d. William Roberts
based on material by Rick Endres
poem, "Warriors," by Bev Hoover

2276

-1-

His prison cell was no more than a deep pit dug into the dry, layered, crumbling clay beneath the baked soil. The iron grate that covered the top threw a grid-work shadow halfway down the side of the pit.

How long have I been here now? he wondered as he lay at the bottom, watching a small beetle-like insect scrabble across the hard-packed dirt floor toward him. He waited until it got close, then crushed it under his hand. Without thinking, he picked up the broken carapace and shoved it into his mouth and began chewing. Food was food; you didn't question the source or type in this place.

Admiral Khalian's prison world lacked indigenous life forms. The beetle, a species that craved dying or dead flesh, had been brought from Kazh to clean up the bodies of those who died. They rarely went hungry, since none sent here as prisoners survived long.

How many days have I survived this? he asked himself, looking at the wall with the set of lines he'd carved into it to mark the passage of days. There were thirty or so marks, but he'd finally stopped keeping track. It seemed like it had been forever, the days all melting together in his mind. What is the Earther term for a place like this? A place of eternal torment, filled with burning and suffering? He translated the Earther word Hell into its Klingon counterpart--Kragyr--named after the fabled lair of the demon lord Fek'lhr, guardian of Gre'thor, the place where those who were less than what Kahless had proscribed as being true Klingon went after they die.

He looked at the grate's shadow and noted that it had moved down the wall. Not long till mid-day, when Kragyr's sun lights the bottom of this hole. He looked at the pile of bones--the remains of the pit's last resident--then toward the small, hand-dug cubbyhole where he'd found them. Didn't help that one at all, he thought, noting that already the temperature was rising. When the shadow reached the bottom, Kragyr's blue-white sun would transform the cell into a furnace. For an hour, even breathing would be difficult, only barely letting up a little after its light left the pit, and not fully dissipating until long after midnight.

The eye sockets of the skull sitting on top of the bones stared at him, the timeless smile mocking his presence. The temperature rose perceptively as the grate's shadow got closer to the bottom. His nearly depleted horde of water, gotten from the last rain storm over a week ago, was stored in his boot. He was beginning to hallucinate. The laughing face of his accuser, Khalian, overlaid itself on the bony relief of the skull. Pulling out the blood-stained jumper of his mate, Mara, he remembered the scene where his tormentor had originally tried and sentenced him to this inferno.

Kang shook his head slowly as he watched Korak's reaction to his words. "You are indeed a fool, Commander. Worse, you are a dangerous fool. If you are given half a chance, you will destroy the Empire." He glared at the Kh'myr. "You are relieved of battlecruiser command, effective immediately."

"I don't think so!" a voice thundered from the rear of Kang's small, tidy office even before Korak could voice a protest.

The startled Kh'myr commander whirled around, his dark face breaking into a huge, savage grin.

"Hail, Khalian!" he shouted, raising a fist in salute.

Kang exploded from his lounger, his face clouded with fury. "How dare you come in here unannounced and countermand my orders! Get out of here at once, or I'll--"

"Or you'll what?" Admiral Khalian strode menacingly toward the desk, his muscular, monolithic bulk in full battle armor dwarfing even the formidable Kang. Both of his huge hands shot out suddenly and disarmed Kang, relieving him of his disruptor pistol and his combat dagger. The giant Kh'myr tossed the weapons to Korak.

"Your orders no longer carry any weight with High Command, traitor," Khalian spat. "Your adjutant, Kitan, was apprehended for failing to show proper courtesy to his Kh'myr betters. I thought it might be interesting to put him under the mindsifter to see if you might have some secrets or information that would be of use to me. Before he died, he revealed the existence of a very interesting document you keep in your office safe."

Kang paled as Khalian moved to the wall behind his desk and tore down the perspex star map of the Klingon Empire, revealing the recessed wall safe. The Kh'myr glanced speculatively at Kang.

"I'll never give you the combination!" Kang grated.

Khalian chuckled contemptuously. "I don't need it," he hissed. He gripped the handle and yanked savagely, tearing the heavy, reinforced, dura-steel door off its hinges with a screech of tortured metal. The Kh'myr tossed it aside, then reached into the safe to pull out a plastex document tube. He unrolled the paper inside and read it quickly.

"Well, well, well!" Khalian exclaimed, shaking his great knobbed skull from side to side. "What have we here? This document is an agreement between the Klingon Empire and the Federation planet Serenidad. It would seem that Serenidad has renounced all ties with the Federation and wants to be a Klingon protectorate. It is signed by the Princess Teresa herself. Why have you kept this information secret, traitor?"

"Serenidad!" Korak exclaimed, his eyes widening. "That planet's dilithium stores are immeasurably vast! And he was sitting on this?!"

"It seems so, Commander," Khalian rumbled. He turned his attention to Kang again. "I have asked you a question, Kang. Why?"

"I have nothing to say to you," Kang muttered sullenly.

"I'm not surprised." Khalian clapped his gauntleted hands together, and two Kh'myr security guards appeared in the doorway, their disruptor carbines at the ready. "Admiral Kang is under arrest for treason. I have arranged for him to be incarcerated in the deepest, filthiest hole at the Kragyr penal colony." He turned to Kang. "Feel fortunate, Kang. You'll be permitted to live. At least you fared better than your little be'SIj of a mate."

Kang's head snapped up in alarm. "What have you done to Mara?!!"

Khalian's face twisted into an evil leer. "I had her sent to the Kh'alu'don death camp. She was executed at midday--beheaded."

Kang's face went white. "You lie!" he whispered, his voice a dry, tremulous croak.

"Indeed?" Khalian snapped his fingers. A guard left the office and returned within seconds carrying a torn, ragged, woman's tabard. Kang recognized the tunic immediately. It was the one Mara had been wearing this morning when he had left their habitat. The collar, shoulders and front of the garment were soaked with blood.

With an incoherent, despairing cry, Kang leaped at Khalian, but the big Kh'myr caught him in mid-air and slammed him brutally to the floor. Kang tried groggily to rise. He was too slow to avoid Khalian's savage kick, which took him on the tip of his chin and snapped his head back, while at the same time propelling him across the room. Kang hit the wall, crumpling it inward, then slid to the floor, collapsing like a rag doll.

That was the last coherent thing he remembered until finding himself in this hellhole. He put the remains of Mara's tunic to his face, smelled the blood and silently raged.

When he opened his eyes again, he thought he could see flesh regrowing on the bleached bone of the skull. With rapt fascination, he watched the transformation. It turned into an Earther face, one he thought he remembered. Squinting, he tried to clear up what he was seeing. Kirk? he thought. "James T. Kirk?" he finally croaked from dried, swollen lips. "You son of a targ bitch, so they got you too? At least I won't die before you."

"You got any water, Kang?" Kirk's head said.

"Yes, Kirk," Kang answered though amazed that someone in this condition could talk at all, "but you're not going to get any."

"In the cave, I'll bet," Kirk said, the head turning to look at the cubbyhole.

Kang scrabbled to a sitting position, the exertion causing him to sweat profusely. He looked inside his small cave and saw the set of boots they'd let him keep. Kragyr was a true desert planet, the only rain coming once a week in cloud bursts so intense that for a few minutes those in the pits felt they would drown. But the storm would be as short as it was intense and the nearly scalding water quickly absorbed into the ground. He'd learned to collect the rain in his boots if he wanted extra water, since what beamed in with his food wasn't enough to keep a beetle alive, let alone a full-grown Klingon.

"In the boots?" Kirk smiled, his head sliding through the sand, moving toward the make-shift water container.

"No!" Kang roared, leaping across to the cave. "That is mine." Grabbing up the boot in his hands, he held it close to his chest.

Kirk's head began laughing.

Kang roared back, then drank all that remained. There was only just a dribble anyway. Tipping the boot up to show Kirk's head that it was empty, the Klingon yelled, "You'll not get a drop of it, Kirk!"

"You'll soon join me, Kang," Kirk's head said, then began laughing again, the flesh slowly disappeared from the skull, as the laughing faded away into the background.

Kang blinked his eyes, realization of what had just happened reaching his thirst-craved mind. The grate's shadow was nearing the bottom of the pit. He could still hear the laughing. Shaking his head to clear it of the hallucination, he began to panic when it persisted. Then there was the scream of a female, and he realized the laughing was not really a part of the apparition.

The guards are here, he decided, and not far from my pit. Avoiding the beam of intense light that almost reached to the floor, he stood, listening adamantly. That must mean there's a storm coming, he reasoned. Those two don't ever venture out here during mid-day otherwise. The distant sound of thunder verified his deduction.

"tera'ngan be'SIj, give me the one thing you're good for." The guard laughed.

Kang recognized the voice of Kragyr's commander, Lieutenant N'rak. He knew Sergeant Taarist would be with him; the two were inseparable when it came to this kind of debauchery. He heard the creak of leather and the light clank of metal as one of the two undid the buckles of his battle armor. He knew, without actually seeing, what was about to happen. The fate of the Earther female was of no concern to Kang, but he knew that once they were through with her they would come over to taunt him. He had a plan already in place for that happenstance.

Looking up at the grate, he had to squint, Kragyr's sun was almost overhead. Just barely breaking the ragged edge of the western edge of the hole was the anvil-shaped top of the approaching storm cloud, and he heard a second rumble of thunder.

I'll have to hurry. Kang put his fingertips into the first of a series of holes he'd cut in the pit's side so long ago. The Earther won't distract them for long, and they won't stick around once the storm finally arrives. The hand hole crumbled under his weight, and, for a moment, he thought what he had in mind would fail before he could execute it. Slowly, careful not to disturb the hardened clay, he ascended toward the top of the hole. As he did, he listened to the two individuals as they continued their treatment of the Earther prisoner, so he'd know when to expect their leering faces over his pit.

"joHwI', where will you put your mighty choQ'etlh? Her be'SIj is nothing but a bloody pulp!"

The prisoner groaned, just barely conscious of what was happening above her.

"You were too rough in your attentions, Taarist. Now you've ruined the only thing she was good for," N'rak mockingly chided his second in command.

"jIQoS, joHwI', but I was just too much for her."

Both laughed.

"You give yourself too much credit, Taarist," N'rak responded a moment later, his voice filled with derision.

"No brag, joHwI'. Simply a fact."

Kang heard the clump of clothing hitting the ground.

"Now what do I do with this?" N'rak said a moment later.

"There is her mouth, joHwI'."

"She bit you, didn't she?" N'rak mentioned. "I would hate for her to use her teeth on this. You know what my mate would do to me then."

