* * *
“What the hell were you thinking?” Trujillo snapped, her expression tight with anger.
Glal sat heavily onto the ready room couch, his head drooping. “I wasn’t, sir.”
“You’re goddamn right about that!” she shot back before working to rein in her outrage. She took a moment to collect herself and then began again more calmly. “You’re my right hand, the person who keeps me in line when I start to stray off course. I have to be able to depend on you to do the right thing, especially in a situation as combustible as this.”
Glal looked up to meet her eyes, his expression shifting from crestfallen to resolute. He opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it.
“It’s only the dumbest blind luck that K’daal’s men appear to loath him as much as you.” She gestured to the forward bulkhead, in the direction of the Klingon destroyer shepherding their task force through Klingon space. “That could—that should have turned into an all-out brawl that would have resulted in us and the H'behln out there trading shots. How long do you think our civilian specialists at Qo’noS would have lived if you’d started a shooting war with the empire?”
“Not long at all, sir,” Glal answered weakly.
“Weren’t you the one in here just two days ago telling me you’d had to bring Dr. Bennett to task for his feelings about the Klingons? You go and snap him back into line and then turn right around and provoke a Klingon officer to violence by insults? How does that look to the crew?”
“Bad,” Glal croaked, “inconsistent, hypocritical and… bad.”
“We agree on that, at least,” Trujillo offered. “I’m disappointed in you and your performance today, Commander. A formal reprimand will appear on your service jacket.”
Trujillo knew a black mark on his record was a toothless gesture, given that Glal was on the cusp of retirement and had no ambitions to promote or transfer to another post. However, it was precisely what she would do if any other crewmember had acted similarly. She was not one to allow her first officer of all people to slide.
“Yes, sir. Commodore, I just want to say how—”
“You are dismissed, Commander Glal,“ she said brusquely, cutting him off. She then turned her attention to her computer terminal as her XO gathered what little dignity he could and departed.
Trujillo had been tempted to dress him down even more forcefully, but she realized that nothing she could do or say would surpass Glal’s own overwhelming feelings of guilt and shame. She also knew that her desire for such was born of hurt and disappointment in the closest thing aboard that she had to a friend, aside from Jarrod.
It seemed that this mission would continue to exact a heavy toll, on both lives and relationships.
Trujillo toggled off the do-not-disturb icon on her display and immediately received a call from the bridge. “Ops to Commodore, secured transmission from Menelaus holding for you, sir. Captain T’Aroo commanding.”
She had to suppress a sigh and bury her frustration with Glal for the moment, replying, “Thank you, Mister Shukla. Put him through.”
The screen flickered as the comm-link connected and various subroutines decrypted the scrambled transmission. The image of a male Caitian coalesced, his fur a greyish-tan, stripped pattern that would have fit the description of ‘tabby’ in Terran domesticated felines.
“Captain T’Aroo, I apologize for having kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”
“Just updating you on the position of Task Force Archer, sir. We’re currently holding at the border along Sector 01337, and I’ve embedded precise coordinates in this transmission’s substrate. We’re standing by for orders from you or Admiral Markopoulos. If either of you give us the ‘go’ order, we can be to Qo’noS in thirty-one hours, barring any interference from the imperial navy.”
“Good to hear, Captain. I sincerely hope we won’t need you, no offense. We passed our impromptu ‘commercial inspection’ and are presently on course for the Klingon homeworld at warp six, ETA twenty-three hours.”
T’Aroo’s ears rotated sixty degrees, the Caitain variant of a nod. “Our latest information indicated that we’re looking at nearly sixteen-hundred personnel in orbit of the planet. I wanted to confirm those numbers are accurate.”
“That’s correct, Captain. The Klingons won’t allow any Federation personnel on the surface, so our people are stationed on eleven orbital facilities in and around the Praxis Ring. The ship they have can carry around a thousand people, so we’ll divide those remaining among my task force’s ships.”
“Understood. And what if the Klingons were to destroy the transport ship prior to your arrival. Do you have sufficient capacity in your force for all of them?”
“We’d have been hard-pressed before, but with Exeter joining us we’ll be able to accommodate all the personnel, even without their transport ship.”
T’Aroo growled approvingly and then inquired, “I was informed there is a covert Special Missions presence among the personnel.”
“Correct,” Trujillo confirmed. “There is a multi-team detachment of some sixty SMT operators that may be able to supplement our security staff, if needed. However, given the vulnerability of our people’s position at Qo’noS, I really can’t imagine even a battalion of SMT would make much of a difference should the Klingon navy decided to attack the orbital facilities with standoff weapons.”
“Whose idea was that, sir?”
Trujillo chuckled with dark humor, “Good question. Some genius at Starfleet Tactical would be my guess. They love throwing special operations at things, regardless of whether it’s a good fit for the situation.”
“Anything else you need from me on this end, Commodore?” T’Aroo asked.
“Not at this time, Captain. I appreciate your calling to check in and coordinate.”
