Maelstrom

USS Surefoot-A, Deck 2 Fore, Captain’s Ready Room, Stardate 49684.35:

Hrelle caught the intriguing scent as his temporary First Officer brought him his morning cup. He closed his eyes, leaned forward and breathed in deeply, his snout twitching. “Spice… pumpkin, Vulcan or possibly Andorian… and a Betazoid syrup topping, I think; it has that heavy, fragrant tang you only get from their sap-producing trees...”

Olivia Zawati offered a slight smile as she sat down opposite him at his desk, cradling her own cup. “Someday, I’m going to bring you a coffee whose ingredients you won’t identify.”

He smiled, taking the cup and leaning back. “It had better be soon; we’ve almost caught up with the Thirteenth Fleet, and then you’ll finally be on your way to the Pierce at the Antares Maelstrom. And I’ll soon have my old Vulcan XO… who will not consider it logical to bring me exotic coffees while we discuss the Changeover.”

The Wakandan woman shrugged. “I’ll leave it in my recommendations to her.” She lifted up her PADD. “So, onto these fleet reports...”

Hrelle sipped at his beverage – not bad – as he picked up his own PADD. Since her arrival on the Surefoot, Lt Cmdr Zawati had preferred to take command of the Night Shift, while he preferred the Morning, and they would get together at this time to discuss the news, Starfleet orders and directives, various ship reports and other sundry items that Hrelle might need to be made aware of when she retired and he took over. It was a similar ritual that he performed with T’Varik… but without the Coffee Challenge that Zawati had formulated. “I see you got the retrofits to the shuttles completed ahead of schedule- is this right? Did you work on them yourself?”

She nodded. “One of the advantages of having a First Officer with an Engineering background. Nice to know I still know my way around the Shuttlebay.”

He smiled, moving onto the tactical reports for the neighbouring sectors. “The Klingons have taken Archanis IV? They’ve wanted that back in their hands for generations.”

“No doubt,” Zawati agreed, looking troubled.

“You don’t know anyone stationed near there, do you?” he prompted.

Her face sobered. “Philip, my little brother; he’s a Lieutenant at the Starfleet base there. He had been injured in the evacuation, and was taken to Starbase 244. I haven’t heard anything since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want me to pull some strings, make some calls-”

“No thank you, Sir, I’ll hear from him soon, I’m sure. Captain? May I ask you a personal question?”

He looked up from reading his PADD. In the weeks since her arrival, he had tried to ensure that they got to know each other, not wanting to have a repeat of what happened with her predecessor, Commander Emil Bellamy, who had been killed by Klingons who had boarded the Surefoot, and Hrelle had lost the opportunity to overcome the initial bad impression that Bellamy had fostered in his time here. “Of course, Olivia. What is it?”

She met his gaze. “I’ve been looking up your record. It’s most impressive. You rose through Security, earned commendations on the Argonaut, the Iberia, the Lynx, and commanding your own ships. You’ve fought Orions pirates, Nausicaans, Gorn, Tzenkethi. I read the report of what you did before I joined you. You took on and destroyed three Klingon battle cruisers! You have extensive tactical experience and expertise. You could have commanded a frigate, a destroyer even. You could have been at the forefront of this war. Why did they put you on ambulance duty?”

He looked down into the brown-black swirls in his cup, breathed in the scent and sipped at it, as he considered the question. “They didn’t put me on ambulance duty, I chose it. And I chose it because... when this war really heats up, and all the thousands of men and women out here fly into the Seven Hells, and end up jammed into escape pods or inside damaged ships, wounded, stranded, confused, terrified, and wondering if they’re going to live to see another day… I want them to know that they will.

Because Papa Cat is out there, with his ship and his crew. Not for glory, not for battle, not for vengeance, but for them. And all that expertise and experience you seem impressed with will be directed towards that purpose. If they’re willing to risk their lives in defence of the Federation, then they deserve someone risking their lives for them.”

Zawati considered his words, nodding sagely. “But haven’t you thought that, ultimately, you could save more lives by going on the offensive, killing them before they kill us?”

Hrelle leaned back in his chair. “I’m not a killer.”

“No? Your record says something different-”

“I know what my record says. I’ve killed before, when it was necessary… and, Great Mother forgive me, even when it wasn’t necessary. And I daresay moments will inevitably arise when I’m forced to kill again. But unless and until they arrive, I want a job where I can save lives, not take them. I want to keep my books balanced, as it were.”

She looked ready to debate the matter further, until Lieutenant Neheru’s voice reached them from the Bridge. “Captain! We’re receiving a distress signal from the USS Tesla! It’s under attack by the Klingons on heading 111-mark-047, 2 light years distant!”

Both officers rose to their feet and set aside their drinks and PADDs, Hrelle announcing, “Sorry, Olivia, we’ll need you on duty a little while longer.”

“Fortunes of war,” she replied simply as they entered the Bridge.

*

Deck 2 Fore – Shuttlebay:

“MOVE!”

Everyone onboard knew to move out of the way of Doctor Shyrik when the Andorian stormed in their direction, for fear of... well, something. She had never actually struck anyone, or even threatened them. It just seemed the right thing to do.

Of course, she usually only barked like that when there was a medical emergency, like now, when the Surefoot had arrived at the aftermath of a battle between the Tesla and a Klingon Bird of Prey. She knew little about battles, only the cost in their aftermath in flesh, but she knew enough that the Tesla, an old Oberth-class vessel, and the Bird of Prey were small ships, and thus small crews and not as many wounded as there could have been, for which she was grateful.

On its arrival, the Surefoot had initiated its Emergency Medical Protocols, opening up both Sickbays and beginning a triage in the Main Shuttlebay – with a full Security contingent on hand for the Klingon survivors; despite their weapons being deactivated during transport from their pods, and most of them injured, they could still prove to be dangerous.

Shyrik moved through the rows of injured on the Shuttlebay floor, trusting in her subordinates to alert her- “Nurse Jika! What’s the delay? Diagnose and move on!”

The Bajoran Jika Showri was kneeling by one Starfleet crewman from the Tesla, her D’ja pagh religious earpiece jingling as she looked up from her tricorder. “I’m getting a body temperature of 44, indicative of a high fever, but with none of the other-”

Shyrik dropped to one knee beside the nurse, not even checking the tricorder herself, but instead holding up the injured crewman’s hands – displaying the webbed skin between the fingers. “You didn’t set the tricorder for the initial scan cycle, you assumed he was human! Never assume! He’s Zaldan, 44 degrees is normal! Now stop wasting your time and mine with Squab mistakes!”

“Yes, Doctor! Sorry!”

“jIHvaD!”

Shyrik twisted, antennae moving like divining rods in the direction of a struggle between a badly-wounded Klingon on a mat, another of her nurses, and a young Security crewman. The Andorian leapt over a wounded figure to join them, drawing in close and snarling into the Klingon’s burned face, “Look at me! I said to look at me! That’s an order!”

The Klingon’s eyes bulged out, sneering up at her with a bruised, bloodied mouth. “I do not- do not take orders from- from- petaQs-”

Then the eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed onto the mat again – as Shyrik released the pinch she had been making to the paracarotid artery in his neck since arriving. She gave Brown the nurse a withering look. “The first sign of any resistance from any Klingon, sedate them immediately and then diagnose! We don’t have time to play around!”

“Yes, Doctor! Sorry!”

Shyrik ground her teeth. The next nurse who apologised to her would end this day with a scar on one cheek, she swore it to herself…

“Doctor Shyrik!”

She turned, instantly relieved by the nurse calling for her now: the Capellan girl, Eydiir Daughter-of-Kaas, a strong, stern, no-nonsense subordinate who would not make such rookie mistakes or dance around like an iceflower in the wind. She approached where Eydiir crouched, near another injured Klingon. “What is it?”

The dark-skinned woman never looked up, but continued to treat her patient. “Subdural haematoma, I administered 50ccs of Lectrinol, but there’s no change.”

Shyrik nodded, noting the unusual purple colour of the Klingon’s blood, indicative of a vestigial mutation in the Klingon genome much more common a century ago than nowadays, which in this case could manifest as a- “Klingon allergic reaction; you’ll see it sometimes with any drug in the Lectrinol range. Stabilise with 20ccs of alizine, but tag him for immediate surgery, we’ll have to go Old School with him-”

“You!”