"Yes, joHwI', I do." Taarist made a wet, squishing sound.

Kang was now halfway up the wall, carefully reaching for the next hand hold. He was only cursorily listening, but he assumed Taarist was making a sweeping gesture across his throat.

"But I will take care of that." This time there was the sound of a fist hitting soft flesh and bone.

The prisoner screamed out in pain.

"See, joHwI'? No teeth."

"You're so thoughtful, Sergeant." Both Klingons laughed heartily.

The Earther female screamed again weakly. Kang, one hand-hold closer to the top, could only guess that Taarist had transferred control of the Earther's head to his commander.

"That's right, be'SIj. Open wide."

There was a muffled, choking sound. Then a grunting, accompanied by Taarist's chuckle.

"That looks like fun, joHwI'. I'm next."

Kang finally reached the last hand hold. With a desperate grab, he caught hold of the grating near the edge. Sweating profusely, he hoped he could hang on long enough to get a chance to execute his plan. The grate was very hot on his fingers, causing him to start slipping. Are you an Earther female, Kang? He clenched his teeth in the effort it took to hang on.

He now could see out onto the dusty plain. The sky above the ragged mountain peaks on the horizon was pitch black, the storm only a few minutes away. Not far away he could see N'rak and Taarist. N'rak was bare from the waist down, his pants piled up around his ankles, his face aimed at the sky, his eyes closed and his face contorted in pleasure. Taarist was hungrily looking on. The victim's eyes were wide open in terror, but N'rak had her by the hair, holding her in place. Her own blood covered every square inch of her naked body.

The beetles will eat well tonight, thought Kang.

With a final grunt and a mighty thrust, N'rak finished. There was an audible and unmistakable crack that came from the victim's neck, and her feeble sobbing ended.

"Hu'tegh, joHwI'! You have broken her neck!" Taarist roared.

N'rak withdrew. "Amazing, aren't I?" He let her body flop to the ground.

Taarist pouted a little. "Now there's nothing left for me."

"You can still have her."

"Oh, no, joHwI'. I'm not that desperate."

Both laughed.

Re-securing his belt around his waist, N'rak motioned toward the open pit with his head. "Dispose of the body there."

"Yes, joHwI'." Taarist grabbed the body by the hair and drug it to the edge of the nearby pit. With only a minimum of effort, the large Kh'myr warrior threw it in, then closed the grate. "Beetle food."

The ambient light, so brilliant a moment earlier, began to dim as the first edges of the storm cloud passed before the sun.

N'rak looked up. "Come on, Taarist. There's another little piece of entertainment left before we beam back to headquarters."

"Kang?" Taarist queried.

"Good guess."

They began walking toward where Kang hung on, watching. He brought his foot up, his toe finding the last hand hold. He knew it wouldn't give him much purchase, but it would take some stress from his weakening hand. I have to hold on, he chided himself. There will only be the one chance.

The two Kh'myr walked right up to the edge of the cell, so secure in their situation that they didn't note the presence of the fingers near the edge.

"Well, Admiral Kang." There was intense contempt in the way N'rak spoke. He finally looked down.

Kang made his move, pushing with his toe into the hand hold. He felt the clay give away, but not before he managed to propel himself forward. Reaching out with his right hand, he caught Taarist's right ankle before the grate stopped his forward momentum. Letting all his weight drop, he pulled the sergeant from his feet and dragged him against the grate.

Taarist roared in surprise. "taHqeq, joHwI'! The targ has me!"

Kang climbed the leg and grabbed hold of Taarist's equipment belt, reaching for the disruptor he knew should be there. Instead, he found Taarist's may'taj--battle dagger. What rotten luck, Kang cursed to himself as he withdrew the razor sharp blade and put it between his teeth. Taarist was left-handed, an oddity among Klingons. Knowing that N'rak was even now recovering from the suddenness of the event, Kang reached upward trying to get at the weapon.

"No, you don't, Kang," Taarist yelled, pulling the weapon free himself and began trying to aim it at Kang.

"Don't shoot him, you fool!" N'rak ordered, "Lord Khalian will skin us both alive if Kang dies any way other than slowly."

Kang had Taarist's leg all the way in now and tried to grab the hand with the weapon.

N'rak quickly walked out onto the grate and took the disruptor from Taarist.

"Help me, joHwI'!" Taarist roared.

"ghuy'cha', Taarist," N'rak chuckled. "You got yourself into this. Let's see who's really stronger: Kang or you."

Kang knew he'd failed. Without the disruptor, he had no way of forcing his way out of the pit, but that didn't mean Taarist would get away entirely. He released his hold on Taarist's leg with his right hand and took the dagger from his mouth, preparing to strike.

Taarist growled and planted his hands against the grate, preparing to pull himself away and let Kang drop to the floor. If he breaks his legs in the fall, it will cause his death to be all the more painful, meeting Lord Khalian's orders, he thought as he clenched his teeth for the effort.

There was a flash of lightening, and a second later, the air shook with thunder.

Kang struck.

Taarist saw the flash of the blade and felt its bite. Screaming in pain, he knew he'd lost his leg below the knee.

Kang watched with satisfaction as Taarist's lower leg fell to the floor of the pit. He prepared to strike again, his knowledge of the weaknesses in Taarist's armor telling him where.

"joHwI'! joHwI'!" Taarist reached frantically toward N'rak. "He cut off my leg! Give me my disruptor!"

"No, Taarist. If you are too weak to get away, then you deserve what Kang is going to do to you," N'rak answered, smiling wickedly. "Come now, Taarist. Are you not Kh'myr? Or did your mother mate with a Segh vav?"

The muscles in Taarist's arms knotted in effort as he tried again to extricate himself. "You son of a ..." A flash of the blade caught his eye, and he screamed.

Kang saw the blade slice through the leather of Taarist's pants and cut into the flesh of the Kh'myr's groin. A second slice changed Taarist from loQ' to be'. The sergeant's life blood sluiced out in a steady flow, covering Kang from head to toe. He drank of it, its energy strengthening him.

Taarist was going into shock; his eyes were white all-round. Frantically, he began to try to pull himself from the iron grip of the demon in the pit.

N'rak began laughing out loud. "Sergeant, he will have your heart next, and you know we are not to give him that much food. Lord Khalian's orders."

Taarist reached plaintively again toward his commander. "joHwI'!"

Kang struck again, driving the blade just below Taarist's armor, pulling downward until the blade came to rest against the Kh'myr's pubic bone. He pulled himself up on it and felt it cut through with a click. Grabbing hold of the equipment belt again, he watched the sergeant's bowels fall out and hang down into the pit.

Kang knew he had finished Taarist. The sergeant had collapsed against the grate, his chest armor the only thing keeping him from being pulled entirely through the bars. He knew he'd only get one more cut in, then he'd have to face a rough landing.

The first of the rain began to fall. It fell hot onto Kang's face, scalding the skin, then onto the hand still clutching the belt, mixing with the blood and causing him to lose his grip.

Kang drove the blade into the hip joint, cutting the leg completely from the body. His hand slipped from the belt, and he began to fall. Reaching frantically for anything to gain purchase on, he grabbed a handful of the intestine hanging nearby. As it tethered out from inside the sergeant, it slowed Kang's fall. The landing was still rough, driving the wind from his lungs. Blood mixed with hot rain fell onto his face as he struggled to get his wind. He heard N'rak's laugh and saw the remains of the sergeant dragged from the grate, the length of gut pulled up as well. Then he heard the lieutenant's voice.

"Very good, Kang," N'rak said with honest admiration. "It is very enlightening to see that the Segh vav can muster up a Kh'myr's level of courage and viciousness now and again."

Kang got his wind back as N'rak laughed again. There was the sound of a disruptor firing and Taarist's groans stopped short.

Lightning and thunder flashed and boomed right on top of each other. The water was a torrent now. Crawling painfully toward the small cave, still unsure about whether he'd broken anything yet, he grabbed his boots and placed them in position to collect the fall of hot rain water.

N'rak walked out onto the grate, fearless now that Kang was back at the bottom. Taking careful aim with his disruptor, he fired.

Kang saw the stream of disruptor energy hit something nearby and then saw the dagger glow and change instantly into a gaseous form. Silently cursing himself for not securing it better, Kang sat back against the now slimy wall of the pit. "Me next, N'rak!"

"No, Kang. That is prohibited, per Lord Khalian's orders." N'rak yelled above the roar of the storm. "I should burn the parts of poor Taarist you've got down there as well, but I think you deserve a small reward for your courage. But remember this when your next ration delivery does not arrive as scheduled."

Cursing his bad luck, Kang looked down, the rain's temperature causing the skin on his face to sting. He heard the rattle of N'rak's equipment belt. He looked back to see what was happening. N'rak began to urinate into his cell. His aim was good and much of it went into the boots.

"You filthy mantril!" Kang roared up at the shadow that was only clearly visible when the lightening flashed.

"Thank you, Kang." N'rak roared back, then trussed himself back into his leather pants. Pulling out his transmitter, the lieutenant contacted his headquarters. Kang couldn't hear what he said, but a moment later, N'rak disappeared into a column of sparkling red transporter energies.

Looking around, he shakily got to his feet. Thank Kahless I didn't break my legs, he observed to himself. He thought to dump the boots out, but then he noted that the rain was already beginning to slow. The sky above the grate was getting bright. There would not be enough further rain to refill them so he kept what was there, putting from his mind the mixed contents.

He collected up Taarist's left leg, both parts, leaving the sergeant's manhood for the beetles, keeping them busy while he devoured the rest. Later, he would have to fight them for what he couldn't eat right away. There was a small amount of disgust niggling at his mind at the concept of cannibalism, but he quickly shoved it aside. Meat is meat, he thought as he stripped the remnants of the sergeant's leather pants away. It will keep me alive until Kor can find and liberate me from this hell.

*****

"Entering the asteroid belt," reported the first mate of the light cargo vessel, Oshota.

"Any sign of him?" asked the only other person on the small ship.

"Not on these sensors, but they're only just a little better than standard navigational."

"With the money we're making from these deals, we'll be able to fix that pretty soon, won't we, Mike?"

"I should hope so. We're taking a big chance with our present security," the one called Mike answered. "And don't use my real name. You almost slipped the last time we met this rascal, Corrid."

"Ah, what's to worry about, Mike?" the one called Corrid Fikes responded, staring at the viewscreen as he made a few small course adjustments to avoid a large, iron-nickel asteroid in their way. "Who's looking for small potatoes like us?"