“Of course, sir. Menelaus, out.”
Trujillo sat back in her chair and considered the precariousness of their position. Task Force Scythe moved deeper into Klingon space with every passing moment, while harboring a fugitive that various Klingon sects were eager to kill, regardless of the collateral damage. She wondered again at the wisdom of carrying this K’mpec to Qo’noS, when his very presence threatened the vital rescue mission they were ostensibly undertaking.
* * *
USS Reykjavík
Shuttlebay
“Arwen DeSilva’s life was exemplified in how she died. Her last conscious act was in defense of a fellow officer, giving the last full measure of herself in one final selfless gesture.”
Trujillo’s voice carried throughout the shuttlebay, the assembled crew standing at attention as others still on duty listened over the intraship.
A torpedo casing draped in the blue flag of the Federation stood at the front of the gathering, flanked by crew members holding aloft one standard bearing the seal of Starfleet Command and another emblazoned with Reykjavík’s sigil.
“Arwen was intelligent, resourceful, stalwart and compassionate. She represented the best of humanity and embodied everything Starfleet stands for. She has left our lives and our universe too soon, but we may take some comfort in the fact that we are better people for having known her.
"Arwen’s legacy should be… must be… that we who go on do so taking a part of her with us along the way. Let her courage fortify our own, allow her drive to inspire us in moments of doubt, and permit her compassion to remind us of our duty to one another.”
Trujillo recited her speech from memory, eyes fixed on the foremost bulkhead in order to keep her emotions carefully in check. The remainder of the memorial ceremony proceeded as planned, with a well-drilled color-guard hoisting flags and Chief Petty Officer Fraser playing the funerary dirge Going Home on the bagpipes. As the commodore concluded the ceremony, Glal dismissed the crew to allow them to pay final respects to their comrade individually.
Trujillo stepped down from the dais, where Glal moved forward to meet her. “Nicely done, sir.”
She gave him a curt nod and thanked him before moving away into the crowd to mingle with her crew.
He watched her depart, still smarting from her aloof demeanor over the past day. Trujillo being angry with Glal was problematic enough, but her disappointment in him was nearly more than he could bear. Since she had recruited him aboard as her XO upon taking command, they had always enjoyed a close working relationship. Now he feared he may have irreparably damaged that rapport.
Glal spotted young Rachel Garrett standing next to DeSilva’s casket, her hand resting on its cool surface. She murmured something softly and turned to depart. He stepped forward to intercept her, and she looked to him, eyes glassy with tears. “Sir?”
He pulled her gently aside toward a quiet maintenance alcove. “Are you alright, Ensign?”
“No,” she murmured. “No, sir. I’m not. I… should have done more. If I’d been faster, somehow, maybe got my phaser out…”
“You called for an immediate emergency transport. You got DeSilva and Jarrod to Sickbay as quickly as you could, saving Jarrod’s life,” Glal said in a calm but authoritative tone. He glanced back to the casket, where other crew were saying their goodbyes. He turned back to Garrett, “DeSilva was dead when she hit the floor. That pulser destroyed her cardiopulmonary system instantly. There’s nothing anyone could have done, even if we’d been on a starbase.”
Garrett nodded numbly in response, hearing his words but not yet ready to accept them.
Glal reached out a thick hand to grasp her shoulder lightly. “We live such soft, comfortable lives nowadays. Even with all the training Starfleet gives us, we’re still unprepared for how quickly death can come for us out here. This career is many things, but safe is not one of them.”
Garrett wiped her eyes on her uniform sleeve before bringing herself to a semblance of attention. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me about it.”
“The privilege is mine, Ensign.”
She stood unmoving, prompting him to add, “Dismissed.”
Garrett hurried out of the compartment, leaving a melancholy Glal in her wake.
* * *
“Doctor, he’s awake,” Nurse Batbayar advised, drawing Dr. Bennett away from his data terminal and his ongoing primer on Klingon physiology.
Bennett approached the biobed, where the young Klingon man was sitting up in bed with the assistance of another nurse. “Hello, I’m Dr. Bennett. You’re aboard the Federation starship Reykjavík on route to your people’s homeworld.”
K’mpec reached for a bulb of water offered by the nurse, gulping greedily before responding. “Where…” he croaked, “…is Physician Kardec?”
“You want me to summon Kardec?” Bennett asked, reaching up to tap his combadge.
The Klingon’s hand intercepted his own, grasping him with surprising gentleness by the wrist. “No… keep that incompetent fool away… from me,” K’mpec said.
“Alright,” Bennett demurred, lowering his hand as K’mpec’s own retreated. “Are you saying he’s attempted to harm you?”
“Not intentionally. The man is… simply inept. I barely survived his ministrations the first time.” He took a long look around the compartment, sensing the different Federation ethos, the dedication to healing the sick and injured, so unlike Klingon custom. “What is my condition?”
“Improving, The physical damage from your injuries is healing faster now that I’ve stabilized your cellular chemistry.”
