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Chapter One (cont.)

“Captains Log, USS Republic, Stardate 53758.2.  I have left Commander Shrak in command of Republic with orders to return to at his best speed to Earth.  In the meantime, I, Doctor Talbot, Lieutenants Turovik and Roberts, and Marine Corporal Thiesman are aboard the gig Banner in tow by the Romulan Warbird Nei’rrhael.  Commander Borahn is well aware that time is of the essence—and he has provided us with hard data that Starfleet’s latest estimates on the performance of the Valdore-class are sub-optimal.  For the past three days, the Warbird, with us in tow, has maintained a speed of Warp 9.7; although I cannot tell without active sensors how long her engines can maintain this velocity.  Regardless, it is a higher speed than we expected.  High enough, in fact, that we shall enter Klingon space within the next hour.”

“There should be a Klingon fast cruiser waiting for us; Chancellor Martok believes that he owes me a debt due to my actions in the Cauldron—and I find that I am not above calling in that favor to hasten the return to my family.  The Chancellor is well aware that Lord Mak’vegh is responsible for the attack on Republic, and he has warned Command Shrak to expect more.  Although technically in exile, Lord Mak’vegh commands a powerful House in the Empire, with scores of ships answering only to him—and he desires the power of the Chancellorship.”

“It could be coincidence, this attack on my ship and crew by Mak’vegh at the same time that Balao was destroyed by forces loyal to Mar.  It could be . . . but I fear that it is not.  If Mar and Mak’vegh are working in collusion, one with the goal of becoming Federation President, and the second seeking the Klingon Chancellorship, my problem with Delena Mar has escalated from a personal one to one that threatens the entire structure of the Federation.  If she is willing to use the Klingons to eliminate loyal Starfleet officers—and she has already shown a willingness to threaten civilians—she must be stopped.  I intend to get to the bottom of this matter—no matter what the consequences.”

“Computer, save log,” Matt said quietly as Banner continued to coast in tow through space.

“Log saved.”

********************************************************

“The Romulans have disengaged their tractor, Captain,” Lieutenant Roberts reported from the operations station.  “They have turned back and are reentering Romulan space.”

“Thank you, Mister Roberts.  Bring sensors on-line and power-up the nacelles.  Lieutenant Turovik, hail the Klingons.”

The Vulcan frowned.  “There are no Klingon vessels on sensor, Captain Dahlgren.”

“They are out there, Mister Turovik, hail them.”

Matt watched his instruments as the warp drives finished spinning up, and he eased the throttle forward, quickly crossing the Neutral Zone that marked the Klingon/Romulan border and entered into Klingon space.  As he did so, he keyed a new sequence into the controls and the deflector shield grid activated.

Ahead of the gig, the stars shimmered momentarily and then a ship began to appear as it dropped out of cloak.  Smaller than a Vor’cha, smaller even than a Bat’leth, the ship was still long, lean, and her horned command pod promised lethality.

“Klingon ship decloaking dead ahead, Captain!” Chris called out.  “K’mag-class scout cruiser!”

“I see her, Mister Roberts,” Matt answered.  “Hail her again, Mister Turovik.”

“She’s asking for you by name, Captain Dahlgren,” the Vulcan replied.

“On monitor, Mister Turovik.”

The small monitor screen to Matt’s right sprang to life, revealing a Klingon Captain seated upon his throne-like command chair.  “We are prepared to receive you—stand by for tractor beam!”

And the screen cut off.

“Not all that friendly,” Chris whispered.

Matt chuckled.  “Just wait until they serve us lunch, Mister Roberts.”

Chapter One (cont.)

Banner settled down on the plates of the deck within the ample hanger bay beneath the bulk of the Klingon ship.  Built to hold a dozen Klingon shuttlecraft, only three were present.  “Sir, where are their shuttles?” asked Chris.

“Their captain probably dumped them in order to accommodate us, Mister Roberts.  Banner is a just a bit larger than your average Klingon shuttlecraft.”