Mike took his gaze from the same viewscreen just long enough to study Corrid's face to see if his partner was serious in his flippancy. He saw no worries on the Centaurian's deeply tanned face, which only served to deepen his worries all the more about this business. "Just about anybody whose anybody in Starfleet Security, Corrid," he said returning his attention to his navigation board.

Mike Collins was a nondescript Human with hair and eyes of almost the same brown color. He and his family had moved out to the Federation colony on Psi Scorpii VIII when it had first opened ten years earlier with the idea that he could escape the pressures of modern society. Life on a colony was no better, if not more stressful, and Mike Collins had found it harder and harder to provide for his growing family.

He had some talent as an astronavigator, a skill learned during a time when he'd thought about signing up for Starfleet. That organization's very competitive entrance exam had ended any of his aspirations toward such a career choice. Though his skills were less than expert, they had been enough to attract the attention of Corrid Fikes, his business partner, and presently the master of the Oshota.

Collins continued, "Topaline is very rare, and absolutely necessary for the life support systems of starships and starbases. Because of this, it is one of the most heavily regulated substances in the Federation."

"Don't I know it!" responded Fikes. "That's why it's so valuable." He rubbed his hands together, a smile lighting up his face.

Corrid Fikes was almost pure Centaurian, sporting all the characteristics of that particular off-shoot of the Human race--the brown, almost black eyes and the natural ability to pilot a starship. He had no family. The reason, as he told Collins often enough, was that he didn't want anything to keep him from escaping if things got tight.

"Precisely why we should be more careful. After all the shipments we've made, we really don't know who this Illyeekeek is."

"He's Yridian. You know how they are--rabid free traders, interested only in the bottom line. I've done lots of business with Illyeekeek. He's always been square with me and always resulting in a tidy profit for both of us. And you know what? We've never come close to being caught. Never." Fikes' hands were flying through the air, saying as much as his mouth.

"At least not yet," responded Collins. "Who does he sell the topaline to? And are they friendly to the Federation?"

"So many questions, Mike." Fikes' face lost its humor. He made a new set of course changes to avoid another large asteroid, then turned toward his nervous partner. "One thing you've got to get used to in this business: You can't ask too many questions or be too curious. Last, but not least, you can't have a conscience. You don't need one when you're rich." Fikes studied Collins' face for a moment. He doesn't have what it takes to be a good smuggler or black marketeer, he concluded to himself. He's going to try and bail out on me soon, and then I'll have to liquidate him. But until then, I'll get as much use out of him as I can.

"I don't like him, Corrid. He reminds me too much of the rats we keep finding down in the hold," Collins concluded.

Fikes chuckled and nodded his head slightly before responding. "You know something, my friend? You're right."

The comm station beeped, signaling a hail.

"Speak of the devil." Fikes brought the Oshota onto its final approach heading as she cleared a cloud of stony debris, the crescent of a large asteroid becoming visible dead ahead. In a standard orbit above its surface was the familiar shape of the Yridian's ship. "Open the hailing frequency."

Collins couldn't say why, but every time he saw the trader's ship, it reminded him of something Klingon. It looked nothing like that empire's warships, but something about its basic triangular lines said "Klingon." As usual, he assuaged the worry with the thought, He probably bought it from them. As a free trader, Illyeekeek probably has contacts across all interstellar borders. Still, being within weapons range of the trader's ship made Collins nervous, despite all of Fikes' assurances.

The slightly snouted face, with its gray, elephant-like folds of skin that formed a line down to just above a mouth with protruding, chisel-like front teeth, came onto the viewscreen. He began speaking, and the Oshota's translating device took over. "Welcome, Free Traders. I glad to be able to do business with you."

"And with you, Free Trading Brother," Fikes responded.

"Do you have it?"

"As requested. And you the payment?"

"As set in our communication."

"We'll meet in the specified location for the transfer."

"As agreed. Illyeekeek out." The Yridian's face faded from the screen.

Fikes turned to smile at Collins. "See? Easy as pie, but much more lucrative."

Collins tried to put aside his worries and see only the gold-plated latinum at the end of the transaction rainbow, but he couldn't. He had an overwhelming premonition that they would get caught. "So you say, Corrid, so you say." Collins noted the Oshota's position on his navigation board, "Ready for orbital insertion?"

Fikes punched in the appropriate commands to the ship's main computer. "Ready."

"Execute."

The Oshota entered orbit around the large asteroid. The Yridian ship was now out of sight on the far side.

Fikes stood up and stretched. "Ah, now for the easy part of the trip."

"Transferring power to the transporters," Collins reported after flipping the necessary switches.

"When this is done, we'll have to see about upgrading this ship so the transporters are functional all the time." Fikes snapped his fingers as he walked toward the back of the bridge where the two circular transporter pads had begun to glow. "Better yet, we should consider getting a new ship. Yeah, a new ship, maybe with a cloaking device. What do you think, Mike?"

"One thing at a time, Corrid," Mike answered glumly. He grabbed an outdated laser pistol from the rack to the right of the transporters. "You want one?"

"Nah. I trust Illyeekeek." Fikes shrugged as he said this. "Besides I have you, and I can't carry all that latinum if I've got a weapon in my hand, now can I? Is the cargo ready on the cargo bay's transporter pad?"

Collins nodded his head as he took his place on the other pad. "As usual, Corrid, ready for our subspace signal to begin its transport sequence." He returned to the subject of whether they should trust the Yridian after all. "You know, you shouldn't trust that guy. He's only in it for himself. He could care less what happens to us in the long run."

"Can you honestly say we're any different than him?" Fikes became serious; the conversation was beginning to irritate him.

"Yes. I'm in this to support my family. I'm not sure of Illyeekeek's motives."

"That's easy, Mike. He's in this for the profit margin, pure and simple. Energize."

The computer registered Corrid Fikes' command, and two beams of sparkling energy formed around the two men, transmuting them into energy, ready for transport to the set of coordinates Collins had preset.

Almost simultaneous with their disappearance from the Oshota, the two began to coalesce inside a small room deep within the rocky mantle of the asteroid. Its furnishings were simple--a table big enough to hold articles of trade, and two chairs, each facing the other on opposite sides.

The transport cycle completed, and the two Humans stood alone in the room.

"We beat him in," Fikes said as he walked toward his side of the table, pulled the chair out from underneath with a scraping sound, then took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and began dusting off the seat before sitting.

"Yeah, that's unusual," Collins responded, looking nervously around, rechecking the charge on his laser.

They heard the sound of the Yridian's transporter a split second before the beam arrived. It had the high frequency scream both Humans recognized as being of Klingon construct, as well as the blood-red hue. This served only to accentuate Collins' suspicions, as he raised his laser to aim it at the incoming individual.

Illyeekeek arrived, his head turning slowly to look the other two occupants of the room. His whiteless brown eyes centered on Collins' weapon, and he began to speak very slowly, his words in standard, but heavily accented. "Why weapon, Free Traders?"

Fikes sat up in his chair, motioning for the Yridian to sit as well. "Don't mind him; he's really very harmless." Then, in order to get the trade moving, he turned to glare at Collins, his voice sounding very agitated. "Put that thing away." He remembered not to use any names.

Collins complied, but only after returning the glare.

"Good." Fikes returned his attention to Illyeekeek. "Are we ready?"

"Yes." The Yridian moved slowly toward his side of the table. He hobbled with a pronounced limp, his breathing very airy through the small nasal openings beneath a roll of skin.

"I see merchandise?" the Yridian croaked, the inflection of his voice identifying his words as a question, and not a statement.

Fikes pulled out his communicator and opened a channel to the waiting ship's computer. "Transport cargo."

In response, the room filled with the sound of a Federation transport beam, and three barrel-shaped objects, each a meter tall, appeared.

"There is product, Illyeekeek. I see payment?" Fikes mimicked the syntax and accent of the Yridian.

Illyeekeek stood up, and hobbled over to the closest barrel. Breaking the seal, he looked in to see the grey powder. Using a clear vial, he reached in and took out a sample. From another pocket within the robe he produced a tricorder, flipped a button to open the sample analyzer's compartment door, he placed the vial inside. A moment later, a set of readings came onto the analyzer's viewscreen.

The Yridian's face broke into what his race called a smile. "Good quality. I send."

He put away the analyzer and pulled out a communicator. Speaking quickly in the Yridian language, his command ordered the transporter on his ship to beam down a small pseudo-wood chest. "Payment, as agreed," Illyeekeek pointed at the chest with a long, clawed finger.

Fikes picked nervously at the lock, unable to open it. "Key, my Free Trader friend?"

Illyeekeek clucked impatiently. "Forgot. I locked." He fished around in a pocket, finally finding the key. "Thieves, you know." He tossed the key onto the table, and it slid toward Fikes.

"Thanks, Free Trader." Fikes caught the key as it fell off his end of the table. Placing the magnetic square against the lock's face, he heard the mechanism click inside. He opened the chest and looked inside. There, in a nice, neat pile were the twenty bars of gold-plated latinum agreed upon. He picked up the chest and showed its contents to Collins. "See, you can trust Free Trader Illyeekeek."

"That right, Huu-man," the Yridian emphasized the 'U' sound in the name. "You trust Illyeekeek."

"I do," Fikes responded, closing the chest and tucking it under his left arm. "I apologize for my friend's attitude."

"We all careful be, yes," Illyeekeek replied, a chortling sound following the words, his body shaking visibly. "He quiet." Illyeekeek nodded at Collins.

"Not a man of many words," responded Fikes. "Until next time?" He stepped around the table and offered his hand.

Illyeekeek hesitated to grasp the proffered hand, but, after a second, reached out tentatively with his own paw-like hand. "Yesss, Free Trader Fikes, next time." He bowed slightly, his head and neck just barely moving, then took hold of the Human's hand.

The strength of Illyeekeek's hand surprised Fikes, not to mention the way his hand felt tiny in the other's grasp though his eyes told him the Yridian's appendage was no bigger than his own. Movement about the Yridian caused Fikes to look back at Illyeekeek's face, and, for a moment, he thought he saw a wavering, a distortion, but it passed, and he withdrew his hand. Nerves, he thought as he turned around to leave. He noted a perplexed look on Collins's face. He saw it, too, he deduced, but decided not to say anything until they were back on board the Oshota.

At Collins's side now, he turned to face the Yridian. With the chest of latinum still under one arm, he pulled out a communicator and contacted the ship's computer. "Energize."

The two Humans disappeared into a drum-shaped enclosure of sparkling blue energy and were transported back to their ship.

