Embedded Files
Location: IKS Valkyre
The b’rel class bird of prey had waited at the rendezvous point for almost an hour. Reggie was tired of waiting. He turned to the communications officer, and said, “I want to talk to Korav.”
“Yes, Sir,” the warrior responded, as he opened a channel between the two vessels. “Capt. Korav of the Seiklon Axel coming onscreen, now.”
The stars on the view screen blinked out, and were replaced by a real time view of the Axel’s bridge and personnel. A man in his mid to late thirties sat in the command chair. He was impressive in stature, to be sure, but the most intimidating thing about him were his eyes--they were completely white. Among friends and rift-raft alike, he was known as “Ghost Eyes.”
“More difficult passengers?” Reggie asked the older man.
"Difficult crewmember this time, I'm afraid." Korav said, letting the anger in his voice show. "One of my mercenaries, D'evo Dk'Tahg, however you say it, says that there's a coup happening, house Dk'Tahg is being targeted. Says it's going to happen tonight."
“Wait a second,” Reggie held up one hand. “You mean to tell me that one of your crew is a member of House D’k tahg, and that one of the oldest and largest Klingon houses is in need of help?”
"Difficult crewmember this time, I'm afraid." Korav said, letting the anger in his voice show. "One of my mercenaries, D'evo Dk'Tahg, however you say it, says that there's a coup happening, house Dk'Tahg is being targeted. Says it's going to happen tonight."
“No problem at all,” Reggie said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, “more of an opportunity, I think. If you wouldn’t mind making the introductions, inform whoever you’re dealing with from House D’k tahg that the Valkyre, and all of House Tovar, stand ready to assist in any way possible.”
Korav's hand stopped in mid-air. "Wait-you're holding off the mission? What about your sister?"
“My very first memory of my sister is her fighting with my older brother over a toy he tried to take from her,” Reggie said. “She’ll be alright, and if our positions were reversed, she’d stay awhile longer to secure a strong alliance with a powerful, and human friendly, house.”
Korav growled, his teeth grinding like twin millstones from hell. He was glad the audio receptors on the bridge were horrid. No civil being would be caught making such noises.
"Very well.... We'll make contact. I'll keep you posted. Axel out." Korav said, hitting the switches on his command panel.
Selvine watched him cautiously for a moment before speaking. The audio receptors may have been terrible, but her hearing was not. It didn't take a stroke of genius to tell that the captain was beyond pissed. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm gonna kill D'evo, that's what!" Korav shouted. "We pick up a profitable gig and he goes off and gets us involved with this crap!! I swear, if the Axel's PAINT JOB gets scratched, I'm deducting damages from his PAYCHECK!"
Sighing, Selvine let him continue to rant.
"D'evo, you'd better come the FRAG in!!" This time, he was yelling at the comm unit.
“Yes, Captain, we’re here.” The unmistakable sound of Calvin Dk’tahg’s voice started crackling out of the command chair’s tiny speakers. “What did you need? We’re kind of in the middle of something down here.”
As soon as D’eVo Daylek-Sloan’s voice was heard, a secondary, text-only, secured subspace message was also being broadcast to the AXEL.
The message (which by now was scrolling across the monitor of any and every station on the Axel capable of receiving it) read: =/\= ATTENTION. Immediate military or terrorist action targeting the Klingon House of Dk'tahg, please respond with requested assistance, immediately. Target and tracking data acquired. Uplink data – Y/N? =/\=
Korav read the message and turned to Selvine. "Our cue to go, Sel?"
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Location:
Q’Nos; The capital city of Cam-Chee - spaceport district (chapel/command center)
Timeline:
After Calvin’s first experience in the chapel; BEFORE he returns to the AXEL
CHAPTER ONE
D
’eVo quickly turned away from the group, stalking headlong into the milling throng of aliens in the labyrinthe space-port. He negotiated the confusing, complex series of turbolifts, staircases and corridors that – eventually – led out of the sprawling complex, taking advantage of a handful of rusty old Klingon-script signage still visible on some of the walls (he surmised that the entire structure was probably pieced together over time; Klingons weren’t generally known for their architectural-design skills). As he stepped out of the spaceport - squinting against the sunset’s sharp glare - he noticed that the streets were practically deserted at this – usually busy – hour in the capital city’s downtown. There were a few groups of returning Klinzhai meeting family or friends, as well as a small, scattered assortment of aliens busy with the usual: procuring transportation, greeting business clients, heading off to shop and dine in the business district, etc. Overall, it was a fairly light crowd, and D’eVo intended to take advantage of the lonely, almost-empty city streets (“for as long as I can” he thought anxiously; aware that in a blink the narrow winding avenues could be jam-packed with hordes of irritated, warp-lagged space tourists).
D’eVo turned down a deserted side-street (turning back once, to make sure he wasn’t being followed), and began looking for a quiet alleyway or dark corner to take care of some business. He knew he needed to contact Starfleet Intelligence away from the curious ears of the Axel command and crew, just as he was aware of his on-planet, family responsibility (“I still need to stop by the Council building …” he thought, somewhat absentmindedly). As he checked the avenue, he noticed that most of the small specialty shops and government offices lining either side of the cobblestones were either closed-for-good, shut down, or in various stages of reconstruction or demolition. “I couldn’t have picked a BETTER neighborhood” he thought, even as he pressed on through (still concerned about a sudden influx of gawking, lost tourists suddenly spilling onto the street behind him. Some of them, no doubt, would want their picture taken with ‘a real live Klingon’, or would assault him with a variety of stupid questions). Hearing the faint murmur of galactic commerce wafting in from the spaceport (only a few city blocks away), he picked up his pace, pushing deeper into the rough neighborhood. As soon as he looked back up, he noticed a small, wooden structure jammed between two metal storage facilities, with a gilded, Klingon-script sign on the door; “rejmorgh SoHchugh vaj yInlIj ghur'a'?(Will all your worries add a single moment to your life?”). Intrigued, D’eVo headed for the tiny building, forgetting his professional responsibilities and family obligations for the moment, consumed by curiosity …
D’eVo stepped into the tiny chapel, softly closing the heavy oaken doors behind him. As he turned around, taking in the small, peaceful space, he noticed that he was alone in the tiny, simple, and dark sanctuary. Stepping forward to sit down on one of the short benches in front of him (dropping his bag on the stone-tiled earthen floor as he sat), his eyes were drawn to the basic altar at the other end of the room. An array of votive candles and incense were lit and burning on the onyx mantle, suffusing the space with soft white light and a sweet, pungent aroma. As his eyes adjusted to the chamber’s somewhat dim, natural light, he could make out two ‘hidden’ door panels on either side of the altar. The altar itself was centered by a simple wooden podium, topped with a detailed sculpture of Romulus and Remus. Behind the raised, stepped area leading to the podium was a slightly faded, wall-sized, bas-relief portrait of Kahless painted directly on the tiled wall behind it. The quality and opulence of the chapel’s adornments seemed very out-of-place in such a simple, wood and stone structure. Instead of being able to sort out his thoughts in the quiet privacy of the church, D’eVo couldn’t stop obsessing over the conspicuously odd design of the chapel’s altar. He stood up and walked towards the other end of the room (carefully stepping over the packed duffle-bag at his feet) …
D’eVo ascended the slight series of steps leading to the podium – eyes adjusting to the bright glare of the candlelight – to take a closer look. There was a simple air-filtration system built into the mantle; diluting the heavy, thick cloud of incense smoke pouring from the altar, and blowing fresh air back in. As he stood in front of the blazing inferno of devotional candlelight, D’eVo noticed the definite absence of heat from the burning candles. He traced a fingertip in the air in front of him, watching a light-blue – almost translucent – series of energy ripples trail the movement (along with a slightly ticklish tingle that he felt in his fingertips).
