Star Trek #97: In the Name of Honor

by Dayton Ward

  The smile disappeared from the Klingon’s face. “By the right granted to those with the power to conquer the weak, Andorian. You would be wise to hold your tongue and restrict your responses to simple acknowledgment of my orders. Stand down what remains of your pathetic defenses and prepare to receive my crew. If you do not comply, I will destroy you.”

  Chapter Two

  GRALEV COULD BARELY keep her anger in check as she watched K’lavut casually stroll about the upper level of the Gagarin ’s bridge. He walked slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he had all the time in the world. Light from the overhead illumination reflected off the gold sash draped over the Klingon’s shoulder as well as the knife attached to his belt. Gralev’s eyes followed the weapon while her mind gave her suggestions on what she might do with it. Other Klingons guarded the remainder of the bridge personnel, and Gralev knew that all over the ship the rest of the crew was being similarly rounded up. How many of them had been injured or killed during the initial attack? If what she’d heard about Klingon treatment of prisoners was true, she suspected those members of her crew who were already dead might end up being the lucky ones.

  K’lavut was moving counterclockwise around the bridge, his eyes taking in the vast array of polished consoles, padded chairs, even the soft, unobtrusive lighting that illuminated the various bridge stations. Gralev watched him shake his head in apparent disgust.

  “It is no wonder your vessels are crewed by weaklings,” he said. “You rely too much on technology to fight your battles for you. That is why you will ultimately fall before the Klingon Empire.”

  “I imagine you’d get more than a bit of debate on that subject,” Gralev countered. She knew the risk she was taking on, goading the K’lavut like that. There were few races that the Klingons did not detest, and the Andorians were most definitely not in that select group.

  K’lavut laughed softly. “If the decision were mine, this ship and your crew would already be destroyed. I have no use for prisoners, but my superiors are concerned that the Federation might be making a push into this region of space. If that ball of dirt you were studying is any indication, there are rich resources to be exploited in this area. The Federation cannot be allowed to hoard them for themselves.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gralev said. It was a lie, of course. Federation survey teams had come to the same conclusion about this sector that the Empire obviously had.

  K’lavut gave no indication that he believed Gralev, didn’t believe her, or cared either way. He continued his inspection of the bridge, passing the main viewer and coming to a stop at the tactical station where Dorthan stood under guard. He appraised the Bolian as if measuring the worth of a possession and deciding whether to keep or discard it.

  “You are the tactical officer,” he said.

  Dorthan nodded. “That’s right.”

  “You are the one who fired the torpedoes so expertly at my ship. Quite an impressive display for someone relegated to a science vessel.” The Klingon’s face broke into a wide smile. “You have obviously seen combat before. Tell me.”

  The Bolian cast a quick glance in Gralev’s direction, who nodded for him to continue. “I served on a border patrol ship before being assigned here. We had a few runins with Klingons and pirates from time to time.”

  “Ah, yes,” K’lavut said. “Border ships. I’ve heard about such skirmishes. Well fought, for the most part. The fact that you stand here today is a testament to your abilities.”

  The Klingon’s hand was a blur as it curled into a fist and shot forward, striking Dorthan across the jaw. The attack was so powerful that the weapons officer was slammed into an unyielding wall panel. He fell to one knee before he caught himself, one hand reaching up to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth.

  “You pathetic worm,” K’lavut hissed. “Giving up a position on a ship of battle for this.” He waved his hand to indicate the bridge. “Was your stomach too weak for the challenge? Was it necessary to seek shelter from the hard realities of war?”

  Gralev, ignoring a Klingon guard and the disruptor he was pointing at her, stepped forward. “That’s enough.”

  K’lavut turned to face the Gagarin ’s captain, still smiling. “And now the woman comes to the rescue.” He threw another look at Dorthan. “Tell me, Bolian. Do you enjoy taking orders from an Andorian, and a female one at that? There are Klingons who would rather choose Hegh’bat rather than a life of such loathsome servitude. Then again, making such a choice would require courage, something you obviously do not possess.”