“Dumped them?” the young Lieutenant asked incredulously.  “Why not just store them in the cargo bay?”

“The Captain is correct, Lieutenant,” Turovik said.  “The Klingons regard their shuttles as expendable assets—many ship commanders used them to provide close air-support in the Dominion War.  If they are carrying cargo the Klingon consider important, they will just jettison the shuttles and replace them upon returning to base.”

“Aren’t they concerned someone like the Ferengi or the Pakleds or the Orions will find them and use them?”

“Lieutenant Roberts, the Klingons routinely equip any such discarded shuttles with lethal explosive devices tied into the systems.”

“Booby-traps, Mister Robert,” the Captain translated for the young officer.  “Investigating an abandoned Klingon vessel—regardless of size—is fraught with danger.  Remember that.”  And with that Matt shut down the main reactor.  “Shuttlebay is pressurized, gentlemen, so why don’t we meet our hosts?”

The armored hatch at the far end of the bay slid open and several Klingons marched into the shuttlebay.  “Speak of the devil.  Get a move on, Misters.”

Quincy Talbot and Alvin Thiesman were already waiting at the upper end of the ramp leading down to the interior of the Klingon ship.  “I can smell it from here,” growled Quincy.  “We’re spending eleven days on this rust-bucket?”

“Careful, Quincy,” Matt chuckled.  “Those Klingons probably feel about this ship the way we do about Republic—and I’m not going to order Corporal Thiesman there to save you if they take offense.”

“Probably have to eat their live food as well,” the doctor mumbled as he followed Matt down the ramp to the shuttlebay below.

The two lines of Klingon warriors snapped to attention, and a shrill noise echoed from the bulkheads.  Their version of a bosun’s whistle, Matt thought with a smile.  He walked up until he stood face to face with the ship’s commander, and Matt bared his teeth into a fierce grin.

“YOU!” he thundered.  “The last time I saw you, you were fighting a dozen Jem’Hadar soldiers with an empty disruptor pistol and a bat’leth—it is a pity for the universe that you survived, you miserable old pirate!”

“Dahlgren,” the Klingon noble growled.  “Starfleet must be in a sorry condition to recall someone like you who does not know how to obey orders from his lawful superior!”

Matt snorted.  “When my lawful superior—of the same rank—gives a stupid order such as 'leave me behind to die', damn straight I’m not going to obey it!”

“And a good thing that was too!” the Klingon said with a deep-throated laugh.  “While I could have taken those Jem’Hadar, it would have been a long fight—without a goblet of blood-wine to slack my thirst!  It is good to see you again, Matthew Dahlgren!”

“And you, Lord Koram.”

“You know each other?” Quincy asked sotte voce.

“HAH!” barked Koram.  “We do indeed—were you aware that your Captain is a member of my House!  He even endured the pain-sticks to prove his worth to my warriors!  Qapla’, tlhlngan!  This one has the heart of a warrior born!  But he handles a blade like a female!” Koram added with laugh.

“Come, Matthew Dahlgren, we shall feast and drink and I will hear your tales of honor and glory.  Amar has already reentered warp and is speeding along to Vulcan as fast our engines will allow—faster even, we could well all wake in sto-vo-kor if my engineer falls asleep at his post!”

“An officer asleep at his post on your ship, Koram?  You must be growing mellow with age; or senile,” Matt answered as he followed the Klingon from the bay, his officers trailing behind.

Koram stopped and he laughed, as did the dozen Klingon warriors of the honor guard.  “It is good to see you again, indeed!  And since I know that our food is not palatable for your species, I ordered the chef to cook the targ until it was burnt!  Come, we have blood-wine to drink, and songs to sing, and tales of valor to honor our dead!”  Koram stepped through the hatch and into the narrow corridors of the dimly-lit ship.

And Matt followed.

Very nice.

Chapter One (cont.)

“You should challenge and kill her, in the Klingon way, Matthew,” growled Koram, after he spat on the floor of his quarters.  “This Mar is . . . without honor.”