“Containment field” he said, thinking out loud, surpised that such a modest church would be using such an expensive safety system. He then looked up at the half-circular stained-glass pattern in the ceiling, noticing that the bright sunset was being filtered down to a few pale strands of reddish-yellow light through the stained-glass skylight. The fading sunlight lit up a few patches of the wall behind the altar, revealing ‘obviously fake’ black wood paneling and synthetic stone-brick. D’eVo’s eyes scanned the wall, while his ears – finally adjusted to the deafening silence of the prayer chapel – picked up the unmistakable hum of flowing electrical current.
As he was standing in front of the altar, he heard the doors behind him open. The chapel doors closed with a soft thud, followed by a series of heavy, dragging steps … directly behind him. (“Well, that was interesting. Time to go.”) D’eVo thought, as he turned to face …
A very fat, and very pale, Klingon devotee, shuffled forward in his whitest ‘finery.’ As D’eVo passed the bowed, hooded initiate of Kahless, he could have sworn the monk said something to him, amidst all the religious ‘babbling and mumbling.’ “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU JABBERING ABOUT?!” he thought – annoyed - although he managed to stop himself from yelling the question out loud. D’eVo (Calvin) continued on, avoiding any contact with the monk, until the young man stopped, and said very clearly; “qaStaH nuq?” (“What happened?”)
Deciding to have some fun with the young zealot (who apparently had him mistaken for someone else), he said: “The mission was a success.” He continued, puffing out his chest and deepening his voice several octaves while he did; “Yes, many were killed. It was a victorious battle for all Klingondom (“Klingondom?!” he thought, barely able to control the laughing fit building in his belly), indeed.” D’eVo could take no more: he simply walked down the steps, as stoically and ‘gloriously’ as possible, hoping he could make it out of there before he broke down into a roaring episode of psychotic hilarity.
The initiate allowed himself a nervous, quick glance at D’eVo from the side of his hood, then dropped his head back down just as quickly. The young man started to speak, very rapidly (as if he was nervous, fearful and excited, all at once); “Yes, the enemies of Kahless must be dealt with as severely as possible, I think, don’t you?! Soon the House of Dk’tahg (“Excuse me?!” D’eVo thought, alarmed at the sudden mention of his Klingon family name in this strange conversation) will know that the prophet and his anointed followers will not lie down like t’args and die!”
D’eVo looked at the young monk and said “Yes, the … House of Dk’tahg are next (“We’ll just see about THAT!”). Tell me, oh holy one, what do you think of our sacred mission?”
The heavyset man-boy actually looked up at D’eVo, shocked that such a noble warrior would want to know his opinion on any subject. He then lowered his gaze again, and started stammering; “Sir … I don’t feel worthy …” D’eVo placed a heavy, comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “But you are worthy” he commanded “for you are Klingon.” The fat monk looked up D’eVo meekly – almost on the verge of tears – then straightened up and said, proudly (“and stupidly” D’eVo thought); “Once the threats to the ascendancy are eliminated, the sons and daughters of Kah’less can take their rightful place on the Council. It will be glorious.” The man-child was now in an obvious state of religious glee, staring blankly off into the air, breathing heavily, with a few droplets of sweat beading up on his ridged brow.
D’eVo sized up the zealot for a few seconds. His mind analyzed three immediate options: “bleed this freak right here, as an example: Not very pleasant, but effective for certain psy-ops purposes.” Or he could “jam a gun in his face and make him tell me everything I need to know.” He decided on the third option: he would return to find out more, and then – with the help of certain friends and family, wipe out the entire ‘viper’s nest’ attempting such a blatant assault on his family- not to mention a serious violation of the Klingon High Council’s rule of law.
“I will return here soon, noble monk. Be ready to welcome a warrior. I must confirm certain … logistical details with you. Farewell.” He then turned and left the awestruck monk behind. D’eVo did not like what he heard the young man had to say. That wasn’t the ramblings of a madman, any more than the small building he was leaving was any sort of prayer chapel. “After all” he reasoned “this is still Cr’oNos.” “I need to get back to the Axel, and get a few ‘things.’ I need to contact my family … I wonder if I can snag one or two of the crew to help me?” he thought, growing more anxious and concerned by the second.
As he stepped out into the twilight, his thoughts turned as grim as the oncoming blackness of the Klingon night. D’eVo headed for the bright lights of the spaceport, a black figure of vengeance spotlit severely by the streetlights flickering on with his steps (almost as if by his very will). As he was greeted by the visual and auditory noise of the [now] busy streets surrounding the spaceport, his thoughts turned to the practicalities of his plan. “I should probably let Daius know about this … I wonder who else would be ‘helpful’ …”
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CHAPTER TWO
G’rok RagNa’Rok burst into the chapel, shattering the calm (and startling a very confused-looking monk in the process). He marched through the quiet, holy space like it was the bridge of his own Warbird. He turned his head towards the fat, quivering excuse for a Klingon cowering near the altar, directing his course to confront the youthful zealot.
Tork Mana’ti stared at the warrior, the puzzled look on his face revealing his slight confusion at the man’s sudden, unexplained return. “Did he forget something?” he wondered, as the other Klingon drew closer; “Perhaps he needs to tell me something …” Tork’s mind kept pondering the situation, even as the warrior’s form became larger - as he approached - and more-defined in the dim, soft lighting of the chapel. Before he could stop himself (or even debate the wisdom of speaking to one of his betters without being spoken to first), he heard his voice blurt out; “May I offer my humble assistance, sir? Do you require further information about your mission?”
As the man got closer and closer, Tork noticed that this was … “a different warrior!” This one was taller, with a slightly darker complexion. This Klingon showed the signs of a hard life spent killing his way up the food chain of one of the Empire’s most bloodthirsty and power-hungry houses. A large scar covered half of the man’s face, and his long hair was unkempt (and thinning in spots, Tork noticed, too shocked to even question why he would notice such a strange, insignificant detail). “They could be brothers …” he wondered, struck by the uncanny resemblance between both men.
G’rok looked at the gap-mouthed, too-polite monk with a mixture of loathing and annoyance. “What are you babbling about, boy?!” the commander inquired sternly.
“Another warrior was just here, sir …” the pale-faced, heavyset young man stammered, “he said he was part of our sacred mission …” Tork’s milky, yellow rimmed eyes shifted as he spoke, as if he was looking for someone else in the room to confirm or deny what was happening.
G’rok RagNa’Rok’s manipulative, calculating mind instantly realized the implications of what the monk was saying. “There was to be no-one else here besides the boy …” he thought, as the rage started sweeping through him. He raised one hand to chastise the dumbstruck fool (undeniably impressed by the young man’s proud, almost defiant, willingness to take his richly-deserved beating like a real Klingon man), then stopped in mid-air. “Besides, this peta’Q might still prove ’useful.’
G’rok let his hand drop, then snarled; “Take me to the command center. NOW.” The monk simply turned to the left and headed behind the raised altar, descending down a short flight of steps towards one of the wall-sized mosaics (this one depicting an early space battle between the Klingons and Starfleet; a beautifully detailed starscape … It pictured a victorious Bird-of-Prey hovering over a broken deep-space cruiser, the slight, greenish glow of a disruptor blast preparing to obliterate the weakened Federation vessel. The rich colors of the artwork made it glow eerily in the chapel’s minimal lighting).