Both women looked up, as a human male in a torn Starfleet uniform on the floor nearby half-sat up. He was elderly, pale, his face wrinkled and hangdog, with a broad nose and drawn-back greying hair. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Shyrik looked him over, saw the gravitic splint clamped around the man’s right leg and hip, and grunted. “You will be seen to presently, just lie back and be quiet.”

He pointed a pudgy finger at her – no, at the Klingon. “What do you think you’re doing with him?”

“Saving his life, what does it look like?”

“Don’t get lippy with me, Doctor! I’m Rear Admiral Joseph Jacobs!”

“My apologies, allow me to rephrase my answer: I’m saving his life, what does it look like, Admiral?”

Jacobs glanced around, as if seeking witnesses to the outrageous response he had just received, but everyone else was busy treating others or being treated, “I demand to speak to your commanding officer!”

“Doctor Masterson is in surgery at the moment-”

“I mean the Captain of this garbage scow!”

“The Surefoot might smell sometimes, Admiral,” said a new, deep voice. “But that’s only when we have cadets onboard. Teenagers stink like nobody’s business.”

People turned to see the tall, portly, brown-furred Caitian male with Captain’s pips approach, stepping around the wounded on the floor, making an effort to keep his tail raised as he stood beside the Admiral. “Captain Esek Hrelle, reporting as ordered, Sir. And you don’t have to introduce yourself; it’s an honour to meet the legendary Tycho Joe Jacobs. I was unaware that you had come out of retirement, and back onboard your old ship too-”

“I didn’t summon you here for small talk, Captain!” He pointed a finger at Shyrik. “That woman-”

“That woman,” Hrelle interrupted mildly. “Is my Assistant Chief Medical Officer.” He looked to Shyrik and Eydiir. “Resume your duties.”

Jacobs grunted as the women complied. “‘Duties’? Their duties do not include giving aid to the enemy!”

“Sorry to contradict you, Sir, but in medical terms, they do.”

The Admiral struggled to sit up, fighting his injuries and his restraint. “I want my crew treated before any of the Klingons are seen to!”

Hrelle stepped closer. “We prioritise care here based on medical need, Admiral, not affiliation; when the wounded arrive, their uniforms come off. But I can assure you, Sir, none of your crew will be endangered or even delayed long because of this-”

“Let the Klingons wallow in their pain! They’re ready, eager to die!”

“But I’m not ready or eager to let them die,” Hrelle informed him.

“I’M ORDERING YOU TO STOP TREATING THEM!”

Hrelle stiffened, feeling scores of eyes turn in their direction. “Admiral, you are clearly in pain from your injuries, and in shock following the battle, so you have obviously forgotten the Starfleet Articles of War regarding the treatment of POWs. I must respectfully ask you to calm down, lie back and we can discuss this later.”

“Hey!” came another voice, one of Jacobs’ crewmen nearby, some two-pip pipsqueak in Command Red, shaking off the nurse’s arm on him to sit up and glare furiously at Hrelle. “Watch that tone, Mister! You’re speaking to a superior officer there!”

Hrelle shot him a hard look. “That’s very good advice… Lieutenant. You should take it yourself.”

“Settle down, Melrose, and let them fix you up,” Jacobs chided his subordinate. “I can handle this.” He looked up at Hrelle again. “You’re refusing a direct order, Captain?”

Hrelle breathed in, dropping down to one knee beside the man and speaking to him in a more confidential tone. “This particular order? Yes, Sir. We are already on our way to join the Thirteenth Fleet, where you and your injured crew will be transferred to the hospital ship Samaritan, and the Klingons to the POW camps on Sherman’s Planet. Once we arrive, you can lodge a formal protest with Vice Admiral Tattok on the Triton.” He leaned in closer. “Admiral, we need to present a united front in public. Our crew are here, seeking strength. And the enemy’s here, too… seeking weakness.”

Jacobs started at that, grudgingly settling back again, though not before promising, “This isn’t over, Hrelle. Count on it.”

“Understood, Sir.” Then Hrelle rose and continued his rounds.

*

Tattok’s Ready Room on the Nebula-class USS Triton looked bigger than the Officer’s Mess Hall on the Surefoot, or so it seemed to Hrelle as he stood at attention in the centre of it.

Or maybe it was because the occupant of the room – the metre-high Roylan with the beady black eyestalks and pale aquamarine scales on either side of his face like some tropical fish – made it seem bigger. Not that Hrelle would dare voice such a thought aloud, certainly not while Tattok was staring at him, and Admiral Jacobs stood nearby, his broken hip and leg healed, allowing him freedom to circle Hrelle like a predator. “It was an act of gross insubordination on his part! A naked act!”

Tattok leaned against his desk and folded his arms across his narrow chest. “Were you naked, Captain?”

“No, Sir; it gets rather chilly in our Shuttlebay, and I wouldn’t want to appear in front of the Klingons with any shrinkage.”

Jacobs moved closer to the Captain, practically in his face. “You think this is funny, Hrelle?”

The Caitian stepped back enough to face him. “No, Admiral. And I wish to express my condolences at the loss of the Tesla; I’ve lost vessels myself, one of them being an Oberth like yours. I can appreciate their durability and unique design, and I would have liked to have visited it, especially with the history your ship had.”

Jacobs harrumphed, unable to simply dismiss Hrelle’s words about his vessel. “Yes. She was a good ship. Old, yes, but she could still pull her weight. And she managed to take down the ship that killed her.” His face twisted again. “And then you go and save the lives of her killers!”

“Captain Hrelle acted entirely properly,” Tattok corrected the man firmly. “My CMO has examined the medical report from the Surefoot, and has confirmed that correct procedures were followed. None of your crew were in any danger from not being treated immediately. In fact, my doctor has noted the high efficiency rates of your medical staff, Captain.”

“Thank you, Sir, I’ll pass that onto them.”

“That’s it?” Jacobs demanded. “I bring him in here to face disciplinary action, and you pat him on the head? What kind of a circus are you running here, Tattok?”

The Roylan regarded him for a moment, before facing Hrelle again. “Captain, there’s a Fleet meeting scheduled onboard in two hours, so you may as well stick around. Visit the Triton’s Lounge, the Locker; my son’s down there now, waiting for you. Dismissed.”

Hrelle nodded. “Yes, Sir,” He nodded politely to Jacobs. “Good day, Admiral.” He departed quickly, not just to join his little buddy, but to escape the impending wrath he saw on Tattok’s face.

*

Tattok straightened up as the door slid shut. “Before we continue, Joe, a word of caution: never speak to me like that again in front of junior officers. You do, and I’ll kick you back to the Norpin Retirement Colony – without the benefit of a ship. Is that understood?”

“Who do you think you-”

“Is… that… understood?”

Jacobs bit back any further protest, but asked, “What are you going to do about Hrelle?”

“You mean Captain Hrelle? Don’t worry, I’ll put a note in his record… commending him for his restraint in dealing with you while he rescued you and your crew.”

“He publicly defied my orders! Humiliated me in front of my crew-”

“You chose to make the confrontation public, Joe. Hrelle had tried to calm you down, was prepared to discuss this matter more privately, but you weren’t listening.”

“You weren’t there, you didn’t see how he-”

“It doesn’t matter if I was there or not; I make it my business to know things. Many things, especially regarding those under my command… that includes you, by the way.”

“He’s a Klingon sympathiser!”

Tattok smirked. “Three weeks ago, while rescuing the survivors of the Tsukuba, he managed to take on and destroy three K’t’inga battle cruisers – and then personally kill a half-dozen Klingons who boarded his ship. With his bare hands… and teeth and claws, I hear. If he’s a Klingon sympathiser, he’s a piss-poor one.

“I trust him. You, on the other hand-”

“What?”

Tattok stepped forward, eyes focused on him. “I have to be honest with you, Admiral: I was not sanguine when I heard you came out of retirement following the start of the War. Don’t get me wrong, I respect your career, and your accomplishments, especially during the Klingon Separatist Uprising at Tycho V. And I’m not one of those people who thinks a man becomes a dunsel when he reaches a particular age… especially as I’m rapidly approaching that age myself.

