll get his heart rate down,” he said. “Get him to sickbay on the double. I’m going to want to treat him for food poisoning, along with the reaction he’s having to that Klingon slop he ate.”
The ship’s intercom system flared to life. “Spock to Dr. McCoy. What is the captain’s condition?”
As the medics moved Kirk into the passageway on the anti-grav stretcher, McCoy smacked a wall intercom unit with the heel of his hand. “Jim’s had a reaction to Klingon food, Spock. I’m on my way to sickbay with him now. I’ll let you know when I find out something.”
McCoy didn’t even bother to close the connection, stalking out of the transporter room and leaving the technician to deactivate the intercom. As he made his way to the nearest turbolift, he cursed Koloth, gagh, and Jim Kirk, though not necessarily in that order.
Kirk was already up on a diagnostic table when McCoy entered sickbay. Nurse Laria, a Deltan, looked up at the doctor’s approach.
“His body temperature is up two degrees just since he was brought aboard, Doctor. Pulse is thready.”
With growing puzzlement, McCoy studied the readings displaying the captain’s vital signs. Kirk had never shown such a violent allergic reaction to anything, including Retinax 5, the drug that treated eyesight problems due to advancing age and which Kirk was particularly sensitive to.
McCoy’s gut told him that something else was at work here.
“We’ll start by treating him for food poisoning,” he told his staff. “Prepare twenty cc’s of . . .”
The rest of his order was cut off as the doors leading to the corridor outside sickbay opened to admit Spock and Koloth. Laria saw the Klingon first, her eyes widening in disbelief.
“Doctor” was all she could get out before her voice failed her, so she simply pointed.
Eyeing the new arrivals only briefly, McCoy returned his attention to Kirk. “I don’t have time to conduct a tour,” he snapped.
Koloth stepped forward until he stood beside the doctor. He held up his hand, which contained a small vial of dark red liquid.
“Give this to Kirk,” he said.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?”
The Klingon looked almost pleased with himself. “ Antidote to the poison I gave him.”
“Doctor, it is quite all right,” Spock said. “Captain Koloth has explained the situation to me.”
“Well, before I pump him full of some blasted Klingon witch’s brew,” McCoy barked, “somebody had better explain it to me.”
Koloth growled in anger. “There is no time to discuss this now. Administer the drug or Kirk will die.”
McCoy looked to Spock, who merely nodded. This was insane! Koloth poisoning Kirk, only to stand here, now, arguing over a treatment to save his life?
“I see the question in your eyes, Doctor,” Koloth said. “Rest assured that if I wanted to kill Kirk, I would not have done so using such cowardly means. A true warrior kills his enemies face-to-face. Honor demands no less. Now, give him the antidote.”
McCoy considered the words, then finally shook his head in disgust. “Give me that,” he said, snatching the vial from the Klingon’s mammoth hand. Loading a hypospray with the drug, he pressed it to Kirk’s neck.
The effect of the drug was startling. Almost immediately McCoy noticed a reduction in the captain’s heart rate as well as his temperature.
“What the hell’s in that stuff?” the doctor asked even as he reach
ed for another hypospray, this one containing a general vitamin compound to compensate for the fluid loss Kirk had suffered when his temperature had elevated so rapidly.
Koloth didn’t answer, his attention drawn to Kirk’s eyes as they fluttered open. The captain abruptly rolled onto his side and began coughing.
“Take it easy, Jim,” McCoy cautioned. “You gave us a nasty scare there. How do you feel?”
Running a hand across his face, Kirk managed to croak out an answer. “Throat’s dry, and my head feels like someone set off a photon grenade inside my skull.”
McCoy indicated for Laria to administer treatment for the headache and to fetch some water. Turning back to the diagnostic table, he directed a scathing glance at Koloth. “You have your friend here to thank for that.”
Seeing the look of confusion in Kirk’s eyes, Koloth said, “Forgive me for my abrupt methods, Captain, but it was necessary. I had to find a way to meet with you and this was one of the few options open to me that might avoid suspicion.”
“You could have scheduled an appointment with his yeoman,” McCoy offered sarcastically.
Ignoring the doctor’s comments, Koloth began to pace the room. “Given the delicate nature of the peace conference, I am sure that I am under surveillance. Meeting with Kirk under anything resembling normal circumstances might attract attention we cannot afford to have.” Reaching into his belt, Koloth produced what looked to be a data cartridge.
“What is that?” he asked.
Koloth held the cartridge out to Spock, who reached out and took it, his eyebrow raised.
“This cartridge is a type that hasn’t been widely used in Starfleet for several years, Captain,” the Vulcan said. “Specifically, it is of a type used in ship’s disaster recorders.” Directing his gaze to Koloth, he said, “Might I ask where you obtained it?”
“Access the data stored on the cartridge, Mr. Spock,” Koloth said. “I think you will find it to be self-explanatory.”