Illyeekeek stood his place until the shimmering energies dissipated. Then, with a movement that belied his size and age, covering the distance in two steps, he approached the storage containers of topaline. Putting his hand on top of the nearest container, he began to laugh, but instead of the chittering laugh of a Yridian, it was a full basso sound.

A series of beeps sounded, growing more insistent as Illyeekeek continued to laugh. Air shimmered around him, but he ignored it as he reached into his robes and pulled out a communicator. The beeping became more strident, and the distortion deepened, completely blurring the Yridian's shape. He began to speak into the subspace transceiver, but now the voice held no trace of Yridian twittering. Now it was a full guttural bass. "jolyIchu'."

The beeping turned into a full electronic scream, but Illyeekeek ignored it as he began to laugh again. The distortion intensified. As the red energies of a Klingon transporter surrounded him and the cargo, the scream went off, and the Yridian's shape disappeared. In his place within the transporter beam was an individual who stood just over two meters in height, dressed in full Klingon battle armor. Illyeekeek was now Durit, of the house of Durit, a Kh'myr warrior in the height of his glory.

The transporter's carrier signal drowned out his laugh, and soon the room, located deep within the asteroid, was empty.

The warning klaxon of his ship's main computer filled his ears as his form fully solidified. "What the...?"

With the long stride of his stature, he left the transporter stage, headed for the bridge of his ship. The air-tight doors opened in front of him with a heavy metallic clang, and he stalked into the center of the room, standing next to the command chair. But he didn't bother sitting. "Computer!"

The ship's main computer responded in deep male voice. "Computer enabled."

"Reason for alarm?" Is Fikes stupid enough to attack me in an attempt to get both the cargo and the payment? he asked himself as he waited for the computer's response. If so, then he'll be in for a big surprise, he thought, absentmindedly patting the back of the command chair. The Yovtarg is an even match for one of the fleet's K't'inga or D-7 cruisers and will chew his small cargo ship up in less time than it would take for me to give the order.

"Sensors have picked up a group of patrol ships nearby," the computer reported.

"Identity?"

"Caldonian."

"Confidence of match?"

"Ninety-nine percent. Configuration is that of a Caldonian security patrol sloop."

Durit pictured the vessel being described. "Put one on the screen."

"Targets are presently located behind asteroids nearby, but the record of the one detected a moment ago as it approached is available."

"Proceed." Durit was more curious than worried. The Caldonians were strictly neutral, dealing with Klingon, Romulan and Federation equally. Normally they let all other species alone, choosing to pursue their own private scientific investigations. So why was one of their security patrols watching this place, at this time? Unless... An explanation began to form in his thoughts.

The computer put the picture of the ship in question on the screen. He was puzzled when all he could see were two crater-covered, irregularly shaped asteroids. He was about to question the computer concerning this when he saw the bow of a ship poke out from behind the left rock. "toH!" he exclaimed, watching more closely. The ship in question had tried to use a line of asteroids to stay out of sight while at the same time getting closer. Durit could only see a small part of the ship at a time as it passed behind the second asteroid. "Computer. Extrapolate that ship's full form from visual and sensor records."

The computer projected a full picture of the ship onto the screen.

"taHqeq!" he exclaimed. "That's Caldonian, all right. Where's that one right now?"

The viewscreen panned further along the path the visual record had shown the sloop taking.

"That's too close," Durit hissed as he punched in the course his ship would use after leaving the meeting place's orbit. "So'wI'chu'." The lights on the bridge went from the normal dim white variety to a dull red. Not that one sloop worries me, he thought as he chuckled. My ship has enough fire power to turn it into nothing but a cloud of constituent atoms, but... His thoughts paused as he began maneuvering his ship out of orbit ...there's no reason for me to lead them to my base.

"Computer. Execute escape program."

"Program enabled," the computer responded.

"Sensor sweep of area surrounding the colonists' ship."

"Active sensors will give away our position," the computer warned.

"Do it..." Durit began to say, then changed his mind. "Visual search only."

"Visual search," the computer said. "Multiple contacts found behind the Oshota."

"Display."

There was another Caldonian sloop moving through the asteroid field, being very careful not to expose itself for too long to the colonists' ship. As he watched, the computer showed that there were numerous ships behind the Oshota.

"How many?" he asked the computer.

"Nine ships behind the Oshota and one now investigating where we activated the cloak."

"baQa'!" he exclaimed. "That's the end of that source of topaline!" He shouted at the screen. He was more than a little upset over losing such a profitable source of the rare material.

"Yovtarg is now clear of the asteroid field," the computer reported.

"Continue evasion program. Factor one graf speed," Durit responded. No use giving them too large an ion trail to follow.

The thought of turning around and destroying the entire police force coursed temptingly through his intellect. "Computer, plot best attack course to take out Caldonian force."

There was only a short pause before the computer's gruff male voice responded. "Course on viewscreen."

That would do it, he thought, a smile building across his face at the prospect of a battle. He was just about to order the computer to take it, when another thought came to him, smashing through the adrenaline induced thoughts. These ships are acting under the orders of Caldonia Central. I would have to destroy the entire planet to wipe clean the information of what "Illyeekeek" has been doing here. He shook his head, his smile fading. "Return to forward angle to screen."

"Status of attack assignment?"

"Not today."

I have many other sources of topaline for my Romulan friends, his thoughts concluded. More than enough to make me the richest Klingon in the Empire. A chuckle escaped from his throat at this thought. And with riches I can purchase power, and eventually..."

A laugh began to build in his throat, one that he wanted to release, but first, "Computer. Status of the search for us?"

"They have discontinued their search. That ship has joined the others."

"Good," Durit yelled at the screen, "Good. Continue at this speed until we're out of sensor range, then, disengage the cloaking device and proceed to the rendezvous point with the Romulans, then back to my palace, on my planet, jImIplaH,* with my harem.

(*Klingonese: "I'm Going to Be Rich"--a class M planet in the Klingon Star Empire, registered to the House of Durit)

"Speed?" the computer queried.

"Normal cruising speed. No need to get there before the Romulans."

"Course plotted and locked."

"Engage." Durit began to laugh, deep and long as he let himself sink back against the durasteel back of his ship's command chair.

-2-

Starfleet Sector One General Hospital stood as a gleaming tower of care and healing one block away from Starfleet Headquarters, in the new downtown area of San Francisco. Orderlies and physicians bustled through its hallways bringing the light of modern medicine to those in need.

Though, in general, the weather could be controlled, the residence of San Francisco wanted an occasional fog, and the controllers had obliged them this morning. Thick, heavy fog sat on the city, only her tallest towers breaking through the top. Though it was cold and damp outside, there was one place within the hospital where the temperature was about to approach that near the surface of the yellow dwarf star which held Earth in its bondage.

"I think the Giants are going to go all the way this year, Leonard," quipped Doctor Raul Sanchez, a senior Starfleet physician who'd served during aboard the Enterprise during its first five year mission.

"Hah, hombre. They haven't had any kind of schedule, playing against the Tokyo Stars and the London Kings, but you wait. In two weeks, they'll play the Braves in Atlanta. That meat-grinder defense will eat them for lunch. And Sally Drysdale is going for her fourth Cy Young this year. She'll be serving up some chin music," Doctor Leonard McCoy countered, allowing his hands and arms to be bathed a full second longer under the sterilite beams.

Sanchez always made it a point of discovering the mood of whomever he was working with at the time. With most of the other senior staff, this was only a sociable trait, but with the infamous Doctor McCoy and his explosive temper, it was a survival trait that had served him well in the past. If you wanted to test the weather of McCoy's temperament, talk sports. Today, there was a storm on the horizon.

"I don't know, señor. The Giants are pretty good. And Sally might find herself losing out to Ito Noguchi," Sanchez continued.

McCoy finished his scrub and stood ready to enter the surgery, but his blue eyes sparkled with the prospect of a good, intense discussion about one of the few subjects, other than medicine, he held an interest in. "Y'all just wait and see," he said, allowing his southern drawl to surface. "The South ain't dead yet, and Johnny's marchin' home."

"Ay carumba." Sanchez chuckled, following McCoy through the swinging doors and entering the surgery. "It'll be a good game."

Doctor McCoy stopped for a moment, noting who his assigned assistant was, groaning just under his breath. It wasn't the Andorian nurse who bothered him. He recognized Shrell from earlier operations and respected her efficiency. It was the Human, Theodore Parker, the medical technician who would hand him the tools of his trade, who bothered him. He'd had problems with that one before, and, if he'd had a choice, wouldn't have put him on this team.

The doctor walked up to the patient. Maybe it'll be different this time, McCoy thought, dismissing his irritation grudgingly. Maybe he's learned from his past mistakes. Shrugging, he forced his mind to the problem at hand. It isn't often I get a call to use the experience I gained on the Enterprise, he thought as he inspected his patient. Earth is such a sterile, safe, environment, but now and then...

His random thoughts stopped as he found the injury caused by the crash of the shuttlecraft the patient had been riding. A quick glance at the patient's vital signs told him he was indeed ready for the operation. "We'll have to palaver more about that subject once we're through here, okay, hombre?"

"Si, señor gringo," Sanchez responded as he took his place on the other side of the table.

McCoy's attention went to the med tech who stood at the head of the table. "Is the patient prepped and ready?"

"Yes, Doctor," answered Parker, whose two meter height caused him to loom over most he worked with.

I hope everything really is, thought Sanchez, because there'll be hell to pay if something out of the ordinary happens here.

"Okay, let's get started, shall we?" McCoy said, all business now. The first thing to do is to expose the site of the actual injury, he thought before putting out his hand. "Scalpel."

Parker nervously found the requested instrument and placed it into the waiting hand.

McCoy felt the scalpel hit his fingers instead of his palm, and he had to make an effort to get it firmly into his hand. "We're not going to have a repeat of the other day, are we, Parker?" McCoy let the perpetual anger he was feeling these days edge into his voice.

"N-n-no, Doctor. I'm sorry, sir." The technician bowed slightly trying to make amends.

"Good."

Parker looked quickly to Sanchez for support and found it in the Latino's brown eyes.

"We'll make the incision right about..." McCoy flipped on the power switch to the laser scalpel and nothing happened. His growl was loud and noticeable this time; his anger built and exploded almost instantaneously. Slamming the obviously uncharged laser scalpel back onto the tray, he charged ahead. "Damn it, Parker! I'm fed up with your incompetence! Get the hell out of my surgery ward! Now!"

Parker paled to a hue closely resembling the unconscious patient that lay beneath the surgical shell, but he made no move to leave.