“I didn’t even mind when you insisted on dragging the Tesla out of the museum and getting her back into active duty; it still functioned, with some upgrades and modifications, we needed a scout and surveillance vessel for the Thirteenth, and a lot of the Captains here were eager for a chance to see Tycho Joe on his old ship.”

Jacobs made a sound. “When are you dropping the ‘but’ on me, Tattok? I can feel it hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles.”

Tattok stepped forward. “But… Admiral, you’ve been retired for almost twenty years. Yes, you were recertified for active duty, physically and mentally. And I won’t deny we could use experienced hands out here with the threats of the Klingons and the Dominion. But still… twenty years, Joe-”

“I’m as sharp now as I was then!”

“Then how did a simple reconnaissance mission to the Donatu system end up with you losing a ship and barely escaping alive with your crew?”

Now the old man bristled. “We were surprised! Ambushed! I didn’t have a chance – It’s all in the statement I’ve submitted! Read it if you don’t believe me!”

Tattok nodded sagely. “I’ve read it…. and the initial statements from your senior officers, who tell a somewhat different story of the events in question. Frankly, you’re lucky everything will be decided by a Board of Enquiry, not me. And that no one among your crew died.” He breathed in. “That should at least work in your favour.”

Jacobs stared for a moment – and then seemed to deflate before the Roylan’s eyes. “As I recall, the normal procedure at such times is for the Commanding Officer involved in the loss of his vessel to be suspended from duty until further notice. Can I assume that this hasn’t changed in the aeons since I last wore the uniform?”

Tattok relaxed his stance. “Normally, yes. But needs must, and I still need the skills of the man who broke the Dir’lakh Code...”

*

Hrelle grasped the significance of the name of the Triton’s lounge, the Locker, once he entered: Davy Jones’ Locker, the ancient Terran euphemism for the bottom of the ocean, where unfortunate sailors would go when they drowned, and meet the eponymous Jones, a devilish figure. The lounge was filled with nautical paraphernalia, the sounds of waves, bells and whistles, and the figure of a leering, ghoulish sailor hovering above and behind the bar.

“Hey, Fatburger! Over here!”

Hrelle chuckled and approached a table at the far end, where Weynik sat with several other Captains in the Thirteenth, some he’d known for years, others new to him. “Hi guys! It took a while, but we finally got here!”

As he drew up a chair and sat down, straddling it when he found it had no hole in the back for his tail, Weynik chuckled. “Well, at least you have a story to go with your lateness. Rescuing Tycho Joe Jacobs himself! And the crew of the Tesla, too! You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Wide Load?”

Hrelle shrugged, distracted by the sullen, almost hostile scents and expressions from the other Captains as they stared into their drinks. “My crew does all the work, I just stand around looking tall and handsome, just like you – minus the tall and handsome part, of course.” He looked to Captain Walters, offering her a smile. “Melinda! How’s the wife? You two’ll have to come over and meet Kami and our cub!”

She made a sound, but otherwise just maintained the group silence.

Weynik looked to Captain MacNeill. “Carl! A minute ago we couldn’t stop you yapping about your son’s promotion to Commander on the Phoenix! Why don’t you catch Hrelle up on it?”

The man shrugged now. “Maybe later.”

“What’s wrong, folks?” Hrelle asked as he made a show of sniffing his armpit. “Do I offend?”

Weynik smirked. “No more than usual. Eddie! It’s your round! Hefty here needs a drink!”

Captain Haney never even looked up. “Sure. What would your friend like? Bloodwine? Rokeg ale? Targ milk?”

“What?” The Roylan looked thoroughly confused by now, and looking to Hrelle. “Any idea what’s going on with them?”

It took only a heartbeat for Hrelle to gather what was going on: of course word would have circulated by now about his run-in with Admiral Jacobs, though it had obviously yet to reach Weynik.

He leaned back in his seat. “Yeah. After we rescued the Tesla survivors, Tycho Joe tried to order me to treat all of his crew before I helped any of the Klingon survivors, regardless of medical condition.”

Now Carl deigned to meet his gaze. “You disrespected him. In front of his crew… and in front of the Klingons.”

“No, I didn’t. I was respectful as I could be under the circumstances. I just wasn’t prepared to break the rules regarding the treatment of Prisoners of War.”

“You think they’re giving our POWs the same treatment?”

“I don’t know. I do know that I’m not responsible for the decisions of others. Only myself.”

“The Klingons started this war!” Ed declared angrily.

“One Klingon started this: Chancellor Gowron. We can’t punish all Klingons for the actions of their government.”

“You might think differently, Esek,” Melinda noted bitterly. “If you’d been here facing them with us, instead of screwing around on Earth with your cadets.”

“No,” Ed disagreed. “Even if he was here, he wouldn’t be fighting, just staying in the rear lines playing Ambulance.”

“Nice work of you can get it,” Carl declared.

Weynik bolted to his feet, leaning against the table until his heavyworlder mass made its surface protest. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You squareheads have some nerve, looking down on this guy after all he’s done! He’ll be out there with us, but he won’t be fighting, he’ll be saving your sorry asses when you end up scrap metal!”

“Easy, Short Round.” But Hrelle allowed his ire at the others to show in his expression as he looked to the others. “And here I thought we were all One Big Happy Fleet. Carl, I remember when we stopped those Nausicaans on the Deneva Run, and got egregiously drunk afterwards. And Ed? You served under me on the Furyk. And Melinda? I introduced you to Odette! I danced at your wedding! But now all that’s been swept away, and because I intend to keep true to principles we should all agree upon, you think I’m some sort of Klingon collaborator?”

Now Ed glowered at him, setting his glass aside and rising to his feet. “I think you need to remember which side you’re on, in my opinion.”

The room went remarkably quiet.

Hrelle looked up. “Your opinion?”

Ed nodded, his jaw jutted. “My opinion.”

Now Hrelle rose, eyes narrowing as he growled, “Well, Ed... in my opinion, your opinion isn’t worth the shit under my boots.”

He drew closer, watching the man force himself to not step back. “In my opinion, you’re still the same arrogant dickhead I had to reprimand time and again for speaking before thinking.”

His snout was almost touching the younger man’s nose now. “In my opinion, you should shut that ignorant little mouth of yours, because right now it’s spouting so much shit your arsehole is gonna worry it’s out of a job.”

His voice dropped to an almost intimate whisper as he moved to Ed’s ear. “Your scent tells me you really want to take a shot at me. Well, if you’re gonna do that... make it count, Ed. Because I promise you: you won’t get a second one in...”

The other Captains rose, as did Weynik on Hrelle’s side, and for a moment, Hrelle wondered if it was going to turn into a fight they would talk about long after all their court martials. Instead, Ed took a step backward, looking to his allies. “Come on, I think we need some fresh air.”

“Try the nearest airlock,” Weynik suggested. As the trio departed, he growled. “I don’t believe them! How the hell could they think you’re some sort of Klingon supporter?”

“I know! By Kahless’ ballsack, my House shall regain its honour! I hope Misha’s ready for his first bat’leth.”

“Don’t joke about this! I should tell my father!”

“As if Tattok isn’t already aware of everything that goes on – or that he’d appreciate hearing this juvenile crap with all he has to worry about.”

Weynik grunted in acknowledgement, looking up at him. “Why are you so cheerful? Doesn’t it bother you what they think?”

Hrelle shook his head. “Wey-ney, there’s trillions of people in this Galaxy alone, and a billion Galaxies beyond ours… but in all of that, only a handful of people whose opinions matter to me. And only one of those people is in this room right now.” He looked down at him. “I’m talking about you, by the way.”

“I know.”

“I thought I’d clarify that, because you’re not that bright.”

“Much obliged.”

Hrelle patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, Brother, buy me a drink. And some nachos and cheese; I haven’t eaten in almost an hour, I’m wasting away here...”

*

Hrelle was impressed with the size of Tattok’s Conference Room, even though the size was offset by the number of occupants: two dozen Captains, almost as many adjutants, and Admirals Tattok and Jacobs at the front, Jacobs sitting sullenly to one side, Tattok on his feet beside a holodisplay of the Sherman Sector, filling in the Captains on the current situation.

Hrelle and Weynik sat near the front, the Caitian unable to keep looking over at Jacobs, seeing the pained expression on the older man’s face, and guessed that the shock of losing his ship was finally hitting him. It was a feeling Hrelle understood, having lost more than one of his own in his career, and he hoped he’d have a chance to talk to the man about it.