Tork stood in front of the artwork, both hands pressed out in front of him. His fingers traced the tiles, pressing on the surface, as if he was trying to push open a door. Soon, his hands had found a series of recessed tiles, and he began to press them like buttons in a seemingly random pattern. He then stopped, stepping back from the wall, as the unmistakable hum of machinery started to whir, and a slight mist of steam seeping out from the outer edges of the fine art. Seconds later, the mosaic shifted out from the wall - along with the surrounding blackstone wall behind it - and began to shift over to the right, almost as if it was trying to creep out of the building. The wall-section finished it’s sideways creep, stopping with a slight metallic groan.
The cavernous, empty space behind the wall was a perfectly cut square, although it was impossible to see beyond. Tork re-approached the wall, and the opening lit up, illuminating a large earthen chamber beyond the new doorway. The monk then turned on his side, motioning G’rok towards the opening, and waited expectantly.
G’rok approached the hidden doorway cautiously - trusting the monks (as much as he could) not to betray him, but always prepared for proper Klingon treachery. At reaching the doorway, he noticed that the sliding secret-panel was actually on a gravitic track, with lighting, bio-scanners, and motion detectors built right into the mechanism. The band of artificial light that bordered the doorwaychanged colors as he approached, signaling cleared passage into the chamber beyond. He looked down, noticing a crude - yet secure-looking - metal staircase leading down into the carved-out hollow below. The stairs illuminated with each step, revealing the command center laid-out in the chapel’s cavernous basement. G’rok looked over the circular staircase’s railing, just as the artificial lights started switching on, illuminating neat rows of disruptor rifles, hanging racks of shining black body armor, ground vehicles, computer equipment, transporter assemblies, and other various pieces of military hardware. He was disturbed by the sheer inefficiency of moving such a large amount of equipment away from his troop’s primary objective, but relieved he was there to handle things properly.
“Initiate!” he barked, and was answered by the shuffling, bowed form of the pale, fat, young thing. “Have this equipment moved out to our safe houses surrounding the Council chambers. Use the catacombs if you must - and stay out of the chapel.” Before bullying his way past the eager-to-serve monk, the self-appointed general turned back to the manchild and offered one final order: “Do not fail me, again, monk. Guard this equipment well, and cover your movements, or the t’args will feast on your bloated carcass.”
T’ork Man’ati bowed solemnly, once, before shuffling down the stairs at an impressive rate of speed. Years of wearing the initiate’s robes had trained himself to move quickly - almost gracefully (in spite of his large, overweight form) - in the clumsy garments. “I WILL serve my master proudly, and with honor.” he repeated in his inner voice, grateful for a second chance to serve the one, true galactic Empire. After reminding and reaffirming his duty, he began to formulate a plan to move a 100-man regiment’s worth of weaponry, support materiel, and assorted supplies through the city’s underground tunnels … all by himself.
G’rok RagNa’Rok plodded through the empty chapel, busily digging in his inner jacket pockets, as he walked. He pulled out a short metal cylinder, and his fingers began scrolling across a series of adjustable dials on the container’s surface. Soon after, the cylinder popped open in the center, and out rolled three marble sized, silvery spheres. As the tiny globes hit the floor, each landed with a sharp, metallic clank, and began rolling away in different directions. As the pellets rolled away - each being propelled by an interior micro-motor - G’rok shouted an order to the empty room; “Security system. Upload all data from the previous 24 hours directly to my uplink.” He would find out who this other ‘warrior’ was, and eliminate him, if he must. “I have labored too long to see the Empire ruled by cowards and human-lovers one more second than necessary.” He exited the meditation-space, just as he entered, his royal bearing and inflated ego grander and more glorious than any mere … religion (but he wasn’t too honor-blind to realize the strategic benefit of using the Kahless worshipers’ blind faith, as “a rallying cause and propaganda tool, if nothing else …”
T’ork reached the bottom of the stairs, allowing himself a moment of rest. As he leaned into the stair railing, panting and slightly sweaty, he checked the room, still formulating his massive moving chore. “I can beam out the heavy equipment with the site-to-site transport, and move the rest with the ground cars …”
Upstairs in the chapel, each of the silver marbles was still rolling across the floor. When each ball had reached a corner, they stopped rolling. Resting safely against their respective walls, each cylinder drilled a tiny anchor into the floor - securing it in place. Seconds later, each of the spheres began to emit a pale, aquamarine glow. This was followed by a flurry of tiny, silvery, pinpoints of light filling the room; floating through the empty air, flecks of radioactively charged dust. In a swirl of motion, the pinpoints coalesced into a solid ball of energy burning brightly in the center of the room. The flaming mass ejected an outer ring - like a star’s corona - which then spread out to each end of the room, brushing against every surface. Just as suddenly, the entire singularity imploded, drawing the strange silver light into it’s center, where it coalesced into a tiny, white-hot vortex before winking out entirely …
T’ork Ma’naTi heard a loud, muffled explosion thump from the chapel above, followed by a series of faint – yet distinct – crackling, crunching sounds. Immediately (almost in response) the security system screamed out a brief, whooping alarm klaxon, once, then wound down to complete silence. “Was that the radiation sensor?” the concerned monk wondered, before carefully ambling up the circular staircase to check the readout (convinced that the lead-lined, enhanced duranium, meter-thick blast door would prevent any accidental spills).
By the time the heavyset young man reached the top of the stairs, he was panting heavily, and feeling a bit lightheaded. As he read the security sensor’s data monitor, he noticed that there was a registered antimatter charge in the room, which triggered the energy weapon alarm. The next line of text revealed an “all-clear” scan, as if the recorded plasma discharge never happened. T’ork saw that the fire-suppression system was also turned on briefly, and shut down just as rapidly –as if everything in the room spontaneously combusted, then cooled into ash within a handful of seconds. Even more disturbing, the final line of the readout was flashing a series of lime-green ‘query’ characters.
T’ork cycled through each of the system’s video feeds, and found nothing but static. He then checked the ambient scanning sensors, which were still functioning. What he found was a curious sight; every object in the room, as well as the room itself appeared ‘hollowed out.’ The vectored, two-color images displayed showed the basic outline of everything in the chapel, but the interiors of these objects were bizarrely devoid of mass. The display showed a trailing shower of individual atoms falling away from each item, and then winking out, as if the entire room was being erased from existence.
After a few seconds of dreamily watching the eerie, beautiful picture of destruction, T’ork snapped back to his senses. Flying down the staircase – his monk’s robe flowing out behind him like a cape – he realized that the mission had been compromised, and that he needed to move faster than was originally anticipated: “If the room has been ‘sterilized’, that means that the infidels may come looking for more” he thought (jumping off the final row of stairs).
He stood next to the worn, underground roadway and pulled out a small remote control unit. The massive land-trucks parked next to him all bore the official seal of the local city planning department. Each truck would hold most, if not all, of the holy ones’ necessary weapons and armaments. “Best of all,” the Klingon monk reasoned “we’ll be able to move our forces, intact and completely protected, right into the heart of the city.”
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Location:
Qo’Nos – CamChee [capital city]; KLF armory (below the ‘chapel’)
Timeline:
Before the ground battle begins …
He [Tork] stood next to the worn, underground roadway and pulled out a small remote control unit. The massive land-trucks parked next to him all bore the official seal of the local city planning department. Each truck would hold most, if not all, of the holy ones’ necessary weapons and armaments. “Best of all,” the Klingon monk reasoned “we’ll be able to move our forces, intact and completely protected, right into the heart of the city.”