  “I said that’s enough,” Gralev repeated, a hard edge to her voice now. “I’ve surrendered to you out of regard for the safety of my crew. What more do you want?”

  K’lavut stepped down into the command area, walking with the confidence of one who knows he’s in control of the situation until he was less than a pace from Gralev. He leaned closer still, so close that Gralev could smell the pungent odor of his breath, mute testimony to the vile meal he had recently consumed.

  “You will transfer command of this ship to me, Andorian, so that I may present it to the Empire as a trophy. If you refuse, I will present them your head instead, as well as the heads of every member of your crew.”

  “And if I comply?” she asked. “What about my people?”

  K’lavut shrugged. “They will not be harmed.”

  Gralev knew better than to look for any hint of a bluff in the Klingon’s eyes. She held no illusions that anything other than a slow, painful death awaited her. Klingons loathed Andorians even more than they hated most of the species that composed the Federation.

  Satisfied with that knowledge, all she had to worry about now was looking out for her crew.

  Exhaling in defeat, Gralev nodded. Turning back to her command chair she indicated the control pad set into the chair’s arm.

  “What are you doing?” K’lavut asked, a hint of warning in his voice.

  “Accessing the ship’s computer,” Gralev replied. “My chair provides a direct link for the captain and the first officer.”

  K’lavut nodded in approval. “Excellent. I trust the procedure to revoke your codes is a simple one?”

  Nodding, Gralev pointed to the control keypad on the chair’s right arm. “Once I give the order to the computer, it will prompt me for a command sequence that I enter here.”

  Suspicion clouded the Klingon’s expression. As much as he hated Andorians, he knew they never willingly ended a fight while there was still a chance that they could either win or at least deliver a last-ditch sneak attack. “You would surrender so easily?”

  “We’re talking about my crew, K’lavut,” she countered. “I don’t take chances when it comes to them.”

  The Klingon seemed to accept that. “Very well, Andorian. You have purchased their lives, at least for the time being. However, they will pay dearly for your actions if you attempt to deceive me.” He indicated the chair with a nod of his head. “Enter the code.”

  Drawing a calming breath, Gralev tapped a control on the chair arm. “Computer, this is Captain Gralev requesting security access. Enable command protocol Alpha Omega Three Nine Five Five.”

  Dutifully, the computer responded. “Request acknowledged. Self-destruct sequence has been activated. Detonation in sixty seconds.”

  “Oh,” Gralev offered casually as K’lavut’s expression turned to one of shock, “the computer is also programmed to destroy the ship to keep it from falling into enemy hands. I seem to have given it that code by mistake.”

  She smiled in satisfaction. Commander Garrovick had at first been hesitant to her idea of scuttling the ship, but understood her reasoning and supported her as he always had. The plan, hastily put into action in the minutes before the Klingons had boarded, would save the Gagarin crew from years of torture and abuse at the hands of their enemy.

  As she listened to the computer counting down the seconds until detonation while ignoring K’lavut and the scrambling Kling
ons around her, her thoughts turned to her mates. Would they ever learn the truth about what happened here? Probably not, she realized, just as the families of her crew would in all likelihood never know how bravely their loved ones had performed today. Though she’d never get the chance to tell her own clan, she knew that the sacrifice she and her crew were about to make was worth the larger cause that they served. She had only to see the dismayed expression on K’lavut’s face to know that. If she could take that to her grave, she could indeed die happy.