Or anything else, really; Hrelle might not have worshipped at the altar of the living legend that was Tycho Joe, but he could certainly appreciate the contributions and advancements the man brought to Starfleet in the fields of communications, cryptography and surveillance techniques, and Hrelle hoped to set aside the earlier animosity between them.

His lightened mood was helped by associating with the other Captains in the Thirteenth Fleet, most of whom were supportive of his stance regarding the POWs. And Hrelle had to acknowledge that, for many in Starfleet, this was their first exposure to war – and to Klingons. For Hrelle, who worked extensively with Klingons, including having a civilian surgeon in the form of Doctor Klein onboard for so long, he had the luxury of seeing other sides of them.

Now Ed Haney and his friends sat in the back of the room, while Hrelle and Weynik took the front seats. Hrelle shook his head; Mother’s Cubs, how can some people act so childish?

Then he snuck his hand behind Weynik’s chair, tapped him on his other shoulder and made him look the other way.

Tattok continued addressing them, oblivious. “My Klingon counterpart General Garrajh on the IKS Chukon is currently fortifying their defences around Rura Penthe, possibly in the belief that we might make a play for that system – we’re not, by the way, and as far as I’m concerned he can stay on that iceball until his ridges snap off – but it could also be a diversion.

“The Ajax, Bannockburn, Dragonheart, Featherwind, Starsong, Minotaur and Philadelphia will continue their current patrol patterns, but on a more compressed rotation cycle; I know it will be taxing for you, but hopefully it will just be for a short run. The Philadelphia, Puget Sound, Tereshkova and Thunderbolt will continue escorting the civilian transport traffic from Sherman’s; I’ve sent word to the Merchant Fleet Authority that any more incidents like the one we had with that Rigellian freighter, and we will scupper the ships involved.

“The Triton and the Samaritan will remain near Sherman’s, alongside the Vancouver and the Wasp. Captain Hrelle, I have a special assignment for the Surefoot, one of some potential importance.”

In the back, Ed asked someone, “Sure he can be trusted?”

It was asked sotto voce – but it had the misfortune of being asked at a moment of silence in the room.

Heads turned, though Hrelle kept staring forward, letting only his ears twitch as Tattok asked loudly, “Excuse me, Captain Haney? What did you say?”

“Uh, nothing, Admiral.”

“Are you sure? Because it sounded remarkably like you were asking if Captain Hrelle could be trusted. Care to explain that remark, Mister?”

“Ahh- I-”

Hrelle suddenly stood up, facing Tattok and looking contrite. “I’m afraid it’s my fault, Admiral.”

“Yours, Captain?”

“Yes, Sir. We were in the playground earlier, I took Ed’s ball off him, threw it over the wall and made him cry.”

That provoked laughter, defusing the situation, and Tattok grunted. “Well, maybe now we can find something more grown-up for you to occupy your time?” Hrelle sat down again as Tattok drew up a holoimage of a section of space between the Sherman and Donatu system. “I sent Admiral Jacobs to this area with the Tesla to investigate some unusual Klingon traffic. You’ve inherited this mission now; I want you to ascertain why they’re diverting resources here.

“The sensors and communications array the Surefoot employs in its current capacity for search and rescue operations, and its overall security profile, will allow it to function adequately as a surveillance ship, following some upgrades and modifications being sent over now. And unlike the Tesla, you possess sufficient firepower to protect yourself if detected… though I fully expect you to withdraw if you are attacked. I don’t want to lose another ship. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Rear Admiral Jacobs will accompany you,” Tattok continued. “As a mission specialist, to continue to analyse the transmissions and accompanying data. I must stress this: he will not be in command, or in the chain of command. Is that understood, Captain?”

Hrelle spared a surreptitious glance at Jacobs, who kept his head down; it had sounded as if Tattok had been addressing it to his fellow Admiral rather than anyone else, but Hrelle still responded, “Yes, Sir.”

“Your mission details and authorisations have already been transmitted to your respective ships,” Tattok concluded. “Let’s be careful out there.”

An adjutant called out, “Room!”

Hrelle, Weynik and the rest of the group stood at attention, as Tattok turned and departed – with Jacobs hurrying along behind him, looking at no one.

Beside Hrelle, Weynik chuckled. “Good luck with your babysitting job, Hefty.”

“I don’t need luck, I have charm and good looks.” He looked down at his friend. “Hey, stand up with the rest of us!”

Weynik showed him how many middle fingers he had on his right hand.

*

Hrelle was smiling so much he felt like his mouth would ache for hours afterwards. He didn’t care. “You know how to swim now? My Warrior Prince can swim? That’s amazing!”

On the other side of the screen in their quarters, Misha sat there, mahogany-brown fur needing a brush, his eyes bright and animated. “Yeah! Mama taught me! Ship has pool!”

Hrelle beamed proudly. “Wonderful! When you get here, you’ll have to show me what you can do on the Holo-”

He glanced at something out of view. “Gotta go! Dana and Hull are here!” He stood up.

“Who? Wait! Don’t go- please!”

Misha rushed off, not seeing his father’s expression plummet.

Seconds later, Kami replaced him onscreen, smiling sympathetically. “Dana and Hull are two children his age onboard, children of the crew. Don’t take it personally, I’ve hardly seen him since those three got together. The Captain has given them a tour, let them sit in her seat-”

“Big fat furry deal! Misha was sitting in my seat on my Bridge before he was even born!”

His wife chuckled. “Claws in, Papa Cat, you’re not being replaced.” She leaned in closer. “How are you doing? Really? I’ve heard you’ve had a busy couple of weeks getting out there.”

He nodded, his mind tricking him into thinking he could smell her in the room with him. “You know me, our quarters are a mess, dirty underwear and empty pizza boxes everywhere, and none of the Support crewmen are willing to come in and clean up-”

“Esek...”

He stopped, swallowing. “It hurts. It hurts, you two not being here. I know it’s gonna hurt enough knowing Sasha isn’t with you. Even with the therapies from Doc Masterson, this is painful.”

“We miss you too; you’re not the only one who’s gone through Pheromone Withdrawal. When Misha isn’t distracted by other children, he mewls about you. And if your jacket isn’t in my bed, I can’t sleep.” She smiled. “We’ll be there soon, along with T’Varik and the new cadets. I think you’ll like them.”

His eyes widened. “Kami… this War… you know, you can still head back to Cait with the clan, be safe-”

She brought a finger to her snout, shushing him; her voice was like honey. “We’re not bringing that up again, because you’ll only lose the argument one more time, and frankly it’s embarrassing seeing my Big Sexy Male humiliated by his wife.”

He flattened his hand against the screen, as if it were a window. “Promise we won’t be separated again for more than, say, ten seconds?”

Kami laughed – but then started, as he did, when the voice of Zawati interrupted them, “Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but there’s an… issue occurring between Admiral Jacobs and Lt Shall.”

“Understood. On my way.” He growled. “Sorry, Sugartail. Duty calls.”

“Go, be careful, and I love you, Esek.”

“Love you too, Kami.”

The screen went black as he stood up and returned to the Bridge, entering in time to hear C’Rash hiss. He stopped, glanced at Zawati, who was over by the Engineering station and had heard it too, before focusing on the Caitian and Jacobs, the pair of them standing by the Bridge’s Tactical Display Board in the rear. “Problem, Lieutenant?”

The coal-furred female straightened up, her tail tapping with irritation against the adjacent station. “A difference of opinion with the Admiral, Sir, over an interpretation of data.”

“Yes,” Jacobs agreed, pressing his fist into his lower back. “The difference being that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

C’Rash bristled, until Hrelle approached. “Show me.”

The trio of officers faced the display, C’Rash called up scrolls of transmissions, interpretations, and a local stellar display, further dotted with vessels. Indicating these last. “The Klingons are assembling an attack squadron-”

“No, they’re not,” Jacobs groused. “It’s a search party of some kind.”

She looked to him again with tight exasperation. “Sir, our sensors have found spatial anomalies in this area, interfering with our scans- it’s an ideal place to prepare an attack- why can’t you see-”

She stopped herself when Hrelle raised a hand, before taking over. “Admiral, what makes you think they’re searching for something?”