T’ork, assuming that the order for battle had been given, busied himself rousing the troops and taking care of the ‘supplies.’
He first pulled a thick PADD out of the folds of his robes, and began strolling through the makeshift armory. He sent an ‘all-hands’ hail to the allies within the city, along with an individual care package. He moved through the racks, sending each holy soldier a complete suit of body-armor, a disruptor rifle and mek’leth. He paused as each set of materiel disappeared off the rack, checking it off on the PADD, before continuing on down the line to the next set of equipment.
After the racks of weapons and armor were emptied, T’ork moved over to the underground track. The massive troop transports and armored assault vehicles were all prepped, checked, armored, armed and ready … all they needed were some warm, willing bodies inside of them …
“May The Prophet be praised for this impressive technology” T’ork whispered in awe. He then gleefully slid the remote control tablet into an input slot on the front of his PADD. As the PADD fed friendly coordinates and other tactical data to the remote, he could feel the soft vibration of the vehicle’s engines humming to life. T’ork mentally uttered another prayer of gratitude for the helpful equipment, and watched as each vehicle drove off, in turn, through the service tunnels in front of him.
Each of the vehicles was on full auto-pilot, each driving itself to pick up it’s own share of organic killing machines. The service trucks leading the way were the same design as used by city maintenance crews, even down to the paint jobs, license holograms, etc. These would pass unnoticed, as they were often unmanned for night duty, and were as ubiquitous as long hair and unveiled threats in the Klingon capitol city. T’ork allowed himself the earthly pleasure of a brief, ironic smile: the ‘maintenance’ trucks were filled to the walls with artillery pieces, and other heavy-duty tools for any proper ethnic cleansing. The battle vans would pick up their crews as well, all the while using their modified inboard systems to scan and identify any possible threats or traitors. The assault vehicles modified – and fully capable – customized weapons systems would easily eliminate any threats or traitors … with or without a driving crew.
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G’roK RagNa’Rok strolled down the narrow tile avenue slowly, almost casually. When he was about half-a-city block from the chapel, he heard a soft, bassy explosion behind him - the telltale thump of a quantum grenade. He couldn’t help but break into a broad smile as he walked down the deserted city street (even as his thoughts turned to the important matters at hand). “I’ll check the surveillance logs once I’m back on my ship. I WILL find out who this interloper was. As if it matters … soon the House of Rag’na’Rok will be ruling all of Klingon – what can one or two petty Houses do against the entire Imperial fleet?”
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LOCATION:
Quo’Nos; Spaceport
D
’eVo raced through the spaceport, swiftly negotiating the thick crowds with the grace of a hungry wildcat. He was a nervous ball of energy zipping through narrow spaces between aliens, dodging floating racks of luggage, and sidestepping various aggressive merchants and pious missionaries, as he rushed towards his destination. D’eVo, plasma-charged by the fight or flight rush of a genuine, life-or-death family emergency, even looked past the obvious annoyances that always came with any large gathering of assorted ‘freaks and idiots.’
He arrived at just the right place in the old end of the ‘port’s “mall” area (“Or what’s left of it …” he thought, gloomily reflecting on the run-down, seedy neighborhood) – almost by autopilot. The crowd had dwindled to a few brave, or lost (“or just plain STUPID”) shoppers, most of whom scurried through with their heads down, avoiding eye contact (wanting to conduct their business and be on their way, D’eVo knew from personal experience). The rest were a handful of lost, wide-eyed tourists about to be ripped off, robbed, arrested, all three – “or worse” D’eVo thought. Realizing that he had neither the time, energy, nor interest in helping any of these easy marks with their oncoming financial, legal, or health issues, he too, ducked into ‘I didn’t see nuthin’ / I don’t want no trouble’ mode himself. Keeping his own head down as he stayed in the shadows of closed, abandoned or destroyed storefronts along one side of the mall’s wide walkway, D’eVo scanned the surrounding area sideways with his peripheral vision.
A very disheveled and obviously drunk Klingon was noisily sleeping it off on one of the benches lining the walkway’s ‘decorative’ hedges (the plants themselves were either overgrown or dying, and the planters themselves were decorated with an assortment of trash). All of the shops on D’eVo side of the aisle were empty, and aside from a questionable “Fresh” gagh stand, the stores on the other side were out-of-business also. D’eVo could see flickers of movement in the darkness of some of the abandoned shops; a variety of criminal activity, no doubt (a thought that he found strangely comforting and alarming at the same time) …
He spotted a ‘self-serve’ transporter kiosk, at the end of the “bad part of the mall’s” deadend intersection. The stand was surrounded by a sleazy sex shop on the right, and an open, half-constructed lot on the left. A variety of street people and the galaxy’s down and out were mingling around the open area (“Look sharp, Cal.” D’eVo warned himself; “This might be trouble …”). As D’eVo pressed on – his city-vision sweeping everything in his path, while avoiding direct eye contact with anyone – he noticed that the transporter stand was manned by a single attendant, another sleeping Klingon male. This one looked like a slightly cleaned-up version of the drunk he spotted passed out in the hedges earlier. “Ah, that’s reassuring” he joked to himself “more quality service from the ‘Bloodwine Brothers!’ ” D’eVo approached the transporter pad cautiously …
Fortunately, the transporter control unit and pad appeared to be solidly built, regularly maintained, and modern. Although adapted for commercial use, it appeared to be an amalgam of starship-level technologies, only much simpler and streamlined for limited applications. D’eVo fumbled in his pockets for a credit chip – keeping both eyes out for any sneaking thieves in his periphery – the comm chip in his vest blared (loudly) =/\= Korav to Calvin and Doc, change of plans. Rendezvous back at the Axel. I've got an errand to run. Doc, you're gonna be needed in sickbay soon. =/\=
“Crap!” D’eVo muttered as he slapped his left breast pocket, switching off the comm. The napping Klingon in the transporter kiosk’s booth woke up at the sound, looking at D’eVo with a look of sleepy annoyance. D’eVo ignored the attendant as he inputted the Axel’s temporary registration code, specified a one-way beamout, and paced through the usual set of questions and warnings. As he stepped onto the platform, his thoughts focused again on the ‘family emergency’ at hand, the threat it presented to the Empire … “Not too mention the rest of the galaxy” he thought, grimly pondering the possibility of a return to the Empire’s days of fascist galactic domination (surprised to find himself literally shivering at the thought)
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Setting:
Dauis' quarters aboard Axel
N
ow naked from the waist up - a thin layer of sweat glistening off of his muscular chest - he tore off the remaining layers and tossed them to the floor, then looked back up at Daius. She had pulled her kimono back on, and was staring at him with a concerned look on her face.
"Umm we should be ... going … what if something happens?"
Feeling a bit awkward and silly, D'eVo (Calvin) quickly agreed: "Yeah, you're probably right." As he succumbed to common sense, priorities and family responsibilities ("Besides, taking off that damn armor kinda killed the mood anyway …" he thought, annoyed), D'eVo was almost grateful for the bulky nuisance now lying in a bulky pile around his feet.
"They are my family too remember - I took a blood oath. And YOU know I always keep my word to those I love and trust."
"OK, whatever ... does this mean I have to put all this crap back on?" D'eVo said (gesturing to the layers of body armor on the floor) - his boyish grin betraying the frustrated annoyance of his words.