McCoy brushed past Nurse Shrell and glared at Teddy Parker eye-to-eye, a remarkable feat considering the technician was taller than him. "I said," he let the heat of his intense anger boil up into a soft, but dangerous tone, "get out."

Parker glanced quickly at Sanchez and saw the other doctor nod for him to leave, then found McCoy's angry, bright blue eyes. "Yes, Doctor." He spun on his heal and quickly exited.

McCoy pivoted and took his place beside the patient again. "Nurse Shrell, get me the laser scalpel from Surgery Five."

As the Andorian nurse silently retrieved the discarded scalpel and followed in the wake of the technician, McCoy continued. "And write that bastard up. I don't want him on my team again, you hear?"

"Yesss, Doctor," the nurse said as she left.

"Lighten up, Len," Doctor Sanchez murmured sotto voce. "Shrell doesn't control the duty roster, and besides, it might not have been Teddy's fault. Those charge units are old. Sometimes they don't hold a charge..."

"I don't need any lectures from you!" McCoy interrupted with a baleful glare. "I was practicing medicine before you were a gleam in your daddy's eye."

Sanchez nodded solemnly. "So you have. That's why I put up with your gringo, dixie bullshit, but not everyone has my tolerance for it."

McCoy met the younger physician's gaze, relaxing just slightly as blue eyes locked with sable. Despite the verbal sparring, there was something calm and accepting in Raul Sanchez's expression, something that reminded him of...

"Doctor McCoy, report to the Hospital Administrator, stat," came a voice over the ward's loudspeaker.

"God damn it! When it rains, it pours!" McCoy snapped, in a rage again, his previous thoughts gone. "She knows better than to call me out of surgery! I'm a doctor, not a..." His muttering trailed off as Sanchez raised an eyebrow, reminding him again of the good friend he'd lost touch with in the last few months. "Go ahead, hombre. Finish this one for me."

Sanchez chuckled, not sure what he'd done to put the fire out. "Sure, gringo. Give my regards to the boss." He watched McCoy head for the automatic doors and saw Nurse Shrell come in as the chief of surgery left.

"I'll tell her where she can shove her damn..."

The pneumatic swish of the surgery's twin doors drowned out the last of the doctor's retort, and Raul Sanchez shook his head, returning his attention to the patient.

"Get Parker back in here, Nurse Shrell," Sanchez said as he began his work.

"Yes, Doctor."

*****

Leonard McCoy was not a terribly happy man these days. Working in Starfleet's Sector General One Hospital was, for lack of better words, boring as hell. The one day he'd found his skills as a surgeon needed, the administrator called him away. "Bitch," he grumbled as he entered the elevator. "Administrator's office," he snapped, immediately surprised by the venom in his voice. When did I become so vicious? he thought.

The car shot up sixteen levels quickly, and then the doors parted. For a moment, McCoy stood and stared down the long hallway, his thoughts churning. Probably when I accepted this posh assignment. I thought an assignment to Earth would allow me to finally get to know my daughter and her family, the heat of his thoughts rose with this, but that husband of hers dragged her off planet just as I got here, and now all I've got is this. He grumbled, "This shitty job."

McCoy stormed out of the lift and down the hall, ignoring the panoramic view of the bay that the hallway's window-filled expanse afforded. In no time flat, he was in the administrator's outer office, facing her receptionist.

"Ah, yes. Doctor McCoy. Go right in. She's waiting for you," the receptionist said, just barely looking up from the monitor that held the report she was completing.

The solution to his present problem had just appeared in his thoughts, the rightness of which already was serving to cool his temper. What had Spock said to Kirk about this sort of thing...His thoughts trailed, his voice completing the thought. "First and best destiny?"

"What was that, Doctor?" the receptionist asked.

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud," McCoy's smile was weak, and he shrugged. "Thanks." He walked through the open door with Doctor Susan Blair's name on a plaque positioned at eye level.

"Leonard, so nice to see you. How have you been?" Doctor Blair greeted him pleasantly. She was his contemporary in age and surgical experience, having earned her position as administrator with over thirty years' experience as a surgeon aboard several destroyers, highlighted by a six-year stint aboard the Lexington. She was an excellent surgeon and a top notch administrator, with a keenly sharp mind and a natural diplomatic streak.

Leonard McCoy couldn't argue her qualifications, nor did he begrudge her the position, but he felt her promotion had caused a tragic waste of a perfectly good surgeon. "I'm all right," McCoy growled, his anger rekindling as he remembered what was waiting for him back in surgery. He plopped himself into a chair before her desk. "I have three shuttle crash victims backed up in triage. Could you dispense with the crap and get to the point? I have work to do."

Blair could not have missed the sarcastic innuendo in McCoy's voice, but she chose to ignore it. "I'm sure Doctor Sanchez has matters well in hand," she dismissed his argument succinctly. Her voice remained even and polite with just a hint of firmness in it, discouraging any further snipes from McCoy. "As you know, I've been thinking about retirement lately. Frank and I want to relocate to a backwater planet, hang up our shingles and live out our lives in the simplicity of colonial life."

Oh, God, he thought as his mind made a quick, intuitive deduction. She's gonna offer me her job.

She had paused to stand and walk to the front of her desk. As she leaned against it, she continued, "That will leave this position vacant, Leonard, and they'll be needing a qualified doctor with administrative experience to serve as the new director."

Here it comes, he grimaced internally. And this after I thought I had my mind made up.

She dropped her bombshell on him. "I do not intend to recommend you for that job."

"Well, don't look at me. I'm not interested. I don't consider sitting in an ivory tower..." He paused, waving one hand toward the bay below. "...practicing medicine." His brow furled as he realized what she'd actually said. "Wait a second. What did you say?"

"I said, I don't intend to recommend you for that job," she answered with uncharacteristic impatience. "I just don't think you're the right man. Hell, I don't even think you're the right man for the surgical ward, but when the Surgeon General gets my resignation, I'll just bet he's going to appoint you to take my place."

She was right of course. He could feel the walls closing in on him as he dropped back into the chair. "Damned nonsense," he said under his breath. "Phil just can't be thinkin' straight these days if he thinks he can nail Leonard McCoy to a desk."

Blair leaned back onto her feet and crossed her arms. "Doctor Boyce insists that you're..."

That was all it took. "Look, Philip Boyce may be Surgeon General, but he doesn't order Leonard McCoy around!"

Blair looked amused as she walked back around to stand behind her desk. "I'm afraid as your superior officer, the admiral..."

"Screw the admiral!" McCoy roared as he regained his feet.

Blair's mouth dropped open at the blatant disrespect for a senior officer, but she never got the chance to react.

McCoy's intellect was working hard on a solution to this problem. Then he remembered something he saw in the latest Starfleet personnel bulletin. "Is the Reliant still in need of a chief medical officer?"

"Uh, well, the last I heard, yes, but..."

"But nothing. I'm getting out of this system in a hell of a hurry. Where's she at?"

"Who?"

"The Reliant, damn it!"

"Leonard, you can't just report to the Reliant! You have to be assigned there. Which, by the way, requires the approval of the Surgeon General. We both know where he wants you."

She's been behind that desk too long if she believes there's only one way to process out of a chicken-shit outfit like this, he thought shaking his head, the course he was laying for his career becoming clear in his head. "Admiral Boyce can be bypassed, and I intend to do that right now. You better find a replacement for me. I won't be back," he warned as he turned toward the door.

Blair's eyes widened with the disbelief she felt at what McCoy was about to do. "You're going to Nogura?" she harrumphed as she sat in the plush chair. "The commanding admiral would never..."

"I'll put my next two paychecks on it, Susan," McCoy said as a smile began to cross his face. "But I know that's one bet you won't take, because you know me better than that. Mark my words: find a replacement...now...because you're not going to see me around here any more."

As he exited her office, McCoy heard her say, "He's right; I can't afford two of his paychecks," before the doors to her office closed. He crossed the reception area to the lift doors and they opened to accept him, a car waiting. "Transporter Station," he announced, and the doors shut.

The car began its rapid descent to the basement level. He felt better than he had for months--since taking this job, in fact. It was like the sun peaking through after a really dark storm; everything looked so much brighter now.

The lift stopped, and the door opened. Across the hall was the familiar crescent pattern of circles on the floor that was the transporter station. The familiar fear of being disassembled and changed into energy entered his mind, but the intensity of his thoughts kept it from bothering him.

"Destination, Doctor?" the young ensign called out from behind the mechanism's control station.

"Starfleet Headquarters. Now!"

"Emergency, Doctor?"

"If there isn't one now, there soon will be, believe me," McCoy explained with all seriousness.

"Okay, Doctor," the ensign responded as he punched in the coordinates. "Standby."

Damn it, Jim. Why'd you chose now to get assigned to that mess involving the Nelson? You picked a hell of a time to be halfway to the Orion Barrier, McCoy thought as he waited.

"Energizing."

And the room dissolved in a wall of sparkling energy.

*****

"I just got a call from Phil Boyce, Leonard," Nogura commented as McCoy entered his office. "I don't have to tell you how upset he is with you."

I guess Susan must have called him right after I left her office, McCoy thought as he prepared himself for a fight with Starfleet's most senior officer. I still don't understand women. She said herself I wasn't the one she'd pick to become the senior administrator, so why did she warn Boyce? "I'm just trying to head off a big mistake on his part, sir."

"And that is?"

"Tying me to a desk."

A small smile appeared on Nogura's normally inscrutable face. "I see."

"You know me. I'm just an old-fashioned family physician, the one that makes house calls on families, is known by two and three generations, having delivered half of them himself. I could never retire the horse and buggy." McCoy hoped his argument was good, because it was all he had.

"What about your career?"

"In Starfleet?"

"Yes. As your superior officer, it is my responsibility to insure that you have every opportunity to rise through the ranks, to gain the experience needed to get your next promotion. You know, I can see you as a future Surgeon General."

McCoy snorted at the thought. "It'll be a cold day in hell, 'Chiro. And you know it"

"You say that now..."

"And I'll continue to say it until I die."

Nogura shook his head as he sat back in the chair. "Okay, Leonard. You have my attention. What is it you want?"

"Assignment to the Reliant, sir."

"Hah!" Nogura exploded. "They're headed out on a Romulan Neutral Zone patrol in the Triangle. Not a mission for the faint of heart."

"Not one of my traits," McCoy responded.

"That is true," Nogura admitted. "And if I refuse your request?"

"Then I'll resign and go back to the private practice I was yanked out of before that V'ger thing. It was profitable enough."

