Surefoot 79: Killing Honour

Prologue - Klingon Imperial Space:

Yraltril Anishnak swallowed, fighting down his growing anxiety as he stood on the hot, dank, crowded Bridge of his latest clients, and waited to conclude his business and depart as quickly as possible. Despite his fears, he tried not to show it; his clients respected courage and guile.

Not that it would necessarily save him from a clouting, or even a stabbing with one of those ugly crescent swords of theirs. As a general rule, Klingons were as volatile and dangerous to handle as trilithium resin. If you asked his brother Nohtyp, he'd agree... that is, he would, if he hadn't blown himself to shit two years ago attempting to steal trilithium resin from the Tannhäuser Gate Array.

Stick to trading in information, Mother always told them. It's what Yridians were famous for. Information can't kill you.

Still, as he continued to stand there, waiting to get paid and trying not to gag at the stench of these unwashed barbarians squinting at the screens displaying the data he had provided, he reminded himself that while information can't kill you, there were still plenty of ways to die. By stench alone, in some cases.

He sniffed loudly to catch their attention, ignoring their annoyed reactions - come on, it wasn't as if half of you can even read - while he stroked the wrinkles of his shrivelled, elongated, hairless face. "Well? Does it satisfy you, My Lord?"

The leader of this pack of animals, a Klingon with a short beard peppered with grey, and sigils carved into the spaces between the cranial ridges on his head, growled at him. "It is incomplete, you petaQ rodent! Are you trying to cheat us?"

Yraltril breathed in patiently - how did your people manage to carve out an interstellar Empire? - before replying softly, "No, My Lord. What I have provided is but a taster, a demonstration that I have acquired what you seek. The complete information on her whereabouts will be given on receipt of the agreed-upon payment."

Before the older Klingon could respond, one of the younger Klingons bared jagged, yellowed teeth. "You think we would cheat you, cur? I should slice you open for your insults!"

The Yridian ignored him, and the noises of agreement from his comrades, and focused on the head of their House. "No insult is intended, My Lord. Please excuse the habits forged from a lifetime of dealing with races more likely to take what I have worked to provide, and pay me with a blade in the back or a disruptor blast to the skull. Clearly you would never even consider doing something so perfidious." He paused, clarifying, "That means 'treacherous'."

Lord Uklass, Head of the House of Uklass, growled again. "Take care, Broker, or your tongue will dig your grave." But then he reached inside the chest plating of his grey-black armour, withdrawing from it a thick brown leather drawstring pouch, tossing it towards the broker. "The rest of the intelligence, before I change my mind."

Yraltril caught it in one hand, noting the substantial weight and the sound of the gold-pressed latinum strips stuffed into it, and decided not to stop and count it in front of them, while he activated the data transfer unit in his other hand. As new data appeared on the surrounding screens, translated into Klingon script, Yraltril added, "Your daughter is contracted out as a civilian doctor on a Sabre-class Starfleet vessel, the USS Katana, in the Salem Sector, under an assumed name."

"And her lover and their... abomination..." His lips curled in a disgusted sneer. "Are they with her?"

"They are living on the colony world Krornot, under assumed names as well. This deliberate separation was strategically astute, making it much more difficult to track them both down... at least, for those without my estimable skills."

Uklass glared at the script on the screen, before looking up. "Narrom! Ready to take us to this Salem Sector! We will deal with Gisha first while she hides in shame among the petaQ Starfleet, and then we'll find her weakling HabwI' lover and their bastard offspring!"

The one called Narrom hesitated, as much as a Klingon could show hesitation without appearing weak. "Father, if Starfleet is involved-"

Uklass spat. "We can deal with one paltry ship of weakling cowards!"

"Ahem," Yraltril coughed.

As they turned to him, shooting proverbial daggers for the interruption, he pocketed his latinum and continued. "I offer this, free of charge: there's more than just one Sabre-class vessel in the Salem Sector. There's six, in fact, and a space station, Salem One, commanded by Commodore Esek Hrelle." At their reactions to the name, he added, "You have heard of him, I am certain."

"Hrelle?" Uklass echoed. "The Fat Cat? Him?"

"The same, My Lord."

Uklass scowled to himself in thought, before turning back to his son. "Joragh, contact Krurall, remind him... respectfully... of the debt his House owes ours for equipping his ships in time for the Battle of Ozat. And contact our own House, have our other ships catch up with us... but say nothing about what we're doing."