Seeing that Daius wasn't in any hurry to get dressed, D'eVo strolled over to her (kicking away at a thick pile of leather, steel and blast-padding at his feet). Dauis only looked back at him expectantly, saying nothing. He noticed that the front of her kimono had spilled open, revealing a patch of pristine olive skin, the outline of her breasts, the gentle part between her thighs, her … He leaned forward, pressing his naked chest into hers, and …
"OH SH!T" Dauis pushes away and slaps her personal communicator.
"Yes. He is here, Uncle" She hands him the communicator and mouths who it is.
D'eVo rolled his eyes at Thedaius as he snatched the communicator from her. "What do you want ("Q'pla?!")?" he said - as indifferently as possible - while moving over to this discarded pile of clothes near Daius' bed. "Yes, Uncle", he said dutifully while he dressed. He stopped suddenly while General V'ostoK Dk'tahg was in the middle of shouting his concerns about current events. "Are you sure this is a secure channel? I have something I need to tell you!" D'eVo blurted out, interrupting the elder Klingon without hesitation (or apology, in perfect Klingon etiquette). "Yes I can meet you there … in about an hour. Good." He then tossed the communicator on Daius' bed, before turning to her and saying; "NOW we have to go."
Seeing the change in his mood as he took the call, Dauis knew it wasn't good. She helped him with his clothes she went over to the table and took the blade and as a wife would do placed the blade in his hands with the warrior's blessing. She spoke in perfect Klingon having learned from his Uncle as a child. She added her own in her own mother tongue. Turning to find her own clothes she felt his hand on her arm.
"Calvin ... It’s been years since I've seen them. Do they still feel the same?"
“Daius, you know my mom always wanted another daughter … she raised five Klingon boys, two girls - and me. You know she had her hands full!” Calvin reassured her, giving her forearm a playful squeeze as he did, even while his mind his focused on the strange events of the day, in all their horrible implications. The truth of the matter was that, no matter what he tried to say or do to comfort her, his thoughts were burdened with the fate of the Dk’tahg clan, not to mention the Empire itself … “not to mention the rest of the galaxy!” (He thought, with a sense of alarm that was bordering on hopeless, blind panic)
She dressed quickly she was brushing her hair over her ears, "Do you still like me in this Klingon outfit?" She grinned trying to ease the heaviness that had come over the room.
Calvin turned to look over at Thedaius, and – in spite of himself – couldn’t help but smile at the sight. She was dressed in traditional Klingon body armor (which had apparently been tailor-fitted to her agile, lighter figure); the leather and steel, combined with her classic Vulcanesque beauty, made her look as deadly serious as a plasma storm – she was still holding the custom dagger in her striking hand … The loose, gray-black traveler’s cloak and hood completed the disguise, hiding her perfectly pointed ears and smooth, angular features (“from the wrong sort of attention.” Cal/D’eVo thought, concerned about the average idiot on the street’s reaction to a “Vulcan” walking around in Klingon garb – ‘new age’ or not …) The whole ensemble was a perfect combination of Rhiannsu stealth and Klinzhai intimidation. Cal also couldn’t help but notice just how unbelievably sexy Daius’ new outfit was, either …
Still a bit lightheaded and distracted from their earlier bout of interrupted lovemaking, all Cal could say in response was; “Yes, yes I do … it makes me want to rip it off you and finish what we started!”
"Oh ... really? Well you'll have to wait until later lover boy"
She pulled out her own weapon - a ‘Lady's Blade.’ "You like?" Dauis grinned.
"Nice …" Calvin (D'eVo) replied in approval, impressed – heart swelling with Klingon pride - at her choice of weapon. The dagger was deceptively thin and short, with a blade about twice the length of the stocky, yet lightweight handle. The blade had a serrated edge on the bottom, while the top was beveled to a razor-sharp, triangular edge. The blade's tip was a perfectly spiked point, "for the perfect puncture wound" Cal observed; "Yeah, this'll do …" he said –suddenly remembering the over-packed duffle of weapons in the corner. "I've got a few things in my bag that might also be 'helpful'…"
She watched as he pulled out a few of his "little friends".
"My my ... such big toys Cal … I do love your toy box." She then got down to business her training kicked in. She like him was well trained in many things. One thing Dauis liked about Klinzhai was the customs of letting one’s enemy see their death: up close and personal.
"I swear to you De'Vo I will be by your side until death." She used his Klinzhai name. Smiling she awaited his orders.
“Good to know” D’eVo replied, coolly, with a slight, solemn nod. The lady’s hand-to-hand abilities were impressive, and she could handle a blade with an artistic flair - and almost surgical precision. Calvin (D’eVo) couldn’t stand the idea of burying another lover, and certainly not over what appeared to be a squabbling, backstabbing feud between two powerful Klingon Houses. “Besides” he thought, his mind attempting to balance out several conflicting considerations at once, “I think StarFleet wants me to ‘collect information’ with a minimal body count and NOT start any ‘intergalactic incidents.’ Oh well,” he finally reasoned silently, “family comes first …”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that …” he told Daius, trailing off (trying to piece together some sort of mission objective - when in fact he had only the faintest notion of how to proceed). “Well, we should probably get going …”
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General G'rok Du'Vet Dk'tahg paced around his private office like a caged tiger, nervously fretting over the patchy intel he'd been receiving for the past few days. If what the reports said was true, then the mighty House of Dk'tahg was facing a very serious threat. If the reports were true, then the Empire itself was facing a serious threat. "And" he thought, "if all this is true, then it'll be the rest of the galaxy's problem before anyone knows it!"
Calvin stiffened into a broad military posture as soon as the familiar surroundings of the Dk'tahg administrative center's imposing architecture came into view. He and Thedaius had materialized in the middle of the main corridor, and the stern, quietly official area always managed to hush him into a respectful, almost awestruck silence. "We need to keep our heads down and our mouths shut" he whispered to Daius, before adding; "his office should be right up this way." He prodded on down the hall, brazenly ignoring his own advice (remembering his altered appearance, and the relative anonymity it provided); marching through the halls with his head thrown back and his chest puffed out - the proud bearing of any miscellaneous Klingon warrior. He ignored the offended, insulted look Daius shot him sideways under her hood; "I KNOW she knows better" he thought, feeling a twinge of regret over his hasty comments. "I'll talk to her later if she's still pissed off about it. She knows what's at risk here …" he mused, idly filling his head with insignificant drama (rather than the deadly serious political intrigue he had been considering for the past day or so).
The way he was walking opposite what he had just told her they needed to do pissed her off but didn't surprise her. It annoyed her, pissed her off, and yes made her want to tear his fake Klingon head off. But surprise? No nothing he did surprised her much. "I'll tear you a new one later D'eVo Dk'tahg trust me. I can wait a long time for it. Your Mother taught me many things on how to handle a Klingon male." She said under her breath. She kept her face hidden from onlookers not knowing who was loyal and who was not. She knew the house felt she was one of their own. The risk if they were found out could mean death for many - her and him included. She knew as a Rhiannsu she had a perfect excuse to bail out and use what she knew. The info she had could get her a nice retirement back on the home world: with servants and enough money to live like a queen. She pushed the thought from her mind. These people; Calvin's Klingon family, had treated her like one of their own. They were her family. Her father would have been ashamed of her if she turned her back on them and thought only of herself. Smiling remembering it was her loyalty to this family that had caused her to be sent to the Feds by the Empire. She had bailed one of his "Brothers" out of a jam and got her cover blown in the process. She didn't care and had said as much to her superiors. She followed him not wanting to lose him again he wasn't going to let him go after what she had just gone through to keep him. She hoped The General still felt the same about her as he had the last time she saw him so long ago.