  Stardate 8461.7, Earth Year 2287

  Chapter Three

  ONLY THE FADING strength in the tips of his fingers separated James Kirk from a nasty fall. Thankfully, he’d found purchase with his feet and was able to take some of the strain from his protesting arms and shoulders. Sweat stung his eyes, but his tenuous position didn’t afford him the luxury of wiping the perspiration from his face. Looking up, he spied his next handhold, just above and to the right of his head, and another just above that. To reach the closer of the two he would have to stretch his arm almost to the limit, with the movement leaving him momentarily off balance. Kirk looked to his right side and saw another promising perch for his foot. If he was careful, the combined actions of reaching for the first opening, moving his leg over, and then climbing to the second crevice would pull him almost a meter closer to his goal. He might just make it.

  He removed his right hand from the small crevice he’d been gripping and slid it up the side of the wall, searching for the new handhold he’d spotted. As he moved, his left arm protested the extra exertion demanded of it to support the remainder of his weight. He felt his left shoulder starting to tremble, a clear sign of muscle fatigue.

  His right hand found the tiny opening and he pressed his fingers into it, securing his hold long enough to push his right foot over to the next crevice and pull his body up those precious centimeters. His left foot hung free and his left hand pressed into the face of the wall, his balance now truly unstable. Kirk looked for the second handhold, just above his right hand.

  Time was running out. He couldn’t afford niceties. With the muscles of his right arm screaming for relief, Kirk lunged upward, pushing his left hand along the wall until his fingers felt the opening. He grabbed the handhold and with his body secured, at least temporarily, allowed himself a sigh of relief.

  “Exercise complete,” the feminine voice of the Enterprise ’s computer said. “Time remaining: 4.07 seconds. Congratulations on a successful ascent. For your next exercise, you may wish to attempt a higher difficulty level.”

  “Fat chance,” Kirk breathed.

  Below and behind him, he heard applause. Cautiously he turned his body in order to look in the direction of his heretofore-unknown audience and saw the lanky frame of the ship’s chief medical officer, Leonard McCoy, clapping his hands appreciatively. Looking down on his friend from three stories above the Enterprise gymnasium’s main floor made Kirk realize that to truly complete the exercise with a passing grade, he would of course have to climb back down the wall.

  As he began his descent, Kirk called out toward McCoy, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  Strolling toward the wall, the doctor replied, “The fitness of the ship’s commanding officer is always a high priority with me, Captain sir. I’m glad to see you finally taking my advice, and I’ve asked Uhura to enter this momentous occasion in the ship’s log. However, your choice of exercise leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “How so?” Kirk asked, now almost halfway down the wall and continuing to descend.

  “Climbing the walls of the ship is normally something I’d relate to a mental disorder. Although after El Capitan, I suppose I should be thankful.” McCoy made a show of looking about the room before adding, “Don’t lose your grip, Captain. I don’t see any flying Vulcans around here to save you this time.”

  Kirk sighed in resignation, knowing full well it would be a long time indeed before McCoy let him forget the nearly fatal incident at Yosemite National Park during their shore leave the previous month. While attempting to free-climb El Capitan, Kirk had slipped and fallen from the face of the mighty granite mountain. Had it not been for the fortunate presence of Spock and the pair of antigravity boots he’d been wearing, Kirk would have died that day. McCoy had chewed him out over the mishap that night over dinner, and had found every opportunity to remind Kirk of the foolhardiness of his actions since then.

  Kirk’s left foot touched the mat and he stepped away from the wall to a new round of applause from McCoy, which he ignored as he reached for a towel. Aside from the aches in his muscles that he knew would assert themselves with greater authority in the morning, he felt the sense of elation he always experienced at a task successfully completed. Maybe he wasn’t in his thirties any longer, but he was still in decent physical condition for a man . . .

  . . . older than thirty.

  “So what really brings you down here, Doctor?” Kirk asked as he wiped his face. “Coming to see how the captain is fairing with a shipload of politicians? Worried that I might be thinking of throwing one or two of them out an airlock?”

  McCoy shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’d considered it.”