Jacobs looked at him, as if wondering if Hrelle was mocking him in some way, before turning to the data. “They’re employing non-military ships among those in the area-”

“Military supply ships can explain-” C’Rash began, before Hrelle cut her off again.

“And I’m listening to the unexplicated Klingonese,” Jacobs continued. “It offers nuances the Universal Translator always leaves out. They’re angry, frustrated… and desperate. It underlines their dialogue.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“ghob'e' around naDev!”

“Ghobe! Ghobe!”

“yImev yIjatlh vIQoy!”

“Qo’! Logh’boqrat jiyajbe’!”

“Nuqjatlh? Maj! Logh’boqrat qaStaH nuq!”

Hrelle had a basic knowledge of Klingon, but he prided himself on his superior Caitian auditory skills. So he could appreciate Jacobs sitting there, listening to the multiple transmissions in the original language, nodding to himself as he rechecked the display, confirming the sources of each signal, and C’Rash followed the translated dialogue.

Hrelle frowned. “I keep hearing ‘Logh’boqrat’. Is that the name of a ship, or a commander or-”

“Neither. A Logh’boqrat is a Klingon legend, that of a space monster that devours vessels. Like the old Starfleet legend of the Cosmostrator, or the Orion’s Romarc.”

Hrelle nodded; his own people had developed similar legends during their centuries-long exodus from Ferasa Prime to Cait. But still... “A monster? They’re not really expecting to find a monster out here, are they, Admiral?”

Jacobs grunted. “Klingons are not always literal, Captain; the Logh’boqrat is probably a metaphor for something else. I had a colleague who kept referring to the malfunctions his ship was experiencing as being ‘Gremlins’, without actually believing in tiny mischievous creatures.”

“It’s a code name,” C’Rash decided. “For a Klingon weapon, it has to be. They’re assembling it, perhaps something’s gone wrong, they’re worried about losing honour-”

Jacobs smacked his hand down on the panel. “No! Why aren’t you paying attention, girl?”

She hissed again, but Hrelle held up a hand, ending further argument. “Lieutenant, ready a litter of Kittens to send out to the area, with immediate effect.”

“Aye, Sir.”

As his Chief of Security complied, Jacobs looked to Hrelle. “Kittens, Captain?”

Hrelle smiled. “Tactical microprobes, with Plasteel and vibranium stealth coating, passive scanners, tightbeam comlinks, and zero-point batteries to minimise energy signature. Useful for scouting for survivors in situations when normal procedures are unfeasible or too risky. Any specific areas you think we should focus on?”

Jacobs looked at him with some suspicion, but then leaned across and touched a certain area on the adjacent screen. “Commander Klahnargh of the IKS Vrirroch is leading the search here.”

C’Rash turned back to Hrelle. “Done, Sir. They should reach the point recommended by Admiral Jacobs in an hour.”

“Thank you. Now, follow me.”

“Sir?”

“If you’ll excuse us, Admiral?”

Jacobs grunted and focused on the work, as Hrelle motioned for C’Rash to follow him over to Zawati, the female Caitian protesting, “Sir, I-”

He cut her off again, his voice a murmur. “Admiral Tattok gave us an additional assignment. While the Kittens are on their way, I want you and Lt Cmdr Zawati to locate the Tesla’s recorder marker in the wreckage out here, retrieve it and store it securely. And I want you to do it without Admiral Jacobs knowing about it.”

The Wakandan woman frowned. “Sir? Is there- is there something wrong with the Admiral?”

“Yes. He lost a ship, a traumatic event in itself for any commanding officer. And if I read between the lines from Tattok’s orders, then there may be some measure of culpability on Jacobs’ part. But that’s not for us to judge, that’ll be for the Board. And we want to keep the Admiral busy with this assignment, not distracted with what happened with the Tesla. He’s more useful to Starfleet doing this than sitting in his quarters wallowing in guilt and doubt.”

“Really?” C’Rash asked. “You think that old fart can still help us?”

Hrelle looked at her sharply. “That old fart is a superior officer, and fluent in six dialects of Klingonese - without a Translator. And he was breaking codes and protecting the Federation when you were still in your Mama’s womb making her ass ache instead of mine. Remember that, Lieutenant.”

The female’s tail drooped with genuine regret. “Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

He nodded to the women, before returning to Jacobs. “Sorry about my Chief of Security’s attitude, Sir.”

Jacobs made a sound. “Damn brats. I have socks older than her! Why do they have to be so... young?”

Hrelle smiled. “I’m sure she’ll grow out of it.”

The Admiral looked to him again, relaxing. “Tattok ordered me to apologise to you for my earlier behaviour. I refused to do so.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“So now you’ll know… this apology is now freely made.”

Hrelle smiled again. “And happily accepted.” He indicated the display. “What would drive the Klingons to focus away from the business to war, to… whatever they’re doing here?”

Jacobs shrugged, though Hrelle could see he was studying the display again with intensity. “It’s not an easy question to answer. Most people only know the warriors. They barely know about the sectarian castes, the T’Kuvma and So’Ran movements, and those races they conquered centuries ago who forgot their old identities and now called themselves Klingons… Klingons can be as varied as the races of the Federation.” He shook his head. “Maybe you should ask someone who hasn’t been retired for almost twenty years?”

“I’m asking you, Admiral,” Hrelle reminded him, before patting the man on the shoulder. “But first, dinner; you’ve been at this for almost ten hours. And I haven’t eaten in almost as long.”

Jacobs looked the Caitian’s belly.

“Really,” Hrelle insisted with a smile.

*

Hrelle only half-ate his chicken salad sandwich, focused more on the distracted look on Jacob’s face. “If that doesn’t appeal to you, Admiral, we can order you something else-”

Jacobs grunted. “Have you found it yet?”

“Found what?”

“The Tesla’s recorder marker. I’m sure that little gnome Tattok would have ordered you to find it while we were out here, and not tell me. Keep the old guy busy and out of trouble, right?”

Hrelle felt himself blush under his fur. “Uh, something like that, Sir.”

He cradled his coffee cup, as if accepting its warmth into his spindly fingers. “Probably afraid I’d tamper with the evidence before the court martial.”

“Court martial? Admiral, I’m sure it won’t get to that-”

“I screwed up, Hrelle.”

The Captain blinked. “Uh, Sir, you don’t have to say anything without legal-”

Jacobs shook his head. “It’ll all come out soon enough. I screwed up. When the Bird of Prey dematerialised, I froze. I looked out at that vessel, focused on the lines and markings on its hull, listened to the frantic cries of my crew for orders, felt the leather padding of my chair… in fact, everything but prepare my ship for an attack, like a competent Captain would have. It was like it was my first time in the chair.

“By the time I recovered, it was too late for the Tesla. I gave the order to abandon ship, and set the vessel to ram the Klingons when they made the final approach. And I… was prepared to go down with my ship. It seemed fitting, her and me, together. I never married, never had any partner; Starfleet had been my life. And I’d had a longer relationship with the Tesla than with anyone of flesh and blood.

“But I hadn’t counted on the stubbornness of First Officer Melrose, practically forcing me into an escape pod. That idiot kid… he ended up hurt when our pod barely escaped the detonation range of the Tesla.” He shuddered. “So many of them hurt… because of me...”

Hrelle regarded him, seeing things in a different light. “That’s why you tried to order me to help your crew first, over the Klingons. You felt guilty, seeing them on the floor around you, being treated for their wounds.”

“Yes. I’d have given anything to be anywhere else but there.”

“I thought you hated the Klingons, wanted them dead for what they did.”

Jacobs shook his head. “I’ve studied them, their histories and cultures, their tactics… I know them too well to hate them. I know they started this War, but I also know they’re doing this because they feel betrayed by the Federation, for not supporting them in their actions against the Cardassians and the Dominion.” He shrugged. “They may be right, in the end.” He rubbed his forehead. “Melrose should have left me on the Tesla’s Bridge.”

“No, he shouldn’t have,” Hrelle told him sympathetically. “No one would have wanted you to die. We’re stronger with you than without you.”

“You don’t understand, Captain- I lost my ship-”

“So have I, over a decade ago: the USS Furyk. And unlike you, none of my crew survived. 137 lives lost. I was judged not at fault for the events that led to it, but you and I both know that doesn’t matter; their deaths will be with me for the rest of my life.