General Vos'toK turned his attention towards the military–grade toy box lying on top of his massive desk. His 'nephew' had beamed it through a secured circuit - luckily avoiding detection by the proper authorities- and there it sat, beckoning, almost taunting him, to open it. Vos'toK approached the box carefully, almost as if it was a wounded – and very dangerous – animal. The lock-box was a simple metal container, with a thermal seal and a simple-but-sturdy crypto-keypad lock. He could only guess at it's contents, and while he wouldn't admit to even the slightest sense of anxiety over the simple container, he was well aware of who it was from. "Only a fool shows NO fear" he whispered to himself, mindlessly tapping his fingertips across the cool, duranium top. He knew that he wasn't literally afraid of the lock-box, but he couldn't deny his instincts, either. Then there were his own past experiences in dealing with the family's most notorious black sheep.
He still remembered commanding a squadron of House starfighters to rescue the young, panic-stricken Terran from a Cardassian prison work-camp, after the boy was caught "selling black-market armaments to the losing side in some sort of spoonhead imperial conflict." That thought led to another memory … The General reminisced about the involvement of a certain Vulcan diplomat/spy (and another of the human male's adopted 'uncles') to help extricate 'Calvin' from another sticky situation. Vos'toK actually started to chuckle softly at the memory … Cal had stumbled across a pre-warp, matriarchal society filled with some of the most beautiful women the General had ever seen. Apparently, D'eVo had somehow managed to be married to several of the women, simultaneously, without being aware of the fact (not to mention several of his charming 'brides'). Apparently, this sort of thing wasn't tolerated lightly in the alien society, and Cal was about to be publicly castrated for the offense. Vos'toK's soft chuckle began to change into a roaring belly laugh at the absurdity of sending in a Vulcan male to rescue a hormone-drunk Terran one, from what most species' males would consider a veritable paradise.
Arriving at the massive, black and gray marble doors of the General's administrative offices – indicated by the silver and gold 'dagger' family crest engraved in the center – D'eVo turned around to look at Thedaius with an expression of overdue concern. "Hey, I'm sorry about earlier … this thing has gotten me all bent-out-of-shape." He then added, with a dry smile; "You know, it's not too late to turn around and forget about all of this …"
"I'm here, D'eVo. They are as much my family as they are yours. I wanted to see them again anyway. But, I had hoped it to be under better skies. As for the demo you just did..." She paused and moved her head closer, "Your Mother gave me some great ideas for your punishment, A'rhea." She smiled at him reminding him of the looks his mother gave his father when he had done something she wasn't happy with. Thedauis turned her attention to the door. "Besides we are on the same side. I have a feeling I may be asking for your help after I let the Empire know I quit. They won't like that." Letting that drop as they stood there, Dauis was letting him know she had made a choice one she was going to keep.
Vos'toK Dk'tahg was still absentmindedly staring at the lock-box when he heard the door chime. He looked up and saw a dark-skinned, tall, and broad-shouldered Klingon warrior, in full body armor, accompanied by a much smaller … female (it was hard to tell under the thick black cloak the person was wearing)? The male looked like any random face in the crowd at any random Klinzhai gathering: deep forehead ridges, chocolate skin, and a mane of thick, straight black hair spilling over his shoulders. There was something in the man's eyes, however … a haunting, telltale expression that … "D'eVo?!" the General stammered (still unsure of the man's intentions OR identity). Before the other man could even respond, General Vos'toK looked over at his mysterious companion. The cloaked figure lifted back it's hood to reveal the high-cheekbones, pointed ears and the soft, slightly Asiatic features – of a Romulan female! The young man broke the silence; "Uncle …" and the familiar, friendly voice gave him away immediately. "You remember Thedaius." D'eVo said, offering up the minimal social grace afforded to one's significant other in Klingon culture (Cal, still smarting from Daius' stern rebuke and the promise of future punishments, decided it was best to proceed as carefully as possible). "Ahh … Thedaius" Vos'toK beamed, eager to reach out and kiss the charming young lady's battle-gloved hand. "How are you, my dear?"
The General genuinely liked the young Romulan woman; "that one has the heart of a Klingon princess" he thought - before uttering a silent prayer for Calvin's safety.
Seeing her lover's Uncle again brought back the feeling of being a part of something bigger. She extended her hand to the General allowing him to take it in his and kiss it as was proper. "It’s been too long Dear Uncle. I hope the family is well. I have missed sparring with D'eVo's brothers. I am sure they haven't forgotten the lessons we all learned." Smiling she remembered beating the pants off all of them to everyone but the General's suprise. "I am well and ready for battle, Uncle."
General Vos'toK nodded politely in response – stoking the thin patchy growth of silvery beard on his chin, while he listened – and allowed himself a brief chuckle at Daius' comment(s), before turning his attention to D'eVo. "Well?!" he demanded, his tone changing from friendly affection to one of a stern, disapproving parent.
D'eVo looked the General dead in the eye and launched into his mission briefing, without any Terran pleasantries or awkward small-talk. "I was in a chapel near the spaceport – just clearing my head – and a monk started telling me about a plot against the House. The 'chapel' appeared to be a front for something else – a military installation, maybe? – there was technology there that a regular meditation space wouldn't need … What is this all about, Uncle?!"
The General said nothing at first, and instead marched briskly – his speed and grace defying his age and girth – over to the center of his desk. Pushing his chair out of the way, the grizzled old warrior glided his fingers over the holo-keyboard floating above his desk-top. Pulling up a one-way data monitor, he then pulled up his chair and sat in front of the display (still ignoring the odd couple only meters away). He then looked back at the two young operatives and began briefing them on his what he knew.
"We started receiving reports, months ago, that the House of Rag'na'Rok – a fairly minor House, really – was plotting an aggressive takeover of some of our outlying properties in the Situ system. We receive some sort of death threat from piddling little Houses all the time – this is still Qo'Nos, after all – but every threat is still investigated. I personally commanded a regiment of Warbirds to that sector, and found absolutely nothing. Situ is basically a dead star system; one barely habitable rock, the rest just mineral and gas reserves for the House."
"When I got back, I started hearing rumors – again, the Rag'na'Rok family was mentioned specifically – of a minor House trying to force it's way onto the Council, possibly trying a full takeover … This time, the decision was made to wait and see - after all, what could a handful of backwater hicks do against the mighty Dk'tahg fleet? Or against our assembled numbers on the ground?" He paused, almost as if he expected an answer, and then continued (abruptly cutting off whatever response he expected). "Well, as it turns out, this House – along with a handful of others – used my time away to start pressing their influence. It seems that they were dangling the promise of a ‘High Emperor Kahless’ to their people. When they found there was NO WAY the Council would allow this, we heard nothing else of it. Until a few weeks ago …”
General Vos’toK then turned away from the couple, switching off the floating display (although he had been ignoring it completely for the past few seconds; staring at the pair with a look of deadly seriousness, rattling off the facts in a casual tone). He looked directly at D’eVo and Daius before stating, bluntly: “Several days ago, I received a confidential message from a secure source: They’re planning on installing a son or daughter of Kahless directly onto the High Council. We don’t know if they’re going to challenge the Emperor directly, or attempt a military takeover, or both.”