Matt shook his head.  “That is not the Federation way, Koram—although it may well come to that, my career be damned.”

The Klingon laughed bitterly.  “My House is no Great House, Matthew, but we are no Lesser House, either.  If it comes to that, I can offer you asylum.  But now I see why Martok himself requested that I meet with you.  Were you aware that our nephew Cha’shin is serving as the Ambassador to the Federation at this very moment?  That he—and the Warriors responsible for his security—are on Earth today?”

“I was not.”

The Klingon bared his fangs in a grin.  “I shall contact him immediately—do not fear, Matthew; your family will not see his Warriors, but they will be there watching.  Cha’shin values . . . subtlety rather than brash action, but he knows honor!”

And Matt bared his teeth in response.  “Qapla’!  I owe you, Koram.”

The Klingon snorted and then he took another deep pull of his blood-wine.  “It is merely part of the debt that I already owe you, Matthew.  Think nothing of it.  Besides, we shall be in Earth orbit in eight days,” he said with another smile as Matt frowned.

“Eight days?  Lord Koram, I thought it would take at least eleven days to cross the Empire and Federation space for a K’mag-class cruiser.”

His host laughed.  “As originally constructed, Amar would have taken twelve days to reach Earth from here.  Luckily for you, Klingon spies are still the best at our trade,” he chuckled as he tossed Matt a PADD containing engine schematics.

Matt whistled.  “That’s the LF-45 warp drive from the Intrepid- and Andromeda-class ships!”

Koram shrugged.  “Originally . . . but now it is the STN-11A engine of the Imperial Klingon Navy!  You will notice that we made some . . . alterations to avoid being accused of duplicating the design exactly.”

The captain of Republic snorted.  “You changed the Bussard collectors—hardly essential proprietary information!”

“The collectors are part of the warp drive, though, are they not, my brother in blood?  Amar has the honor of being the first ship refitted with the new nacelles—and she has proven capable of achieving twice her old speed for brief periods of time!  She is the fastest ship in the entire Klingon Fleet—at least until her sisters begin to emerge from dock.”

“I will have to report this to Starfleet, you know that,” Matt said as he sat down the PADD, but Koram shook his head and laughed again.

“It is all part of the Great Game, Matthew.  Your Intelligence people will spend their time hunting for our spies that uncovered this—while in the meantime, we are free to work upon another project entirely.  One that I hope will include your Ambassador Mar and a dozen warriors with pain-sticks,” he grinned and then barked out another laugh.  “Besides, the Chancellor authorized you to see that information—who am I, the Lord of a House, to question the wisdom of the Chancellor?”

“He wants Intelligence hunting for his mole,” Matt said sourly, “a mole who has probably moved on to other tasks.”

The Klingon laughed and he slapped one hand against his knee.  “You know the Game well, Matthew.  But for now, we should speak about how you wish to handle this . . . dishonorable female.”

Matt smiled.  “Beside Cha’shin, I have another friend on Terra—several actually who should be watching out for my family until I can arrive.  As to what I intend . . . that will be based on what I find once I return home.”

Koram nodded.  “I understand, and I think that I shall request of the Federation a berth to allow my crew rest and relaxation once we arrive at Earth.  I have two hundred Warriors aboard this ship, Matthew—they are at your command if you have need of them.”

“I thank you, brother—but you could find yourself outnumbered and outgunned by Mak’vegh if he is working with Mar.  It was his ships that ambushed me—and probably his ships that took out Sam and the Balao.”

Koram poured more blood-wine into his chalice and grinned broadly.  “If that p’tahk comes after me and my ship, then he will discover for himself if that day is a good day to die!”  And Koram raised his chalice high.

Matt raised his as well and the two tapped their drinks together, then both men—the human and the Klingon—drained them and slammed them down on the table.  Koram stood.  “Come, the chef will have finished burning the tarq in your honor—and your crew will probably be grateful if you divert my Warriors attention from them.”