"What? Why not?"

"The walls have ears, and word of this will soon get back to my traitorous brother! Better that we strike now, before Kline hears and warns our quarries! tlhIngan, quv Salemthta!" He looked back at Yraltril. "You have been paid. Why are you still here?"

The Yridian regarded him, wondering why he was bothering to linger, recalling some Ferengi Rule of Acquisition about not overstaying your welcome once you have their money. "Oh, I was just curious: what this is all about?"

Uklass rose up, as did several of his relatives, as he declared haughtily, "It is about... Honour."

Yraltril nodded and turned to depart for the Transporter room.

Honour, huh? Well, there's a freaking surprise...

*

"USS Ulyanov Captain's Log, Stardate 54342.6, Captain Marvin Blum, Recording: we have completed our refit and maintenance of the navigation beacons surrounding the Deertail Cloud in the Salem Sector. All went without incident, and now we return to our base of operations."

"Really, Captain?"

Blum looked up from his logbook to his First Officer, sitting on his right in the centre of the Bridge. He frowned, his pepper-grey beard seemingly moving of its own accord. "Huh?"

Lt Cmdr Edama, in contrast to his stocky grizzled veteran features and demeanour, was a young, slim, clean, soft-looking Betazoid female, her sable hair pinned behind her, her uniform looking like it had been sculpted for her body. She offered a serene, knowing smile, as if she was breaking her oath to not use her telepathy. "You said 'without incident'."

He waited for more, and when it wasn't forthcoming, he shrugged. "And?"

She tilted her head, her grin widening on her dark lips. "That's not entirely true, is it, Captain? The incident with your exosuit-"

He felt himself flush, as the memory returned. "There was no incident."

Edama leaned in, her voice dropping, even as that mischievous gleam in her solid black irises heightened. "Have you forgotten so quickly, Sir? Mr Tabasi said it took almost twenty minutes to-"

"There was no incident," he repeated, looking around, as if checking to see if the rest of the Bridge crew were listening in on this; no one appeared to be, though he just put that down to their being too discreet or polite to join in on the teasing. Blum had joined the crew during one of the beacon refits, needing to fulfil some mandatory extravehicular activity for his certification... then having to spend an interminable amount of time having to be freed from his own exosuit on his return, like he was a Squab on his first spacewalk. "No incident. Is that understood, Lieutenant?"

"That's Lieutenant Commander, Sir," she corrected.

"Not if you keep busting my balls like this." He shot her a final smirk, just to show that he wasn't genuinely annoyed with her. He liked Edama. He liked his whole crew, and his ship, and his mission. It was a far cry from the role he held for so long, as Chief Engineer on the USS Tempest, a patrol vessel near the Cardassian Border.

He thought he had been content to remain a Gearhead for the rest of his career, keeping the warp core ticking over and managing a small crew, until an incident involving his Captain had forced him to take over temporarily. Ironically, the catalyst for that, the then-Captain Hrelle, was now his Commanding Officer. For which he was grateful; as rewarding as his increased responsibilities were, they remained heavy, and he was glad to have someone like Esek watching over them-

An alert from the Ops station behind him snapped him from his reverie, as his Second Officer reported, "Sir! We're getting a distress signal from a transport ship, the SS Aquitaine! They're half a light year away, under attack from a Klingon ship!"

Blum glanced at Edama, whose expression sobered as she ordered, "Red Alert!" As the apple-red alert lighting illuminated the ceiling strip and the klaxon filled the air, she added, "Mr Frederick, warn off that Klingon vessel, and alert Salem One of the situation!"

He allowed himself a second's indulgence of regretting taking this responsibility, before adding, "Lt Dajek, plot an intercept course, Maximum Warp, engage when ready! Lt Ashilehl, ready phasers and photon torpedoes! Lt Tabasi, I want all the power you can muster for shields!"

He tightened his hold on the arms of his chair as the Ulyanov banked sharply to port and jumped to warp speeds that seemed to whine with protest as space twisted and dilated around them, even as his mind shot ahead. The Klingons? They were allies with the Federation against the Dominion only weeks ago! Was this some sort of move against Starfleet, taking advantage of their depleted numbers following the War? There was nothing in any Starfleet Intelligence reports suggesting it.

"Renegades," Edama said, over the noise of Red Alert. When he glanced at her, she elaborated, "Klingon bandit activity is on the increase overall, with their own infrastructure weakened and stretched thin."