He was working practically for charity while translating the Fabrini medical journals, remembered the commanding admiral as he tested the waters with his next comment. "I don't see you doing that."

"Just watch."

He would, too, concluded Nogura, and I'll be out the best prospect for a future Surgeon General I've seen in years. That is, if he survives that long. Nogura shook his head at the thought. "Can't have that, now can we, Leonard?"

"I thought you'd see it my way."

"I think those were my words when you returned to Starfleet for the V'ger mission."

"You have a good memory, 'Chiro."

"Remember that, Leonard McCoy, because one day I'm going to come looking for a favor, and you owe me a big one now."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Without breaking eye contact with McCoy, Nogura spoke aloud, "Computer."

"Working," the female voice of the computer said.

"Open a comlink to the Starfleet Personnel Officer."

A moment later an electronic beep announced the completed connection.

"Personnel, sir. Commander Po, speaking."

"Cut orders transferring Doctor Leonard McCoy, presently assigned to Starfleet General One Hospital, to the U.S.S. Reliant, Commander."

"Aye, sir," replied the officer on the other side of the connection. "Effective date?"

"Immediately."

"Thanks, 'Chiro," McCoy said as he relaxed.

Nogura became all business. "Don't thank me, Leonard. I don't think you know what you're getting yourself into, but if you want to voluntarily put your head into a meat grinder, then be my guest. Just don't try to hold me responsible for you coming up one foot shorter at the top afterward... Or six feet under."

"All the same, thanks."

"You're welcome. Now get out of my office. Can't you see I've got really important things to do?"

"Hah."

*****

"McCoy, eh?" asked Clark Terrell, present captain of the Federation frigate Reliant.

"Yes, Kyptin," responded Lieutenant Commander Pavel Chekov, the Reliant's second in command. "I've served vwith him for some time now. He's a good man."

Terrell leaned back in the center seat. The orders for his new chief medical officer were only a few hours old, cut just in time for their scheduled departure time. That in itself was not odd, but the signature on the orders! Heihachiro Nogura himself? Impressive, thought Terrell.

The addition of Leonard McCoy to the ship's crew was an unexpected, but welcome, event. Ships the size of Reliant rarely drew such a senior and heavily experienced medical officer. Usually they got someone just out of Starfleet's medical school, still wet behind the ears, and green around the gills.

"We've just received our departure orders, sir," Lieutenant Commander Kyle, the communications officer, interrupted from his station.

"It's about time, eh, Chekov?"

"Yes, sir."

Terrell heard the turbolift doors open, but it was a common event on the bridge, and he paid it no never mind. "How long's the wait?" he directed toward Kyle.

"Our departure slot for leaving the system is in thirty minutes."

"Wow," Terrell exclaimed sitting up in the command chair, then turned to Chekov. "That doesn't give McCoy much time to get here."

"Already moved in and ready to hang up my shingle, Captain Terrell," replied a voice from behind him.

Terrell saw the smile on Chekov's face and the direction in which he was looking. Turning the chair around, he found the good doctor standing on the other side of the railing that surrounded the central command well. "Well, so you are," his eyebrows shot up. "How do you like Sickbay?"

"Small, inefficient, and over-engineered," McCoy responded, no emotion showing on his face at all.

"Meaning?"

An alarm went off at the comm station. Kyle cut it off quickly.

McCoy ignored the slight commotion. "Situation normal, as I expected it would be," the doctor answered.

"Good. I'd like to take this time to welcome..."

"Sir, Starfleet just received a distress call from the colony on Psi Scorpii Eight," Kyle reported. "They are under attack by unknown forces."

"That's just outside the Triangle and within our next patrol zone isn't it, Exec?"

"Aye, sir," replied Chekov.

Standing at his usual perch at the rear of the bridge, McCoy wasn't bothered by being ignored by those busy doing their jobs.

"Starfleet just informed us that they're ordering the Molock and the Shaitan to meet us at Psi Scorpii Eight," Kyle added a moment later. "We're to depart immediately, and have been moved to the front of the queue." The British comm officer winked a greeting at McCoy.

"It sounds like more than a border skirmish, Kyptin," Chekov made a quick analysis.

Terrell nodded his head as he punched the button on his command chair to activate the ship's log. "Ship's log, Stardate 7631.4. We are ordered to the Psi Scorpii Eight colony right out of refit. They report that they are under attack by a force of ships, registry unknown. The destroyers Molock and Shaitan are already en route. All conjecture will have to wait until we've arrived. The Psi Scorpii system is close to both Romulan and Klingon Star Empires, as well as the Triangle, the area of space where the Romulan Neutral Zone and the Klingon Treaty Zone meet, creating an area rife with piracy and chaos. Captain Terrell, commanding the U.S.S. Reliant, out."

Terrell paused for only a moment, then began issuing the orders that would take the Reliant out of Spacedock. "Helm, take us out; thrusters only until we clear the structure, then full impulse. Navigator, plot and set a course for Psi Scorpii Eight. Communications, acknowledge our orders and request a full intelligence dossier on the Psi Scorpii system."

The bridge came alive, executing the orders.

The Reliant slowly edged forward out of the structure that a moment earlier had appeared like a large spider on the starship's back. As soon as the warp nacelles, mounted on stanchions below the saucer-shaped hull, cleared the last of its spindly arms, the Reliant turned toward the standard jump point located near the orbit of Saturn. All starships leaving Sol's family of planets on anything less than war emergency went there before accelerating to warp speeds. With her impulse engine exhaust coming to a brilliant orange, she sped off toward deep space.

"Plot calculated and locked in, ready to be activated at the jump point, sir," the navigator reported a moment later.

"Warp Six at the jump point, Mister Walking Bear," Terrell added.

"Warp Six, aye, sir," the Comanche helmsman replied after entering the speed into the computer.

"Estimated time of arrival jump point?" Terrell asked.

"Fifty minutes, full impulse," the Edoan navigator responded.

Terrell nodded and turned his seat so he could look at Chekov. "Are the engines ready for warp speed?"

"Aye, Kyptin," Chekov answered. "The modifications during the refit were not too extensive. Chief Engineer Sonn informed me that no shakedown would be necessary."

"Right," Terrell responded with just a hint of sarcasm edging his voice. "Just the same, maybe you'd better be down in engineering to hold things together, just in case our lieutenant is in error."

"Aye, sir," Chekov answered, glancing quickly at McCoy with an I knew that look.

Terrell saw the glance and turned his attention to McCoy as well. He waited until Chekov had disappeared behind the doors of the turbolift before saying anything. "So, Doctor McCoy?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Late of the U.S.S. Enterprise."

"No, Sector One General Hospital." McCoy glanced around the bridge, noting the familiar faces from the Enterprise: the communications officer Kyle had been the transporter chief; the helm officer was Lieutenant Dawson Walking Bear; and the navigator was none other than Lieutenant Arex. "Of course, I spent a total of eight years aboard the Enterprise before that."

"Ah, yes. That's right." Terrell's eyes lidded as he nodded, pursing his lips. "You come well recommended."

"I've seen my share of service."

"And then some," Terrell smiled.

McCoy had seen that kind of smile before now. It usually meant that the owner knew more than he was letting on and that he was reserving judgment. It was a common treatment of him since he'd been on Serenidad during the Klingon invasion and takeover of that planet.

"Well, if one likes it quiet, one doesn't join Starfleet," McCoy answered. He decided to stand with his hands locked in the small of his back, and his fingers fidgeted a little, a slight indication of the nervousness he was beginning to feel around Terrell.

"Nor do they allow themselves to be assigned to Starfleet's Sector One General," Terrell responded, quietly, with little emotion shading his voice.

"Not my first choice," McCoy replied. "I just go where they tell me."

"Good answer, Doctor." Terrell's smile was genuine this time.

I guess I passed his first exam, thought McCoy before continuing. "Thank you, sir, but I didn't know this was a test." Got to keep him on his toes, McCoy's thoughts continued as he made his first impression of Captain Terrell. Let him know the bridge is not the place to continue this interview. He gave the Reliant's captain his most charming smile.

Terrell cleared his throat. "It isn't. Just passing the time until warp. You understand."

More than you think, Captain. You might soon be trusting the well-being of each member of your command to the talents of my profession, and you want to be damn sure the man behind those hands is still competent, McCoy thought before answering. "I understand, sir."

Terrell turned to stare at the engineer station for a moment. Lieutenant Arex reported crossing the Mars orbit.

"Then, welcome aboard," Terrell stood and offered his hand.

McCoy stepped down into the command well and took the offered hand. "Glad to be aboard, Captain."

"I like my ship's surgeon to be as close an advisor as my exec. Is there any special nick-name you prefer?"

McCoy recalled the name Kirk had hung on him so many years earlier, one that he had not minded one bit. "My friends call me, Bones." He met and held the gaze of Terrell's dark brown eyes with his steel blue.

'"Bones' it is." Terrell shook the hand of his new surgeon.

McCoy felt the firmness of the grasp, another indication of the character of the man behind it. "Thank you, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a sickbay to report to. First warp flight after refit is always a bit dicey."

"That it is, Doctor. Again, welcome aboard." Terrell returned to his command chair, ending the conversation by turning back to look at the viewscreen, just in time to see a large asteroid flash by on the starboard side.

Remembering where the ship was heading and, slipping into his best pessimistic mode, his smile slipped into a bit of a frown as he entered the waiting turbolift. Answering the 'lift's query he gave it his destination: "Sickbay." Then as the doors shut, he muttered, "Hell of a time to sign aboard this ship."

-3-

Spreading out across the plain of K'tin'yotlh, at the foot of the Kurnach mountain range, The First City--the largest city on Q'onoS and the location of the empire's throne--sweltered happily under the attention of the twin orange orbs that heated this world and supported the planet's dominant life form--the Klingons. Only a few months earlier, the world had been known as Kazh, as it had been called for millennia. With the rise of the Kh'myr race of Klingon, the standard dialect had changed to pIqaD and so changed the name of an entire world.

The First City had many fortresses whose turreted spires reached for the hazy, smoke-filled heavens, boasting the most in the entire Klingon Empire. The largest of these occupied the center of the city and was the home of the emperor and his staff. Surrounding this mighty edifice was a circle of other citadels whose owners constantly aspired to--as demonstrated by the size of the structures and the continued construction--change this fact.

In one such fortress, the one closest to the emperor's in size, Admiral Khalian paced the confines of his inner sanctum furiously, roaring abuse at the walls. "Why in Gre'thor do I surround myself with fools? What was Korak thinking? He had Serenidad in his grip, and let it get away. He died too easily. A pity that the Earther commander allowed him to take his own life. I would have had him in searing agony for weeks before allowing his spirit to depart into the next world!"