Good to see you back at this MA, love the Republic and her Captain!

Chapter Two (cont.)

“We need to get inside a public building and call the authorities,” Cass said as she kept looking over her shoulder at the rapidly darkening streets.

“No, Miss Dahlgren, your father has made an enemy of a powerful person—several actually.  One with significant control over the local authorities,” Sepak answered as he continued walking.  “Were you to be taken into custody you would shortly thereafter be dead.”

Cass jerked.  “Wh-why-who is behind this?”

“A very powerful politician on the Federation Council—an Ambassador that stands a strong chance of becoming the next President of the United Federation of Planets, child.  You cannot trust the authorities—you cannot trust anyone.”

She stopped and simply stared at the Vulcan, who sighed and turned around to face her once he no longer heard her footsteps.  “It is not fair, it is not right, but this is the way it must be, Cassandra Dahlgren.  Your father is en route back to earth—and until he finds a way to stop this . . . individual and those she commands, you, your sisters, and your mother must be kept safe.”

“Amy?  Sarah?  Mom?  This woman is after them too?” she whispered in shock.

Sepak nodded gravely.  “You are all in imminent danger—come, we cannot tarry any longer.”

Cass looked around one more time and then she began walking again, Sepak following behind her, giving directions as he watched over Matt’s daughter.  “Why is she doing this?”

“Your father has made a habit of disrupting the plans of many decades—for the best of reasons, of course, with the intention of preserving the Federation.  There are those behind these plans, however, that object to your father’s interference and want to hurt him as badly as he has hurt them.  This woman is one of those individuals.”

“Why didn’t he contact me?  Or Mother?”

“Your communications have been tapped and are being monitored, Cassandra Dahlgren.  Had your father even attempted to make contact with you, you and your family would have been already killed,” the Vulcan answered in a calm, emotionless voice.  “There, that door ahead on the right.  The security code is four-one-seven, three-two-three, six-six-eight.”

Cass turned right at a non-descript door on the side of the one of the massive towers and she pressed the keypad in the sequence directed . . . the door popped open with a hiss and she passed over the threshold, Sepak behind her.  She heard the door shut and sealed and then the Vulcan pressing in a new code on this side of the security lock.  The room she stood in was empty, dark, and cold.  But on the far wall, she could see faint illumination coming from an office.

“This is safe-house that I know of—one of many,” the Vulcan said as he walked forward.  “You will be safe from those thugs here—do you drink coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Cass answered with a shiver as she reached the door to the office and passed from the darkness into light.  The small office was well outfitted with a replicator, two desks, and a pair of computer work-stations.  Sepak spoke to the replicator in Vulcan and it hummed.  “Sugar?  Cream?”

“Both, please.”

She heard a spoon clinking on the mug and then Sepak turned around and handed her the cup filled with the steaming caramel colored liquid.  Cass sighed and she took a sip.  “Thank you.  For everything, Sepak.”

“Gratitude is not warranted, Miss Dahlgren,” the Vulcan answered.  “Tell me, do you believe in God, Cassandra Dahlgren?”

She frowned.  “I do,” she answered in a puzzled voice.

“And do you know the name of God?”

Cass set down the cup and she stood as alarm bells started to ring inside her head, but the room began to spin and her vision blurred; she collapsed, but the Vulcan caught her and lowered her into a chair.  He leaned over her and he smiled slightly.  “The name of God is Ordan, Cassandra Dahlgren, blessed be her name.  We shall discuss that and other matters at length . . . once you awaken.  I did warn you not to trust anyone, did I not?”

The rest of Sepak’s words were unheard as Cassandra’s vision faded to black and her eyes rolled back into her head as she fell into a drug-induced state of unconsciousness.

Chapter Two (cont.)

The Klingon ignored the stares of the local residents as he trotted up the four flights of stairs and then turned into a long corridor.  He made his way down the hall of the apartment complex, upon reaching a specific door, he came to a halt and pressed the admittance key—there was no answer.  Looking both ways, he drew a small device from a pouch on his belt and fixed it to the security panel; there was a sudden click and the door hissed open.