"Are you reading my mind?" he asked, half-seriously.

"Don't have to," she assured him. "You're an open book."

"Terrific," he muttered, staring ahead again.

"Don't take it as an insult, Captain," Edama assured him. "It's a strength. People know where they stand with you."

"Hmph."

"Just don't take up poker," she added, with a sly punctuation, before immediately calling up tactical data. "One Klingon vessel, a D-3 Blackwing Interceptor... pretty old to be flying around these days... but the power readings coming from it suggest major modifications, weapons and cloak upgrades, typical bandit activity-"

"Any response from the Klingons, Ash?" Blum asked.

There was a pause, before Ashilehl responded. "No response to our warning, but they are retreating and cloaking."

That's it? They're not putting up a fight, or not sticking around to get what they wanted from the ship? He made a sound. "That's enough response for me. I don't have to confirm that you managed to get those sensor algorithms upgraded in time to focus on detecting cloaks, do I?"

The young Andorian male ground his teeth in indignation. "No, Sir, you most certainly do not."

Despite the situation, Blum smirked. "Then I won't confirm... or order you to keep your antennae peeled in case the Klingons are still nearby. What about the Aquitaine?"

"They're reporting damage to their warp drive, port nacelle and life support," Frederick indicated. "Oberth class, 8 crew, 18 passengers. They were on their way to Salem One. Minor injuries reported, but they'll need to be evacuated."

Now he nodded, looking to Edama. "Alert Sickbay and Support Services, we'll transport the passengers and crew and take them the rest of the way as soon as possible."

"We're not sticking around to make repairs?"

Blum shook his head. "Not with the Klingons still potentially hanging around. And with our tractor emitter array still down, we'll have to come back."

"You think the Klingons might still be hanging around?"

He kept staring ahead, down the tunnel of dilated warp space on the viewscreen.

She leaned in and whispered. "A very pensive look, Sir. Thoughtful, reflective-"

"Are those Lieutenant Commander's pips getting heavy for your collar yet?"

*

Blum didn't relax until the transport was cleared and they were on their way back to Salem One. Then he made his way to Sickbay, currently crowded as the medical staff examined the new arrivals for injuries, his Chief Medical Officer Dr Robinson, a sturdy broad-shouldered woman with cherry-red hair ponytailed behind her, reported, "No serious injuries, Captain: broken bones, cuts, scrapes, shock. All fine, otherwise."

"Thanks, Luna. Where's Captain Huan?"

She introduced him to the man, an older Asian male in a plain blue Merchantfleet jumpsuit, to learn more about what the Klingons wanted, expecting it to be cargo.

It wasn't. "It was some of our passengers."

"Passengers?" He lowered his voice quickly, glancing past Huan to the others. "Are you sure? Which ones?"

The civilian Captain grunted. "The Klingons wouldn't go into detail, just kept demanding that we stop, lower our shields and let them 'take them'." He crossed his arms. "I've been in the Merchantfleet 47 years... I lost count of the number of bastards who tried to rob me of whatever I was shipping. None have succeeded, and they never will."

Blum nodded, appreciating the man's attitude; in another life, he could have been in the civilian service as well. He regarded the collection of civilians gathered around the various biobeds, drinking water or being treated. Men, women, children, all seemingly ordinary folk. "And you're sure it wasn't any of your cargo they were after? Or your crew?"

"What, the spare fusion reactor parts and non-replicated food? It cost more to attack us than what those would be worth. And I know my people, worked with them for years. Believe me, Captain."

"I do, Captain." Blum reached up and patted the man on the shoulder before walking around him, looking at the group, none of whom seemed to notice him.

Until he asked loudly, "WHO WERE THE KLINGONS AFTER?"

Passengers, transport crew and Ulyanov medical staff all looked in his direction.

Almost all.

Towards the rear of the Sickbay, a young, swarthy, goateed human male stood with a swaddled bundle in his arms.

Blum made his way around, not sure until now if that old trick, used more than once back in the day to weed out who among his young (they all seemed impossibly young, even when he was their age) Engineering crew cut corners in their duties, would still work. "Excuse me, Sir. What's your name?"

He turned, looking furtive, fearful, clutching the infant more securely. "Talbot. Lawrence Talbot. I'm a teacher, I live on Triacus. And I don't know anything about Klingons."