“And at the time, I wanted to die, for their lives… and others I felt were lost because of my actions, my mistakes. But I kept going. Sometimes I didn’t know why, but I kept going. And ultimately, I accepted that I was right to keep going, both because I didn’t have the right to seek an end to that guilt, and because I could do far more to counter the mistakes of my past by staying alive, than if I’d eaten a phaser shot.”

Jacobs stared at him for a silent, unsure moment. Then he nodded back. “Thank you, Captain. Nice to know even a hundred-year-old can still learn something.”

Hrelle smiled. “I’m sure you knew it already; you just needed reminding-” When his combadge chirped, he tapped it. “Hrelle here.”

Zawati’s voice carried between the two senior officers. “Sir, we’re getting telemetry from the Kittens. And we’ve found and retrieved that item you were looking for.”

Hrelle smiled at Jacobs, who offered a hint of amusement at the attempt at obfuscation. “Thank you, Commander. I’ll get the Admiral and return to the Bridge; and remember, not a word to the old man.”

“Aye, Sir.”

*

The ship was large, long, with sectioned, segmented pieces that jutted up, reminding Hrelle of the spinal cord of some long-dead creature stretched out; its green-grey hue, matching that of most Klingon ships because of their preference for duratanium in their hulls, marked its affiliation.

“A Klingon passenger transport ship,” Zawati reported, continuing to read the telemetry. “According to the Kittens, approximately 800 onboard.”

Hrelle nodded distractedly, focused on where the transport ship was: caught in a whirlpool of energy, colours of emerald and ruby and turquoise, swirling downwards into a black funnel. “What is it?”

“A subspace sinkhole,” Lt. Neheru corrected, the Operations Officer taking over the role of Science Officer from the appropriate station. “A rare, naturally-occurring phenomenon capable of producing an extremely strong gravity well, which can pose a potential hazard to any spacecraft unfortunate enough to get caught in one. Much like quantum singularities, subspace sinkholes are monodirectional, and the extreme gravimetric shears they produce prevent the formation of a stable warp field or use of transporter beams. But they possess almost no mass, making them extremely difficult to detect until you’re almost upon them.”

Jacobs stared at the visual display. “The funnel… where does it lead to?”

The Kelpien straightened up, his noseless, apricot-coloured face blanching as he faced the Admiral. “Nowhere, Sir. It’s not a wormhole; the forces at the bottom of the sinkhole simply crush anything that reaches it.”

“It is like a Logh’boqrat,” Hrelle murmured. “A monster in space, devouring ships. But why not this one, Lieutenant?”

“I suspect it’s caught in an eddy, Sir, and its impulse engines can keep it in place – but not for long now, if these power readings from it are any indication.”

Hrelle watched the outer displays, seeing the other Klingon ships, still running search patterns, their sensors – and good luck – not up to Starfleet standards. “Can it be freed?”

Neheru returned to his displays. “Theoretically, yes, Sir: a vessel with a strong enough tractor beam array can approach close enough – just – to get a lock onto it and drag it out. But it’s a massive vessel, and the gravimetric shears will be fierce.”

“Send one of the Kittens down to it.”

“Sir, the probe won’t have the power to escape-”

“I don’t need it to, I just want more readings on the vessel, its occupants and contents.”

“Aye, Sir.”

As Neheru complied, Zawati looked at Hrelle. “Sir, I must remind you that Admiral Tattok sent us to discover the reason for the Klingon activity here. We’ve done so. We should return and report immediately.”

“She’s right, Captain,” Jacobs added. “Don’t make the same mistakes I’ve made.”

“Noted, both of you.” He looked to C’Rash. “Do any of the Klingon ships in the area possess sufficient tractor capabilities to pull it out?”

The Caitian female glanced down at her screens. “Commander Klahnargh’s ship the Vrirroch is Korshech-class; it’s powerful enough, but his ship is too massive to enter the sinkhole without collapsing it.”

“What are you up to, Hrelle?” Jacobs asked him suspiciously.

“I have the probe readings, Sir,” Neheru announced. “Klingon transport ship, Nunmihk-class, designated the IKS Borha’l… 824 occupants… male, female… children, Sir!”

“No weapons or armaments?”

“Nothing large detected.”

Hrelle looked around at the officers. “That’s why they’re so frantic to find it. Any military vessel would have been written off long before now as a casualty of war with the occupants sent to Sto-Vo-Kor. Helm, set a course for the sinkhole, maximum warp!”

As he heard the Helm officer comply, he saw the senior officers around him draw closer, Zawati asking, “Sir? We’re going to assist the Klingons?”

“Yes. Send a Priority Update to Tattok on the Triton, informing him of our intentions.”

“You’re going to disobey Admiral Tattok’s orders?” she asked in disbelief.

“He wasn’t aware of this situation. They’re civilians, Olivia, non-combatants. It’s our duty to assist them.”

“Then, Captain, Sir,” C’Rash suggested. “Why not just send a signal to the Klingon ships informing them of the location of the transport?”

“Because even if they believed us, and got there in time, you already confirmed they would be unlikely to rescue it. We can.”

“We might, Sir,” Zawati amended. “We might also be walking into a trap.”

“Really? It seems a very elaborate scheme just to trap little old us.”

“Sir,” Neheru interrupted. “Starfleet security records confirm the Borha’l left Forlar III three weeks ago, with 824 crew and passengers being repatriated to the Klingon Empire; drive trouble delayed their departure, but they were given an extension because their passengers were all civilian.”

Hrelle nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant; that confirms my belief that this is genuine. Have Chief Grev prepare the primary and auxiliary tractor arrays, along with power reallocation protocols.” He looked to Zawati, who still appeared unhappy at his decision. “Is there a reason that message to Tattok hasn’t been sent yet, Lieutenant Commander?”

The woman looked ready to protest further, but bit her lip and moved to her station.

Hrelle looked to C’Rash now. “We’ll go to Yellow Alert, ready phasers and torpedoes, but do not arm them. When the Klingons detect us, they need to see we’re not coming in with all guns blazing. This is a rescue mission, after all, not an attack.”

“And if they don’t believe us?”

“Then I expect to haul our asses out, while all of you no doubt will spend considerable amounts of time saying I Told You So.” When she still didn’t move, he shooed her away with a gesture.

He leaned back, allowing his body to present a relaxed, resolute facade. One he did not share inside. They all had valid points – though he knew that at least in the case of Zawati, her opinion might be coloured by the recent news about her brother. Still, this could possibly be a trap, or could end up one. And even if it wasn’t, there was no guarantee that they would get away.

And maybe there was something to the notion that this could be construed as aiding and abetting the enemy.

He thought of his actions with the Klingons who had boarded the Surefoot following the rescue of the Tsukuba. The ones he killed and maimed with his bare hands, in a rage over how they had desecrated the bodies in the morgue. He had felt immense guilt over that. Was he trying to make up for that now? And putting his ship, his crew at risk because of it?

Mother’s Cubs… Damn it, Kami, get here soon. I need you.

*

“Helm, ETA?”

“Five minutes, Sir.”

He nodded. “Lt Shall, status of the other Klingon ships?”

He didn’t look, but he could smell the agitation from his niece as she replied, “We’ve not been detected yet, Captain.”

“Mr. Neheru, send the following message to all Klingon ships in the area-”

“Sir?” Zawati exclaimed.

He ignored her. “‘Attention, Klingon vessels: this is Captain Hrelle of the USS Surefoot. We are an ambulance ship listed in the Interstellar Aid Registry as a noncombatant. We have located the transport ship Borha’l and are here to assist it. It is trapped in a subspace sinkhole; we are sending you the coordinates and telemetry. Once it has been rescued, we will leave the area, and you will be free to escort the Borha’l back to your space. Surefoot out.” He nodded to Neheru, who complied.

“Captain,” C’Rash snapped finally. “Was that wise?”

“We’ve declared our intentions in this area, before they detected us. That has to count for something.”

“You hope,” she muttered.

“It will count,” Jacobs suddenly said, looking at Hrelle with regard. “They’ll know that we’ll know the odds are against us, but we made ourselves known to them. Klingons tend to admire such gall.”

Hrelle nodded in appreciation at the support. “Thank you, Admiral.”

“We’re here,” Velkovsky said at the Helm as they dropped out of warp – the ship shuddering as if in illustration.