Closing the door behind him, he quickly—but thoroughly—searched the small living residence.  The coffee maker was cold, the electronic mail on Cassandra Dahlgren’s computer had not been checked since earlier this morning.  He frowned as he drew out a communicator.

“She is not here,” he growled in Klingon.  “It appears she has not returned from her classes.”

“We have reports that a woman meeting her description and a Vulcan male were accosted in public—the attackers are in local police custody, but she and the Vulcan have vanished,” a voice replied.

“Understood.  Instructions?”

“Return to base.”

The Klingon closed the communicator and taking one final look around the small apartment, he left it behind him.

******************************************************************

“SARAH!” Melody Dahlgren shouted as she nearly tripped over a collection of toys spread across the living room.   â€œSARAH LINDSEY DAHLGREN!”

Her youngest daughter rushed down the stairs, trailed by Jinx the cat, even as the little girl’s older sister Amanda (who no longer liked to be called Amy) grinned from the seat in front of the piano where she was practicing.

“Yes, Momma?” her daughter asked with a broad smile.

Melody frowned down at her and then she pointed at the pile of toys in the middle of the floor.  “Yours, I believe?”

Sarah frowned too.  “I was coming back for them,” she protested.

“When?  You went upstairs an hour ago.”

“That long?”

“Put them up if you aren’t playing with them, Sarah—I will not tell you again.”

The young girl began to protest, but then the doorbell rang.  Melody walked over and opened it . . . and she jumped back in surprise at the two Klingons standing there.

“Melody Dahlgren?” one asked politely as he showed his identification—the Ambassador of the Klingon Empire to the United Federation of Planets asked.

“Yes,” she answered.  “What can I do for you . . . Ambassador Cha’shin.”

“You could invite us in to speak, Madame Dahlgren—I am the nephew of Lord Koram, and therefore a relative of your former mate.”

“The operative word there being my former mate, Mister Ambassador.  Matt isn’t here, he isn’t even on Earth—as usual.  Good day, Sir,” she said flatly as she started to close the door, and looked up in surprise as Cha’shin wedged his boot in place to stop here.

“No, Madame Dahlgren, he is not here and he cannot protect his family—which is why I have been sent, to serve in his place,” the Klingon said quietly.

Melody’s face drained of color.  “Protect . . . just what the hell has my ex done now that his family needs to be protected?”

Cha’shin shook his head.  “That conversation needs to be held in a safer place—for you and your daughters.”

Her face turned white and she stepped away from the door.  “Perhaps you had best come in and tell me then,” she said.  “Welcome to my home, Ambassador—it is a mess at the moment, I warn you.”

Cha’shin snorted as he stepped inside—and then he turned to the second Klingon and barked a quick chain of orders in his native tongue.  “He will remain outside on watch, Madam- . . .”

“My name is Melody, Ambassador.  And I go by my maiden name now, Holder.  Call me Madame Dahlgren again and I’ll skin you with your own knife.”

The Klingon laughed.  “I see why Matthew married you—you have spirit, woman!  I approve,” then the smile left his face.  “Come, let me tell you of why your family is in danger, and then if you permit me to, I know of a place where you will be safe and secure.”

******************************************************************

The thug shook his head and lowered the binoculars.  “Klingons were not part of this deal,” he snarled softly.

“Then be grateful there are only two of them—Klingons die from phaser blasts as easily as humans after all.”

“What are they doing here anyway?” the first man asked with a frown.

“Who cares?” a third answered.  “Control confirmed we get a bonus for them.”

“How much of bonus?” the fourth inquired.

“Enough to make it worth our while.  Time to earn our pay, lads,” the second man—the leader—said.  “Take out the outside sentry first and then we rush the house.  There is just the one Klingon and the woman inside—plus her two kids.”

“Kill them all?”

The leader nodded.  “That’s the word, gentlemen.  Kill them all.”