Blum heard the child mewl slightly, as if reacting to the obvious tension, and relaxed his posture and voice. "And who's this?"

Talbot drew the infant closer to him. "My son, Kurt."

Blum nodded, noting how he could barely see the child, it was so thoroughly wrapped up. "And what's your business at Salem One, Mr Talbot?"

"We're meeting up with my wife, Kurt's mother. Look, just get us to the station, she'll be worried sick about us."

"We're going there, Mr Talbot, but I need to know why the Klingons might be after you."

Anger flared in his chestnut eyes. "I told you, I don't know any Klingons and I don't have anything to do with them!"

Blum stared at him, but asked over his shoulder, "Anything unusual in their readings, Luna?"

Robinson was still behind him. "They didn't consent to an examination, Captain."

"And I still don't!" Talbot snapped. "We have an ethical right under Federation law not to be scanned or probed or treated like criminals!" He stopped himself as his baby began crying, and he brought him to his shoulder to shush and coo.

"You do have that right, Mr Talbot," Blum conceded. "But there are security concerns which can override such rights."

Now he was baring gleaming white teeth. "Any of you try scanning or coming near my son and me, and I swear you'll all regret it!" He turned away.

Inadvertently allowing Blum and the others to see his son's face over his father's shoulder... and the ridged Klingon forehead on the olive-skinned face.

"Mr Talbot," Blum prompted gently. "You have a handsome Klingon son there. Who's his mother?"

Talbot turned back in confusion, before realising how Blum had known, and repositioned the infant, despite it being too late to cover up and deny any further. Now he seemed to finally relent. "Dr Gisha Jiyajh, currently assigned to the USS Katana. Please... get us to her before it's too late."

*

Station Salem One - Deck 1, Commodore's Family Suite:

"Srithik! Come on, Sweetie, you're going to be late!"

The young Vulcan boy emerged from his bedroom wearing the plain black student robes he brought with him from his homeworld, standing formally. "Please forgive me, Mrs Hrelle. I was unaware of the time factor. It will not happen again."

Kami was near the family, trying to coax Sreen to pick up her spoon and feed herself, an encouragement her older son Misha did not require. She smiled at the newest addition to the household. "No need to apologise, Hon. Sit down and get eating."

He paused and frowned. "You will permit me to eat now despite my tardiness?"

Now she frowned back. "Of course. Who would keep you from eating?"

"Mother. If I was ever late to attend a function with her, she would deny me the privilege of eating the subsequent two meals."

Kami stared at him, her expression sobering and her tail snapping behind her. "Remind me never to meet your mother face to face, it won't end up well for one of us. Eating is not a 'privilege', and the days of that sort of cruelty are over as far as you're concerned. Now, sit down, and when you're done, Misha can escort you to the Classroom."

The eight-year-old Caitian male, dressed in a miniature Starfleet uniform, put down his knife and fork and nodded. "Yep! I'm in charge!" Then he belched deeply.

Beside him, his baby sister Sreen looked up, threw away her spoon, laughed and clapped her stubby paws together. "Moah! Moah, Meesh!"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Okay, Baby Sreen, just you wait! I can fart at the same time, too!" He wriggled in place, working up some impressive eructation.

Until Kami rested a paw on his shoulder. "Just save some of that energy for your studies, Cub of Mine. And I don't expect to hear any bad reports from Ms Donovan, is that understood?"

He looked up, eyes wide with opportunity. "Ms Donovan's on today? Not Mr Timbrel?"

"Mr Timbrel is on this afternoon, I believe."

He grinned enthusiastically, then looked at Srithik, sitting opposite him consuming gespar slices, and whispered, "I help you with that, so we don't be late."

The twelve-year-old Vulcan nodded. "Of course." He began to set down his bowl and slide it over.

Until Kami stopped him. "My son has a black hole where most other people keep their stomachs. Don't listen to him if it involves giving over food. You finish your breakfast, Sweetie."

Just then the main bedroom door slid open, and Commodore Hrelle stumbled out, still dressing along the way as he grumbled, "Thanks for reminding me of the time!"

"I did," she reminded him, retrieving Sreen's spoon and cleaning it before returning it to the infant's high chair. "Twice."

"Hmph." He started towards the door, but not before returning to the table, rubbing the side of his muzzle against Kami's, repeating it with Sreen and Misha, but stopping at Srithik. "I'll forgo giving you a hug, Kiddo, and instead offer you 'Lau du oren-tor mau'."