Onscreen, the starfield suddenly shifted, as space warped and swirled, and ribbons of energy spiralled downwards into an unseen funnel. Like most space phenomena he had encountered or only even read about, it was beautiful… and deadly.

“Keep us above the shears, Irina,” he ordered. “Circle overhead until we locate the Borha’l. Olivia, liaise with Engineering, prepare them to divert all available power to the tractor arrays.”

“Captain!” C’Rash barked now. “Six Klingon vessels on an intercept course from all around us! First one will be here in less than five minutes!”

“Acknowledged-”

“There, Sir!” Neheru reported. “The Borha’l!”

Hrelle looked up, as the dizzying visuals of the sinkhole were replaced with clearer graphics detailing the gravimetric whorls and swirls – and a rectangular vessel, jammed unceremoniously between two whorls, like a nail badly driven into a post.

He glanced up at the funnel, a tunnel sharply narrowing into Oblivion, and shuddered; even as a graphic of lines and curves rather than an actual image, it was unnerving. “Navigate the eddies, Irina, take us within tractor range. Carefully.”

“Aye, Sir.” Velkovsky’s fingers danced over the controls, and Hrelle’s own fingers gripped the arms of his chair, watching the delicate operation, resisting the urge to take over or even restate the obvious – Velkovsky could fly a ship through the eye of a needle, and didn’t need his huge clunky paws and Papa Cat kibbitzing and kvetching.

Minutes later, they were almost there, when Zawati reported, “Captain, we’re receiving a signal from Commander Klahnargh!”

“On audio.”

A gruff, snarling voice filled the air. “Starfleet! You dare attack a civilian vessel? Where is your honour, you filthy petaQs? Leave them, or you and your descendants will suffer for it for ten generations! I swear it!”

“Commander Klahnargh, this is Captain Hrelle of the Surefoot. As we already told you, we are not here to attack the Borha’l, we are here to assist in rescuing it. We are an ambulance ship, a noncombatant listed in the Interstellar Aid Registry, which your people retain access to and can confirm-”

“Liar! You are the ror vIghro' who destroyed three of our proud battle cruisers!”

Hrelle looked back at at C’Rash, mouthing ror vIghro'?

She glanced down at her board, before looking up and translating it as Fat Cat.

He faced forward again. Cheeky bastard… “Commander, those three vessels attacked us while we were on a rescue mission; we had the right to defend ourselves… and we’ll do so again if we must. If we were after the Borha’l, we wouldn’t very well announce our presence, now would we?”

“Bah! This is some devious Federation trick! We will not countenance it!”

The transmission ended.

“Well,” Hrelle commented dryly. “That was something.”

“Yeah,” C’Rash murmured, “I didn’t think a Klingon would know a word like ‘countenance’.”

“Belay that,” Hrelle snapped, looking to Neheru. “What’s our status?”

“We’ve stabilised the transport.” As if in illustration, a steady shudder ran through their own ship, as the Borha’l’s struggle to remain out of the maw of the vortex became the Surefoot’s as well.

“One-tenth impulse, Irina,” Hrelle ordered. “Slow but steady increase. Ops, keep those tractors balanced, compensate if the mass shifts, before either ship gets torn apart.”

The Bridge went silent as the interminable task continued over several minutes, and Hrelle constantly checked their progress against the effects their presence had on the sinkhole itself. The shuddering increased. This wasn’t working… “We need to do better!”

“We can’t at current levels, Sir,” Zawati reported. “Chief Grev reports he can push the tractor arrays past their safety ratings, but they’ll burn out in minutes!”

“If we don’t make progress in minutes, it won’t matter. Tell the Chief to get it done!”

“Sir!” C’Rash snapped. “The Klingons are here!”

The viewscreen changed images, from the transport below to the mouth of the vortex above, as a Korshech-class destroyer and several smaller Birds of Prey appeared overhead, looking remarkably like carrion circling a dying animal and waiting to feast.

Hrelle shoved that image right the hell out of his mind, as the turbulence suddenly eased. “Report!”

“Engineering has removed the safeties, tractors running at 125% efficiency, but we need more power to do something with it!”

“Understood. Neheru, divert power from shields and weapons.”

“Sir!” Zawati protested. “You’re leaving us vulnerable to the Klingons! You can’t-”

Hrelle was about to respond, but Jacobs beat him to it. “Lieutenant Commander, you’re here to follow your Captain’s orders, not debate with him!”

Zawati looked stunned, but silenced further protest, as Neheru complied, adding, “There’s an incoming message from Commander Klahnargh, Sir!”

“Put him on.”

The viewscreen shifted to a dark, red-hued cavern of a Bridge, and a stocky Klingon male with streaks of grey in his shaggy mane, and a wicked-looking scar running down the left-hand side of his face. “What trickery is this, Hrelle? What do you think you’re doing?”

Hrelle gripped the arms of his chair and put on his Big Boy Face. “I think I’m trying to save the passengers and crew of this freighter, like I already told you. What does it look like?”

Klahnargh bristled, recognising the insult. “Why? To take them hostage and make demands of the Empire?”

“No! Because it’s my duty to help those in need, regardless of who they are!”

“We are at War!”

“The civilians, the children on the Borha’l are not my enemy! They’re no one’s enemy, and only some dishonourable petaQ would think differently!”

“Captain!” C’Rash cut in. “They’re locking disruptors on us!”

Hrelle kept his cool, kept his gaze fixed on his opposite number on the screen. “Go on then: fire. One shot should finish us… and the Borha’l. Then you can go home and tell your children of your glorious victory over the ship that never fired back, never even raised its shields, because it was busy helping save hundreds of your own people. Maybe they’ll write an epic poem for you.” He raised his voice. “Go on! Fire! I DARE YOU!”

Klahnargh ground his jaw. “This- This is some trick! It has to be! Starfleet has no such honour!”

“Thirty years ago,” came a voice from behind Hrelle: Jacobs. “I received news that a Starfleet vessel, the Enterprise-C, responded to a distress call from a Klingon outpost on Narenda III. It sacrificed itself fighting four Romulan warbirds – and cemented an alliance between our governments that lasted decades. Whatever we may be to each other now, Commander, do not deny us our honour… or you will risk losing your own.”

Klahnargh reacted to that, making Hrelle wonder if Jacobs was quoting something the Klingons would recognise.

Before he could ask, however, their ship lurched sharply, and over the Red Alert klaxons Zawati reported, “Impulse drive failure! We’re falling back into the vortex!”

“Regain power! But don’t lose the lock on the Borha’l, or it’ll fall straight in!” And us with it, he added to himself. He looked back at the Klingon on the screen. “I’d love to chat with you some more, Commander, but we’re a bit busy right now-”

Klahnargh barked at someone off-screen, and the transmission ended.

Suddenly the Surefoot lurched, making it rock – and for a terrible heartbeat making Hrelle think they were firing disruptors on them. But then Zawati reported, “It’s the Vrirroch! It’s dropped its weapons on us, and has locked its tractor on us instead! It’s pulling us out!”

Hrelle nodded with relief. “And we’re pulling the Borha’l out. Nice to see we can still work together.”

“Impulse drive back to 50%,” Neheru announced.

“Keep at it! The tractors can’t last much longer.”

It seemed to take forever, and it was all Hrelle could do to not leap out of his chair and pace around, making his tail smack everyone in the legs. Instead he focused on the viewscreen, as the Vrirroch drew them up, up...

“We’re clear!” Neheru declared.

Hrelle smiled. “If the Borha’l is clear as well, release them.”

“And divert power back to our shields and weapons, Sir?” C’Rash asked.

Hrelle considered it. For a second. “No. We didn’t come to fight. Besides, we’re not in any shape to fight anyway.”

“Are you sure about-” An alert from her board made her gasp. “The Birds of Prey are locking weapons on- no, wait, now they’ve dropped them again. And now the Vrirroch is leaving, towing the Borha’l, and the Birds of Prey are following!”

Hrelle settled back. “I have to admit, for a second there, I thought they’d fire. I wonder what made them change their minds?”

“I think I know,” Jacobs offered. “Klahnargh sent a message to the rest of the ships: ‘ror vIghro' HoH pagh DaHjaj’: ‘No one kills the Fat Cat today’.”