The computer on his desk beeped with an incoming message, but Khalian was too involved in his diatribe to notice, mumbling, growling and roaring his frustration. "Now my whole career...no, my life rests in the unique ability of my adjutant to erase any evidence of my involvement in this thing. If Kudan Kuras gets even the slightest inkling of my involvement, he'll have my head. What those Segh vav weaklings on the council wouldn't do to see that. And what would happen to the Kh'myr if I, the most powerful of my race, fell? Would my race begin the long fall to extinction under the cleansing ray of the racial hatred of the Segh vav?"

The computer beeped again.

"No!" Khalian roared to the ceiling. "This shall not be! By the blood of Kahless the Unforgettable..." He drew his battle dagger and drew its razor sharp blade across the palm of his left hand, opening a deep cut, blood spilling out to drip onto the floor. "No, by my blood, I swear an oath: I will not fail, and the Klingon species will be cleansed of the weakling Segh vav once and for all."

The computer beeped again, and Khalian finally heard it. Ignoring the pain of the fresh cut on his hand, he enabled the computer station. It was his adjutant, Commander Kirst. "Well?"

"It is done, joHwI'."

"All evidence gone?"

"You are cleared, joHwI'."

"That is not what I asked, Kirst." Khalian glowered at the screen. "If you wish to continue in this plane of existence, answer my question: Is the evidence gone?"

"Yes, Admiral. It is gone." Kirst appeared calm and untroubled by the open threat.

For the first time this day, Khalian smiled. "Good. Who?"

"General Koord, joHwI'."

"Very good." Khalian glanced at the chronometer in the right corner of the computer screen, noting the time. "And just in time I might add. The emperor has ordered me to attend the next meeting of the council, which begins in one rep."

"Qapla', joHwI'," the Kh'myr warrior responded.

"And you with me, eh, Kirst?" Khalian sneered at the other.

"I only serve, joHwI'."

"Remember that, Kirst."

Khalian watched the image of his adjutant fade from the screen and knew that Kirst would depose him in a second if the opportunity arose. After all, he was a Klingon, more importantly, a Kh'myr Klingon, almost as powerful and as clever as himself. Khalian never let his guard down concerning this member of his command. Tapping in a few commands on the computer, he insured that there was a safeguard in place in case Kirst was convinced, or forced, to reveal all he knew.

"Yes, joHwI'." The Klingon on the screen saluted, and the connection ended.

Then, he contacted his chief of security. "Assemble my body guard outside my office."

Inserting a memory chip into the computer, Khalian downloaded the information that would damn Koord as the culprit behind the embarrassing debacle on Serenidad. He knew that Kudan Kuras would at least remove the aging Segh vav general from the council--maybe even have him executed--leaving a vacancy. If he played his cards right, he could insure a Kh'myr was placed into that opening, advancing his race's ambitions. This prospect brought a smile to his face. "I love executions."

*****

"He thinks himself very clever," Valkris reported.

"Humph!" Admiral Kusan snorted in derision. "He is reckless. His political moves have as much finesse as his followers have loyalty." Kusan shook his great knobbed head as he read his master spy's report. "Was it hard to get this information?"

"Hardly, joHwI'. An apprentice of my order could have done it." Valkris sneered. "His people are more than willing to spill their guts concerning his affairs. It makes me wonder about the honor of being Kh'myr."

Kusan stared hard at her, and she dropped her smile. "We, you and I, are of the same race. You would do well to remember that, Valkris." He wagged a finger at her. "Khalian is rash and forgets his place. He believes his size and strength is all he needs to gain him what he strives for. He forgets that even the most fearsome targ can be brought down with a single disruptor shot, his size and ferocity not withstanding."

"Yes." Valkris became contrite.

"We will have to cover for him," Kusan continued, "so that he doesn't disgrace the Kh'myr with his clumsy maneuvers."

"Yes."

Changing the subject, Kusan looked out the window, feigning interest in something down below. "So, the emperor will appoint a new member to his council today."

"I hear congratulations are in order, joHwI'."

"Too bad about old Khurl, eh?"

"His death came unexpectedly," Valkris stated, dead-pan.

"Hmm," Kusan said, a slight smile curled up his lips.

"Your appointment to the council, joHwI', will be a good way to end a glorious career."

Kusan shook his head. "I'm not that old. A Segh vav has grown only one knot on his forehead by my age."

"So?" Valkris left the question unasked. "With Koord disgraced, who do you suppose Kudan Kuras will appoint to his place?"

"Probably a Segh vav admiral from the forces loyal to him," Kusan responded. "I doubt that his bigoted mind will allow more than one Kh'myr on his council at a time."

"One never knows," Valkris said, hiding the spark of knowledge from her face.

Kusan neither missed her comment, or its only slightly hidden meaning. "What have you heard?" he snapped.

"Nothing more, joHwI', but someone of my training never limits themselves to just one trail. We try to see all the possibilities."

She's hiding something, Kusan decided, but I trust her loyalty enough to know that if she thought it would harm me, she would let me know. He smiled at where this thought led. As long as I continue to pay her price...

*****

The cavernous central keep of the imperial fortress echoed loudly with the roars and challenges of the councilors. On a raised dais that extended from the wall opposite the large, swinging doors, rested the throne where generations of emperors had ruled the Klingons; Kudan Kuras being the latest.

And perhaps, the last. He was aging and lacked heirs. His Segh vav forehead had gnarled itself so many times now that he was almost indistinguishable from the Kh'myr race of Klingons.

"Isn't there any other way, voqjup--my trusted friend? Must I put one of their kind on my council?" Kuras almost pouted, despite his great age. "I've already replaced the Segh vav ship commanders with Kh'myr; I've posted Kh'myr in half the admiralty; I've even issued the change in our language, so that even Kazh is now called Qo'noS in that insipid pIqaD dialect of theirs!"

"Yes, sire. We've discussed this already. Your concessions have been the only thing that have prevented a civil war. The Kh'myr are a powerful influence in the empire. It is due to their bravery that the empire has reached its present size, larger than it has ever been in the recorded past."

"That is true," Kuras growled, the fire of pride burning bright in his eyes for a moment, then he closed them, his countenance changing with a thought. "But they are too quick to turn their predatory ways onto their fellow Klingons. Look what they've done to the Kh'yrlov. I think Mara, Kang's mate, is the only Klingon with blonde hair left in the Empire after the Kh'myr baited them into starting that race war."

"Agreed, sire," Gorkon answered, nodding his head. "After that war, the Kh'myr lost the inhibitions toward attacking fellow Klingons, hating and mistrusting all others. As you know, sire, the Kh'fjin have all but disappeared as well."

The mention of the Kh'fjin brought Admiral Koloth's face to the Kuras' mind, especially the pale, almost white color of his skin, the identifying feature of that race. "Now that you mention it, voqjup, the Kh'fjin have become scarce. When did this all occur?"

"Over the last few years, sire. The Kh'myr at first tried to lure the Kh'fjin into the same open war that destroyed the Kh'yrlov, but when the Kh'fjin didn't take up the bait, the Kh'myr began slowly, but surely, smoking them out of the woodwork. I dare say, that except for Koloth, the rest have secluded themselves in deep hiding. I've received word that many have taken refuge in the Halee system. Now the Kh'myr are turning their bigoted attentions to the Kh'teb."

"The Kh'teb are the most numerous of the Segh vav," Kuras said, emotion beginning to edge into his voice, color rising into his olive-tinted skin. "I am Kh'teb! Do they think they can take me from the throne, me, a direct descendant of Kahless himself?" There was a growl to Kuras' voice, his temper rising.

"As was my mother, sire."

"By Kahless, I will not let this happen. I was going to appoint one of them to the council today, but not now. Why did you talk me into it in the first place?"

Gorkon bowed slightly before his emperor's building wrath, not at all surprised by his liege's unique way of changing directions on any subject in the middle of the strongest current, without thinking through all the consequences. He would tactfully get him back on course. "Sire, it is imperative that we placate them in this way. They are more powerful than you might think. If we do not do this of our own volition, they will force it on us, with some one of their choice."

"By my father, I will destroy them, declare them outlaw, hunted by every other Klingon in the empire!" Kuras began to pace, striking the palm of his hand with his closed fist.

"And they will destroy you, sire."

"What?!"

"As I said, they would unite their forces, leaving us ill-prepared to fight them. This would be just the excuse they need to finally declare open war against all the Segh vav, eliminating the parent race from existence."

Kuras' face flushed deep purple under his dark skin as he wrestled with the inevitability of his situation.

"At least," Gorkon continued, "in this way, we appoint the least severe of their commanders to the council. Admiral Kusan is a moderate."

"Though I suspect him in the death of Admiral Khurl?"

"It was an honorable...retirement. Khurl was nearly sixty years old," Gorkon shrugged. "Of course, there is always Khalian."

The color returned to Kuras' face. "He is of the Kalut cell group, isn't he?" Kuras remembered the intelligence report he'd read some time ago concerning the most intense individuals within the Kh'myr race. If any Klingon could be said to be a berserker, it was all of those born from that particular crèche.

"And among the most dangerous of them," Gorkon added.

"But predictable."

"What about the Serenidad debacle, my emperor?"

"His involvement has never been proven, voqjup," Kuras said, slitting his eyes

"He hides his tracks well, sire, but his responsibility is certain."

Kuras nodded his head. "So my sources have said as well, but there is no proof that would stand the light of a full inquisition."

"That is true, sire," Gorkon responded, bowing slightly.

"He is careless. His slip-shod work will eventually be his downfall."

Gorkon responded by shaking his head slightly, choosing to remain silent, though the information he had on Khalian's latest escapades flashed through his intellect.

"Ah, well, voqjup, the meeting of the councilors waits, and, by the sound of it, they are wearing hard on each other's nerves," Kusan observed. "You will take your usual place?"

"As you wish, sire."

"Good." Kuras' mouth set in a line as he nodded his head. "Observe and be ready with your valued opinion."

The emperor's voqjup bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord. I serve."

"And very well, I will add, Gorkon."

"Thank you, Kudan."

The two left the ante-chamber through a well-used hallway, but only Kudan Kuras came out onto the throne's dais, Gorkon secreting himself away into his usual observation station, without even the trace of movement of the heavy tapestry to the left of the door.

Kudan Kuras stood silent on the dais, the group below too involved to note his presence. While he waited, he found and identified each of his councilors.