The General paused, barking a whispered command into his desk. A second later, an ice-cold glass of water appeared on his desk. Vos’toK paused to sip the refreshing drink, then continued. “Their new ‘Emperor’, won't be bound by any intergalactic peace treaty or diplomatic … obligations. They’ve been promising a ‘return to glory’ … bringing back the bad old days …" The distinguished Klingon gentleman-officer trailed off, eyeing up his two wayward associates, letting the horrible truth sink in.
"But, that would mean open war with the Federation, the Star Empire, or anyone who crosses the Empire's path!" D'eVo blurted out. “Don’t these idiots know that the rest of the galaxy isn’t going to tolerate old-fashioned Klingon behavior anymore? Besides, StarFleet alone could smash the homeworld into a billion tiny pieces. And that doesn’t count the Star Empire, the Cardassians, and everyone else who’s gonna get their toes stepped on!”
"If I may say something," Daius interjected, "my brother has sent me messages saying that many in the Star Empire are helping with this coup. There are many who would love to feast on the bones of chaos. As you know my family has no love for the Star Empire. My brother is a well known thorn in their side."
Turning to face D'eVo she looked right into his eyes, "There are many more than you know D'eVo. Too many for comfort. Many feel we have grown soft and weak since the truce. I for one feel we have been enjoying peace too much. I don't advocate what they plan. But I do say we need to watch our backs and show we are still strong." She smiled, "I am as Klingon as you. I took a blood oath to protect yours and I will die doing so. You know this for you have seen it. I have much to tell you and the family. Intel I have collected over the past few months alone. My brother isn't called the Black Hand for nothing. He has sent me much telling me to do with it as I wish. By giving it to you or the Feds I can lose more than my job. This is one act that can not ignore. I risk my life once again for you, my love."
D’eVo simply stood up, and stared into the void, saying nothing. He then looked at the General and demanded; “What do you want to US to do about this, Vest’aI (‘Honored One’)?”
Seeing the look on her Love's face Dauis bit back the words forming in her mouth knowing that they were not needed. She may not have grown up as had D'evo with a Klingon family, but she knew what was expected and kept her place. Her own upbringing taught her family was to be honored. She looked at the man she had called Uncle for many years.
The General simply smiled broadly at Calvin, sitting back in his chair. "I believe you have some contacts in … StarFleet Intelligence, was it? Perhaps you could call in a favor from your Federation friends?" Vos'tok Dk'tahg winked at his prodigal 'Klingon' nephew, and stared at the couple with a mischievous grin, before continuing … "Oh, you didn't think I knew about your little side venture, did you? This" he gestured at Cal's altered appearance and Klingon battle-armor "along with your little Romulan friend there – and let's not forget that floating garbage scow you came here in … Did you really think we wouldn't know?!" By the time he finished, the tired old general was grinning like a boy, his gray eyes alive with calculated 'mischief.'
D'eVo simply sighed in response to the General's grave – and true – allegations. He then strolled over to his elder, ready to deal with the old man in kind. Fully aware of how desperate the Klingon commander must be - to try to a risky gambit like outright blackmail – he inched in closer, and said; "That's ENOUGH, 'Uncle.'" In the same low, whispered growl, he added; "You have my help. One more threat, and me and my 'Romulan friend' beam out of here, and you can deal with this yourself." D'eVo stared down at the shorter, older man, prepared to "wait out this Klingon pissing contest until the old coot comes to his senses.
"You both are like children!" Dauis stated as she stood up and walked over her cloak billowing behind her. "I have my own troubles to deal with here on world. I promised Your Mother, D'eVo that the next time I came I'd see her. We have some matters of great important to discuss." She was about to head out pulling her hood when she stopped hearing one of the two speak. Her mind returned from the matter with his Mother to the one the two men were discussing.
D'eVo turned from Daius to his stare-down with the elder Klingon commander. “She’s right” he thought, growing irritated with this unnecessary waste of precious time. “I wonder how long it’s going to take for HIM to realize it …” D’eVo wondered, his stance and expression yielding no quarter in the two men’s silent, charged confrontation.
The uncomfortable, charged silence between the two men was broken by General Vos'toK Dk'tahg's deep, roaring belly laugh. "Ah, D'eVo, you still have the soul of a warrior!" The jolly old general then swept his Klingon-disguised Terran nephew into a crushing, overly affectionate bear hug.
After the – surprisingly strong – older man set him back down, D'eVo caught his breath and said "Now, we know the Feds won't get involved until an enemy fleet is actually ready to destroy Earth, so they're out for now. Besides, I'm not spending the rest of my life in a Federation pen for treason, if I can help it. I'm guessing we won't get any official help from the Romulan government either. Am I right, sweetheart?" D'eVo asked, looking over at Thedaius.
"You are right, my government will not give any official help. They will wait to see who wins and offer help to the victor unless they wish to wage war." She stood near the door, the item on her mind pressing. It had been many months since she had been here last. She hoped all was well. D'eVo's mother didn't seemed worried when she sent the transmission last week. Just the normal batter and items one tells family updating on the happenings.
“So again, dear Uncle, what do you want US to do about it?” D’eVo asked. “Wait here until the House fleet arrives? I doubt the three of us could hold off a serious takeover by ourselves – even with the goodies I sent down for our ‘play date.’” He ignored the concerned look Uncle Vos’toK shot him, then the lockbox on his desk, and continued. “What sort of ground reinforcements can we expect?” The young warrior stood in front of the seasoned soldier, arms folded across his chest, anxiously awaiting his marching orders.
The General actually looked embarrassed as he admitted “The fleet … what’s left of it, will not make it here in time. Did I mention that we found something in the Situ system after all? Our ships just destroyed a small cell of Rag’na’Rok terrorists on Situ IV. The initial scans must have missed a series of underground installations on that planet, and luckily we – I – decided to run a secondary sweep of the entire system. Their forces were well-organized and well-equipped … they put up one hell of a fight. I stayed behind to organize additional assaults against any other strongholds, but we haven’t found any … unless your chapel turns out to be one of them …” Vos’toK paused, taking another sip from the sweating glass of cold water on his desk, before finishing the thought. “The fleet won’t be able to get here in time to stop whatever they’re planning. I can offer the use of one Negh’Var class Warbird , my ship; the IKV Honor Blade. It’s the flagship of our fleet, and the best I can offer in terms of air support.
“As far as our numbers on the ground, well … I could scramble around 500 warriors on such short notice, but it would take an estimated 2 to 3 days before they can be fully assembled and combat-ready.” Vos’toK looked at D’eVo, almost apologetically, before saying; “Much has changed since you were here last. The price of peace for our House has been paid in scrap credit and pension plans. Most of the major Houses have reduced their private militaries for armies of diplomats, accountants and lawyers. The planetary fleets of most Houses were disbanded, and their private armies reduced to a handful of bodyguards and private security forces. The rest of the ships have been sold to the military, and most of the fighters have enlisted; either as soldiers for the Empire, the Federation, or as ‘freelancers’ like you. This new Klingon seems to be more interested in profits and peace than conquest, or glory, even …” Vos’toK Dk’tahg, paused for a moment, as if was caught by a memory, and then continued. “Well, the decision was made to scrap most of the fleet. The profits were used to ‘purchase’ real estate (“When we used to just TAKE what was rightfully OURS” he thought, growing disgusted with the current, less-than-honorable state of Klingon society) and to broker intergalactic commercial investments. It has left the House – and we’re not the only ones – tactically weak in several areas. For one, most of our forces are spread throughout the galaxy…” Seeing the bored, anxious look in his lieutenants’ eyes, he continued his history lesson, in spite of their ‘youthful lack of perspective.’ “If someone was planning on taking out individual Houses inside the Empire, now would be the time to do it. The fact that it’s an inside job almost guarantees that whoever’s behind it knows all about any strategic weaknesses within those Houses, and are just as eager to exploit them …” The General trailed off, as if the deep impact of those words had just sunk in.