Hrelle turned his chair away. He’s still a cheeky bastard...

*

“Captain’s Log, Supplemental: the Surefoot has limped back to the Fleet, with the assistance of my friend Weynik on the Starsong, accompanied by much teasing about how my weight probably broke my ship. He can be so cruel about someone else’s physical features; it’s so typical of short people.

Admiral Tattok has officially reprimanded me for risking my ship as I did – and officially commended me for my altruistic actions. I think they cancel each other out, so I miss out on a promotion to Admiral, but I get to keep my command.

How the rest of the Fleet see it is up for debate. But I don’t do what I do for the approval of others. I have to believe that even in the heat of war, we must remain true to who we are. And someday, the Klingons will be allies with the Federation again, friends – and that actions like we took with the Borha’l may play a part in making that happen.”

*

Hrelle had walked Jacobs to the Transporter Room. “Have you heard anything from Admiral Tattok about the Board of Enquiry?”

The old man sighed. “I’ve pre-empted everything, by providing a more detailed… more honest account of what happened on the Tesla, and have offered my resignation. Both have been accepted.”

“I’m sorry to see you go, Sir.”

“Oh, I’m not going. I’m staying on, as a civilian advisor on Klingon culture, tactics and communications.” He stopped at the pad, turned and winked. “That’s where the real money is, Hrelle.”

The Caitian laughed. “Civilian or officer, you’re welcome back here anytime, Sir.”

Jacobs nodded in appreciation. “Thanks.” He ascended the pad, turned and faced Hrelle. “You did right, Captain. You not only saved hundreds of lives, but you reminded the Klingons that we may be enemies now, but we’re not monsters without honour. It’s a seed that’s been planted, and will bear fruit. Maybe not today, but someday.”

“I hope so, Sir. Good luck.”

*

Hrelle looked up from his desk and smiled, his nose twitching already as Zawati entered, carrying two cups of coffee. “So, let’s see what...” He stopped and sniffed, smiling. “Caitian Hrinda Blend, with a dash of nutmeg? It’s one of my favourites, Lieutenant Commander, no challenge there. I thought you’d really try to challenge me on your last day onboard.”

The woman drew up to him, her expression sober, pensive as she set his cup down before him. “Sorry, Captain, I didn’t feel like it.”

He leaned forward, drinking in its rich full aroma. “Well, this is still very welcome.” He rose now, raising his cup to her. “Olivia, I want to thank you for your time onboard the Surefoot. It has been most appreciated, and I promise you, you will not be forgotten anytime soon.”

“No,” she agreed. “I daresay I won’t.”

They drank deeply, Hrelle awakening some more as the hot, bitter liquid ran down his throat. “So, do you think your assignment on the Pierce will be everything you hope?”

“I’m not going now, Sir. My plans have changed.”

“Oh? Has Starfleet Command reassigned you?”

“No. It doesn’t matter.” She raised her own cup. “I’d like to propose a toast of my own, if you don’t mind?”

He smiled. “Of course not.”

She swallowed, and now sadness marred her features. “My little brother, Lieutenant Philip Zawati. My joy, my light. The one I swore to my parents I would protect, no matter what.”

They drank again, Hrelle’s smile dropping and hackles rising as he regarded her. He set down his cup. “Olivia… has something happened?”

She nodded, her lips pursed. “I received word yesterday; he died of his injuries.”

Hrelle’s heart quickened. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She set aside her own cup, nodding again – but now with a layer of bitterness to add to her obvious grief. “Oh, I’m sure you are, Hrelle. But I’m also sure that, even if you’d known about it days ago, you would have still helped those animals out of that sinkhole, instead of letting them get compacted like garbage as they deserved.”

Her venom, as understandable as it had been to Hrelle, still made his heart quicken further. “Olivia… I am truly sorry for your brother’s death. But he wouldn’t want you to feel such hatred for an entire people-”

“People say things like that all the time,” she sneered. “You didn’t know him! How dare you presume to say that to me!”

“You’re right,” he admitted, swallowing, this sudden turn in their relationship making him feel nauseous. “But you have to understand, those Klingons we saved didn’t kill him. And even if they had some connection to it, I couldn’t set aside my principles, my ideals. They’re what make us who we are.”

Now she sneered at him. “Do you know how selfish you sound, Hrelle? That you would place your principles, your ideals, over the security of the Federation? Saving the lives of a race that would wipe us out in an instant if they could? You bloated imbecile!”

“Olivia-”

“When I was asked to take this assignment, I was excited to meet you, to work with you! I’d heard so much about you, about what a fighter you were! About the threats you’ve dispatched! I thought you’d understand! Understand that we can’t show mercy to our enemies! But then I got to know you... and found what a weak, pathetic fool you were! You wanted to help those bastards! And you have! Risking your ship, your crew to do it!”

He gripped the side of his desk, his head spinning. “Oliv-” But his voice disappeared, and he was struggling to keep standing, to speak, to even breathe. He reached for his combadge.

She took it from him. “I had contemplated doing this in the past few days… eliminating your threat… but this business with the Borha’l, and the news about Philip, well... that sealed your fate as far as I’m concerned.”

He grimaced as he collapsed to his knees, his heart pounding with a staccato beat, gritting his teeth in pain as he looked up at her.

She stared down at him with contempt. “Well… at last I served you a coffee with an ingredient you couldn’t identify. Tetra-lubisol, by the way, courtesy of your Engineering stores. I had considered just leaving the coffee and letting you die in ignorance, but as the old human saying goes, Ignorance is Bliss. And you have no right to any bliss. You have no right to live, when good men like my brother are dead!”

He let out a strangled gasp, turning, catching a glimpse of the picture of Kami, Sasha and Misha on his desktop, staring out over him, smiling-

Until Zawati snatched it and threw it across the room, her face creased with fury. “NO! You don’t get to die looking at them! My brother died surrounded by strangers! I didn’t get to see him!”

She picked up his cup. “I will, though. Soon.” She finished his coffee, grimacing at it as she tossed the cup aside. “Ugh. How could you ever drink that crap, even unpoisoned?”

His vision was tunnelling, as if constricted like his throat, his lungs, as he reached up to her. White light was dilating everything now, and Zawati became a distant thing, falling to her knees, then to the floor like him,

Then he was falling backwards

or soaring upwards

dizzy

blinding

silent

deafening

dying

he had died before

but this

was

different

yes definitely

something

different

“Esek?”

He felt something soft against the side of his head

“Esek, wake up.”

He smelled something remarkably like tanglegrass, stuff he once waded through while on a trip to the Mril Savannahs back home on Cait. It was incredible, that he would be thinking of that at a time like this-

“Esek, take your head off my lap, please, I have to feed the cub.”

He sat up, as a soft, warm breeze caressed his face, making his ears and tail twitch.

He was in a clearing surrounded by tanglegrass and tarraba trees, beyond which stretched fields of more of the same, and surrounded on the horizon by craggy mountain peaks, more ephemeral than real. All sat beneath a blue-purple sky ribboned with clouds, around which cutters and snaps circled and dove and cawed at each other over dominance of the air.

Cait? He was on Cait? No, it couldn’t be… the Motherworld was hundreds of light-years away! He must have been in the Holodeck. Except… no Holodeck program was ever sophisticated enough to fool all of his senses like this!

A gurgling sound suddenly made him aware of the female beside him, sitting in the shade of a tarraba tree, nursing an infant cub. He tried to rise, but his limbs failed him, and he gasped and fell again.

“Careful…” she urged gently,

He sat there, staring at her. She was an astonishingly-beautiful tan-furred female, looking young but also mature, clad in shimmering blue silken robes, and adorned with gold bands on her head, waist, wrists, ankles and tail. One breast was bared, and she held a tiny naked cub to the nipple, the infant suckling zealously. She smiled down at him. “Greedy little thing. You had better sleep well after this.”

Hrelle frowned. Her voice... it was so much like Kami’s… and Ma’Sala’s, and even his first wife Hannah’s… and if he thought hard enough… his own mother’s. In fact, everything about her seemed so familiar. He swallowed and finally asked, haltingly, “Do I- Do I know you, Ma’am?”

The Great Mother looked up at him and laughed. “You should do; you’ve called my name often enough...”

TO BE CONTINUED IN… MOTHER’S CUB