Kor, the mighty Kh'teb admiral whose exploits on the borders were epic. He had only one shadow on his record. He'd failed in his mission to secure Organia for the empire. Kuras himself had forgiven him his failure upon consideration of the Organians' power.

Koloth, a Kh'fjin admiral with a large and loyal following in the Klingon fleet. Kuras remembered the trick the infamous Earther, James T. Kirk, had played on Koloth once a long time ago and chuckled inwardly when he remembered what it had taken to finally clear the hated tribbles from Koloth's battlecruiser.

Kumara, the youngest Segh vav admiral on the council, his dark, olive skin identifying him as Kh'teb. Kumara's fame came from his exploits as a warrior assigned to other Klingon borders and during his time spent as an exchange student on Earth had become an acquaintance if not friend of James T. Kirk.

Then there was the oldest of his councilors, the great many knots convoluting his forehead demonstrating how long he'd survived. General Koord had once been the most powerful man in the Empire, the ranks of military following him easily securing his position on the council, but of late his forces had shrunk, his influence in the empire ebbing. Kuras knew from the intelligence reports of his secret police that he was the next target for the Kh'myr.

Kuras noted the continuing absence of Admiral Kang, outside himself, the most powerful Kh'teb in the empire. This was the third meeting of the council that Kang had missed. Kuras frowned at this thought. He would ask Admiral Kusan, the Kh'myr they would shortly install to the council of the admiral's whereabouts.

But for now... Raising the scepter of his office--the fang of a dragon that legends said Kahless himself had killed--he drove its gold-plated tip hard against the durasteel floor of the dais. The resounding "boom" of its impact, amplified by the dais' architecture, filled the vaulted room with its sound, silencing the councilors as they took their places before the throne.

"We serve, Kudan Kuras," they chorused as one.

"I lead," he returned, then continued. "First in order. The replacement of Councilor Khurl." He knew Admiral Kusan was waiting just outside the huge double doors of the throne room. "Guard, admit Admiral Kusan."

The room filled with the grumbling of the councilors in the room, the loudest of which was, "He's a damned Kh'myr."

Kuras silenced the muttering with a glare and watched the doors swing open.

Kusan marched in, his knobbed head held high, his steps sure and steady. Walking right up to the first step of the dais, he executed a precise Klingon salute, snapping his blade weapon--the only weapon allowed into the chamber--out, bringing his heals together. "Admiral Kusan, reporting as ordered, sire."

"Admiral Kusan, I have noted your service and loyalty to the Klingon empire and to me, and it shall be rewarded."

"I am but a Klingon, sire, doing his duty."

"Nevertheless, you are worthy of the promotion. From this day forward and until your death, you are duly recognized as a member of the Klingon High Council, taking the late Khurl's place in securing my control of the empire."

"I am honored, sire."

"As you should be, Lord Kusan. Take your place with the other councilors."

"Yes, sire." Kusan moved, but instead of moving toward the end of the line of Segh vav leaders, he began a new line on the other side of the room's center.

Kudan Kuras had suspected this would happen. The emperor had suspected that as a Kh'myr, Kusan would not be comfortable standing with his Segh vav contemporaries, but he felt he had to ask for an official explanation. "Why do you separate yourself from the rest?"

"Because I am different from them, sire, and wish not to be included in their ranks."

"But we are all Klingons in this room."

"Yes, sire."

"I am Segh vav as well. Does this mean you object to my presence?" Kuras felt his emotions suddenly well up in him.

"No sire. You are emperor, lord of us all, but I do object to the presence of the rest."

Kuras' anger kindled inside him, but he maintained control of it. "You will leave those opinions outside this room, Kusan. In here, we are all Klingons and are concerned only with the good of the Empire."

"Understood, sire." He remained rooted to the spot he'd selected.

He is as brave and controlled as voqjup said he would be, thought Kuras. "We will discuss this later, Lord Kusan, but, for now, it is settled." The emperor turned his focus to the entire group. "The first order of business concerns a rumor I've heard concerning a system named by the Earthers..." He paused to take a long breath. "...Serenidad."

Kor stepped forward, volunteering what he knew. "Three attempts, including an invasion, by Kh'myr leadership to 'persuade' the people of Serenidad to accept a protectorate from us have failed miserably due to Kh'myr ineptitude and the incompetence of their leadership."

"Do you know whose hand was behind these attempts?"

"I only have suspicions, sire," Kor replied.

"And whom do you suspect, Kor?"

"The one who commands the Kh'myr, sire. Admiral Khalian."

"What proof do you have, Lord Kor?" Kusan jumped to Khalian's defense from his place on the other side of the room.

"I have none, but who else could be so stupid as to allow a world to slip through his hands so often?"

"Proof, Kor. Present your proof," Kusan continued, determined to cover for his fellow Kh'myr.

"Enough!" Kuras ordered, and the two obeyed. "I have heard the same rumors and have ordered Admiral Khalian here today." The emperor paused to bring his focus on the guard. "Let Admiral Khalian enter."

The huge double doors opened slowly, silently, the smoothness of their movement belying their weight. Admiral Khalian could be heard arguing loudly with the guard in the hall.

"I am Admiral Khalian, and I will not surrender my weapon!"

The guard answered, threat oozing from his voice. "No weapon other than your taj--your dagger--may be brought into the throne room."

Kudan Kuras quickly stepped down from the dais and crossed the room. The councilors fell in step behind him.

"I'll give you my weapon, you filthy targ, the business..."

"Hold, Khalian!" Kudan Kuras roared as he entered the hallway.

Khalian hadn't even cleared the weapon of its holster. "Sire." He obviously hadn't been aware of the huge doors opening, or the arrival of the august body. For a moment, there was a strident temptation to pull it out and destroy the whole lot of them, but reason took over, and he resisted the enticement, instead pulling the disruptor and handing it butt first to the guard.

"You know my rules regarding weaponry in the Great Hall, Lord Khalian," Kuras muttered, loudly enough to be heard.

"No, sire, I did not," he lied. "This is my first time visiting the throne room." Hopefully, not my last, he thought as he waited the emperor's pleasure...or displeasure.

Kuras made a slight movement with his hands, and the guard placed the weapon on a shelf built into the wall nearby. It disappeared as a powerful disruptor beam snapped on for just a second. Kuras turned around, walked through the body of councilors, and back to the throne dais.

Once there, he turned and waited, while the councilors resumed their places. Kusan was still on the far right, by himself.

Khalian stood in the center, between the two factions, easy and confident of his position.

"What do you know of Serenidad, Admiral Khalian?" Kudan Kuras asked, coming straight to the point.

"That it is rich in dilithium and has an unaligned government. Under the terms of the Organian Treaty, if we can convince them to ally themselves with us, we will be free to benefit from its wealth." Khalian stopped, seducing the emperor to ask for the rest.

"And, Khalian?" Kuras took the bait.

"Well, sire, the clumsy attempts of inept commanders has badly embarrassed the Empire in their attempts to bring it into the fold of your empire." Khalian maintained his eye contact with the empire's ruler.

What will be your ploy, Khalian? Kuras asked himself, feeling there was a lie coming. "I have heard that these commanders did so under your orders, Khalian. Is that true?" Might as well get this out into the open right away, Kuras thought after asking.

Khalian feigned surprise and half slid his taj's blade from its sheath. "Who says so, sire?"

"I have my sources."

"Obviously someone who seeks my downfall. I have many political enemies within the empire, sire."

"That much is certain, Khalian," Kuras continued, barely holding in the laughter that welled up inside him as he watched the Kh'myr's brazen performance.

Knowing you were guilty until you could prove yourself innocent in the Klingon system of justice, Khalian forged forward. "I have proof of my innocence."

Kuras became very serious suddenly. If Khalian could show proof of someone else's involvement, well maybe this Kh'myr wasn't quite the rogue his sources had painted him as.

"I had assumed this might be the reason for my invitation to your majesty's throne room, so I had the proof put together on a memory chip, sire." Khalian fished the chip from a hidden pocket within the familial sash that he wore as part of his uniform. The grumbling of the Segh vav councilors gratified him. As he held out the chip, he stole a quick glance at Kusan, the only other Kh'myr in the room, and saw only a hint of a question on that inscrutable face.

Having thought he knew where this was going to go, Kuras now felt awash in the turmoil of conflicting thoughts. For a moment, he thought to adjourn the council so that he could review the evidence in private with Gorkon, but then changed his mind, knowing this would be a gross breach in the Klingon system of justice. Once you made an accusation, it had to be followed up quickly and openly and with the evidence that would conclude the proceedings, or all charges would be dropped forever. Besides, he was curious to see the evidence. "Thank you, Admiral."

"I only seek to serve you, my Lord Emperor." Khalian filled his voice with contrite tones.

Kuras handed the chip to a throne room aide without leaving his position in the center of the dais. A moment later, a viewscreen mounted on the wall nearby came to life, filling with white video noise. Then it cleared and a picture, obviously taken through the lenses of a security video sensor, came onto it. Centered in it was Admiral Kang, seated at his desk.

"Hold," commanded Kuras, and the recording stopped with Kang still seated at his desk. "When was this holo-record made, Khalian?"

"I believe three months ago," Khalian answered with the truth this time.

"The court hasn't seen Admiral Kang in as many months." Kuras had wanted to ask Kusan the next question, but now it appeared Khalian might know as well. "We have ordered his recall several times, and he has ignored us," the emperor said in his most official court voice. "Do you know where he is?"

Again, Khalian felt he could tell the truth. "Yes, sire. If you will give me a few minutes' indulgence, you will have all your questions answered."

"Let the recording proceed," Kuras ordered.

The holo-record began again to play.

There was the sound of the door's chime indicating someone wishing to see Kang.

"Come." Kang answered without looking up.

Kang's adjutant came in with a document tube in his hand. "Here's the document, admiral."

"Thank you," Kang responded, taking the tube and opening one end. Pulling the document out, he rolled it out and read it to himself, then a smile appeared on his face. "Do you know what this is?" He projected his question to the adjutant.

"Yes, lord."

"With this treaty, signed by the princess herself, we now hold protectorate rights over Serenidad and all her dilithium."

"Won't this please the emperor?"

"Yes, it would...if he knew of it," Kang said as he rolled the document back up and slipped it back into the tube.

"What are you saying, Lord Kang?"

On the throne room floor, standing with the emperor's councilors, and watching the doctored recording himself for the first time, Khalian could only congratulate himself for having such a clever adjutant who could produce such convincing evidence. He could see where the holo-record was going. His only surprise now would be how it would implicate Koord as well.

Kang answered as the recording proceeded. &quo