K’mpec scrutinized Bennett carefully. “What was wrong with my cells?”
“Klingon physiology is far less forgiving of cryogenic suspension than many other humanoid species. The stasis that saved your life very nearly killed you by altering your cellular functions. I corrected that problem, allowing my team and I to heal your physical injuries.”
“Then you have my thanks, Doctor.”
“I would point out,” Bennett added, “that Physician Kardec proved invaluable in assisting me. Without his insights, you may well have died. He lacks some of our skills, yes, but his purpose, his drive, is… honorable.” Bennett surprised himself with this admission.
K’mpec held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “I will take that into consideration, Doctor. Now, do Federation starships contain any food?”
“The general brought a supply of Klingon foodstuffs aboard,” Bennett advised. “I can have any number of dishes prepared for you.”
“I would like to sample Human cuisine. I have heard stories about the food from a region called… Thai?”
“Thailand,” Bennett corrected with a smile. “I believe we can accommodate that.”
“And a fermented Earth drink… Tah-Ki’laH. Many warriors have boasted it is stronger than bloodwine.”
Bennett frowned, drawing a blank. He was about to reveal his ignorance when the nurse assisting him snorted with laughter.
“Tequila, Doctor. He’s talking about tequila.”
“Well,” Bennett said reluctantly, “that’s something that the commodore is going to have to help you with. Though, I’m relatively certain she has a bottle or six.”
* * *
The first sign of Klingon factional duplicity killed the starship Feynman.
The navigational deflectors on the Akula-class vessel were nowhere near powerful enough to brush aside the cloaked gravitic mine which intercepted the ship at hyper-relativistic speeds.
One moment Feynman was in formation with the other ships of Task Force Scythe, and the next instant she was a smear of light and expanding gases falling behind the formation.
A red alert sounded, rousing Trujillo from the daybed in her ready room. She donned her uniform jacket and emerged onto the bridge, still belting it around her.
“Commodore on the bridge,” Ensign Naifeh announced as he stood to relinquish the command chair to its rightful owner.
“Situation?” Trujillo asked as she affixed her belt buckle and assumed her seat, moving to fasten her uniform shoulder clasp.
“A twenty-isoton explosion has just destroyed Feynman, sir. No sensor contacts with threat vessels, no sign of weapons fire,” he answered crisply, moving to relieve a warrant officer at the Helm station. “Captain Sheinbaum of Hathaway ordered the task force to spread out, raise shields and slow to one-quarter impulse.”
“Acknowledged,” Trujillo replied. “Signal Hathaway that Scythe-Actual has resumed command.” She brought her swing-arm console interface up and across her lap. “Status of our Klingon escort?”
The petty officer at Operations replied, “H'behln is dropping to impulse and swinging back around to rejoin the task force, sir.”
As Reykjavík and her remaining escorts sought to orient themselves, the turbolift doors parted to admit Glal, Jarrod, Shukla, and Garrett onto the bridge. The late arrivals fanned out to relieve the personnel staffing their posts, and a litany of hushed conversations passed on the events of the last few minutes.
“Any sign of escape pods from Feynman?” Trujillo asked.
“Negative, sir,” Garrett replied from where she stood, reading sensor telemetry from over the duty science officer’s shoulder. “Given the power of the detonation, the involved warp velocities and spatial geometry, the gravimetric shearing stresses would far exceed the design tolerances of any escape craft.”
Shukla’s Ops board began to trill at him even as he assumed his seat. “Reading two Birds-of-Prey decloaking near H'behln’s position, Commodore. They’ve opened fire on the cruiser.”
“Tactical overlay on the viewer,” Trujillo commanded.
The tactical display showed the two smaller ships strafing the larger warship, then vanishing under cloak before the cruiser could bring its superior weapons to bear.
“It appears someone is sending a message. Shall we assist H'behln, sir?” Glal asked.
After a brief moment’s consideration, Trujillo said, “This is an internal Klingon matter. If we intervene without being fired upon, we’ll have openly picked sides in what may well devolve into a Klingon civil war.”
“But sir,” Shukla protested, “the Feynman.”
“Struck by what appears to have been a mine. She may or may not have been the intended target, Lieutenant. Feynman was the ship closest to the Klingon cruiser and may have been…” she grimaced at the bitter cynicism of the words, “…collateral damage.”
Numerous officers and enlisted ratings on the bridge exchanged glances, their expressions caught somewhere between disbelief and horror. Nandi Trujillo was not known for walking away from a fight, most especially against a foe who had just killed nearly two-hundred Starfleet personnel.
“There are sixteen-hundred people on Qo’noS awaiting rescue. They are our priority.” Trujillo referenced her console. “Have all ships route auxiliary power to forward navigational deflectors and short-range sensors. We’ll maintain a separation of five-million kilometers between ships as we proceed." She eased back into her seat, bracing her arms atop the rests and setting her shoulders. "We’re pushing through.”
* * *