  The captain grinned in agreement. He’d lost count of the times he’d been tasked to ferry an ambassador or some other such Federation representative during his career, just as he’d forgotten how many of those same passengers had caused him some form of headache or misery along the way. Truth be told, however, Kirk considered the Enterprise ’s current mission to transport a Federation diplomatic team to Starbase 49 as one of the more quiet and uneventful assignments he’d undertaken.

  With the doctor at his side, Kirk began a leisurely stroll across the gymnasium floor, occasionally speaking to a member of the crew as he passed them or acknowledging an offered greeting.

  “I don’t think this round of peace talks is going to be like others we’ve had in the past, Bones,” Kirk said as they walked. “For one thing, this was the Klingons’ idea, not ours.”

  “Got to hand it to that General Korrd,” McCoy replied. “Even though he’s not exactly high on the Klingons’ list of favorites, he still managed to convince their High Council that new peace talks were in order.”

  Kirk nodded. General Korrd had been the Klingon diplomatic representative to Nimbus III, the site of the Enterprise ’s most recently completed mission. The planet, a failed experiment in diplomacy sponsored by the Federation, the Klingons, and the Romulan Empire, had been dubiously labeled “the Planet of Galactic Peace.” The name had proven to be a misnomer within a few short years after the founding of the planet’s shared colony. Each of the three governments eventually withdrew their support of the project once it became clear that achieving peace would be more difficult than simply having colonists share the meager resources Nimbus III provided. Representatives of each government remained and made several feeble attempts to keep order, but these individuals, more often than not, were usually politicians who had lost some measure of favor with their respective governments. An assignment as diplomatic attaché to Nimbus III was almost always a sign that one’s political career was over.

  Nearly two decades after the colony’s inception, a fanatical Vulcan, Sybok, seized the colony’s main settlement, Paradise City, taking Korrd and the other governmental representatives hostage. Demands were made for their safe release, and Starfleet sent the Enterprise to investigate and attempt a rescue operation. Once there, it became apparent that the hostage situation was a ruse initiated by Sybok so that he could hijack a starship to take him to Sha Ka Ree, a planet located at the center of the Milky Way galaxy and believed by many to be a myth.

  And if things were not complicated enough, Sybok had turned out to be Spock’s half brother.

  Additionally, Kirk had also been forced to deal with a rogue Klingon bird-of-prey, whose young and eager commander, Klaa, had seen an opportunity to gain glory from a battle against the Enterprise and Kirk himself. The inter
vention of General Korrd had prevented Kirk’s death at the hands of Klaa.

  “Hopefully Korrd has gained back some favor with the Council after all of this,” Kirk said. “He’s right when he says our two governments need to sit down and talk. There are a lot more young excitable ship commanders out there, on both sides. Sooner or later, there’ll be another incident and it might not end as peacefully as ours did.”

  McCoy replied, “Do you really think that one day, all this aggression with the Klingons might be behind us?”

  Kirk shrugged. “It’s a strange galaxy out there, Bones. I suppose anything’s possible, even peace with the Klingons.” He doubted the words as soon as they were spoken, and could tell by the look on McCoy’s face that the doctor wasn’t convinced, either.

  The men slowed as they reached the entrance to the locker room. McCoy asked, “So, now that you’re finished with your impression of a Degebian mountain goat in heat, what say we rustle up some supper? I think I may still have some of that secret ingredient for my famous beans lying around somewhere.”

  Wiping his face with the towel once more, Kirk shook his head. “I promised Spock a game of chess tonight. I think he’s spent the last couple of weeks developing a defense to the moves I pulled on him last time.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the Enterprise ’s intraship communications system blaring to life. The familiar whistle was followed by the voice of Commander Uhura, who Kirk knew was still on bridge duty for the next hour or so.

  “Bridge to Captain Kirk.”

  Kirk strolled over to a nearby comm panel set into the wall near the entrance to the locker room and opened the channel with his thumb. “Kirk here. What is it, Uhura?”

  The tiny display next to the comm panel activated, displaying an image of Uhura sitting at her bridge station.