The General downed the remnants of his ice-water – slamming the glass back down on his desk – and wiped his beard clean with his sleeve. These actions were a perfect display of Klingon table-manners, and a fitting balance to the almost eloquent mission briefing he was delivering – in perfectly accented Federation Standard, no less. He then finished, sphinx-like, by admitting; “And besides, we don’t know if it’s going to be a direct aerial assault, a ground-based attack … we don’t know …” His voice trailed off weakly, and he looked up at Thedaius and Calvin (D’eVo) expectantly, almost as if he expected one of the two – recently drafted recruits – to provide the answers.
Almost in response, D’eVo snapped out of his muddle and said; “Why not attack from within CamChee itself? I mean, between the planetary defense system and whatever ships the Empire itself has in-system, a direct attack from space wouldn’t make much sense.” D’eVo continued, slightly amazed and annoyed that he had to point out such obvious facts: “Even a quiet assassination or two would make more sense than a direct military takeover, anyway. I mean, could you imagine how the Council Houses would react? For all of the backstabbing that goes on here, Klingons usually fight together when they absolutely need to.” He paused, shooting his uncle Vos’toK a concerned, commanding glance before continuing. “Unless … these people have more support than we know?”
In response, the General only said; “You may have something there, young one (“I knew he would interfere” Vos’toK thought, hoping his gruff demeanor hid his growing alarm). I would like you, and your charming accomplice, to check out this ‘chapel’ you spoke of earlier. Make it quick, keep it quiet, and report back here immediately. I will remain here, coordinating our strike forces for a proper response, if one is needed.”
“So let me get this straight …” D’eVo asked, stopping in mid-stride to look at his uncle. “You want me and her to wander around the streets of the capitol at night, looking for gods-know-what. And this is so we can gather intel for an attack that may or may not happen?!”
General Vos’toK only nodded once, grimly, and said; “Yes.”
“Good.” D’eVo replied, nonchalantly. “Ok, Daius, let’s go – oh, wait! We’re gonna need a few things out of my toy box …”
Calvin (D’eVo) grabbed his pair of Bajoran phaser pistols out of the carry-case, attaching one to each hip holster – after which he made sure that his black ‘traveler’s cloak’ would adequately conceal each handgun. He then closed, locked and sealed the lockbox, entering an unbelievably long character-string password into the case’s lockpad. Seconds later, the box disappeared off the large, ornate desk. Without saying anything else to his ‘Uncle’ – or even giving the older man a passing glance – he simply turned to Daius (already standing impatiently by the door) and said “Let’s go.”
Once outside the General’s administrative offices, D’eVo stopped and pulled out the coin-sized communicator from an inner vest pocket. Catching the confused and concerned look in Thedaius’ eyes, he simply held up one hand (as if to say ‘hang on’), forcing her into an impatient, aggravated pause, while he keyed up the AXEL’s general communication channel with his other hand.
When D’eVo was sure he had an open channel, he began speaking – loudly and clearly, in an exaggerated, perfectly spoken Galactic standard (instead of the noble Klinzhai dialect usually heard in these halls): “This is D’eVo Dk’tahg, trying to contact the merchant vessel Seiklon AXEL. Repeat: D’eVo to AXEL; is anyone there? Daius and I have a situation down here.” Without pausing for confirmation, he repeated; “Is anyone there? Hello?” Wincing at his blatant use of a Terran pleasantry, he added; “Oh, and Korav – I still have your credit chip, by the way (“There. If that doesn’t get their attention” he thought) …”
Korav's ears perked at the sound of Calvin's voice. He turned to Selvine. "Can you boost that, Sel?"
Working to filter out some static and fiddling with the volume, Selvine got the feed blaring through the cabin midway, though it still crackled over Calvin's already rough voice. She flinched as it screeched at one point, but was far more concerned but what was said a moment later.
=/\= Oh, and Korav - I still have your credit chip, by the way... =/\= Was all he heard. Korav gripped the side of the Captain's chair, causing the leather to tear slightly.
"Calvin.....you had better explain to me why you're 2 HOURS LATE to rendezvous." Korav checked the sensors. "And why the HELL are you outside a Klingon General's OFFICE??!" Images of Calvin roasted over a fire pit kept playing through Korav's mind.
"Are you in danger?" asked Selvine impatiently. She knew that the credit card jibe had been meant only to bother Korav, but the Captain was rising to it when there might well have been more pressing issues.
When the communicator clicked back on, Calvin (D’eVo) heard a rush of crackling static, at wildly fluctuating volumes. The transmission was often punctuated by sharp, grating shrieks of feedback, over what sounded like the faint voices of Korav and Selvine. While he and Daius – or anyone within earshot – listened to the loud, noisy jumble blaring out of the comm’s tiny speaker, the device’s signal meter flashed in alternating shades of light green, yellows … and red (“Jammed?” he wondered “but why wouldn’t they just cut the signal?!”).
D’eVo flipped the badge-type communicator on it’s side, resting it between his index and forefingers. With his free hand, he was able to adjust the tiny dials on the side to the point where he could hear Korav say =/\= Calvin.... You had better explain to me why you're 2 HOURS LATE to rendezvous. =/\= This was followed by =/\= And why the HELL are you outside a Klingon General's OFFICE??! =/\=
D’eVo (Calvin) smiled at the captain’s reaction, partly out of relief for the tiny ship and crew’s safety. “Well, the ship’s sensors are working, that’s good …” he thought, assured that whatever was causing the subspace interference wasn’t interfering with any efforts – by friend or foe – at tracking the couple’s movements through the city.
The next part of the message was actually much more disturbing. Selvine could be heard, asking clearly; =/\= Are you in danger?=/\= How they responded to this had to be handled very carefully. D’eVo casually responded =/\= No ma’am.=/\= After looking at Daius with a shrug, he added, cryptically, =/\= We’ve got some unpleasant family business to look into - don’t worry though, I think ‘the family’ has this one taken care of … oh yeah; could you do me a favor? Have the ship’s sensors keep an eye on us will you? We’ve got to go check some things out, and it might get a little rough down here. The House of Dk’tahg will gladly pay you handsomely for any assistance with this matter, of course. =/\=
D’eVo then offered the communicator to Thedaius ‘Serval’ …
=/\= AS my partner said, Ma'am. It seems the family has a few bad how do the humans say? Oh yes ... bad eggs. =/\= Daius looked over her lover and shook her head. ~ You better not be planning on anything stupid Cal~ She thought but then it WAS Calvin she was with…
"If you want us to watch your back you damn well better tell us what's going on first!" barked the XO. "We don't have all millennium to sit around waiting for you to solve your daddy issues on an empty promise of a profit!"
D’eVo considered ending the uncomfortable conversation right then and there. The sudden realization that he had revealed too much, along with his newfound awareness that the entire exchange was most probably being listened to, only fueled his growing (and justified) paranoia; he had to somehow gain some sort of authority or control over a situation where he had neither. He had to choose his next words very, very carefully … anything he said could compromise their position and battle plan not to mention their actual – limited – effective capability.
After some lingering hesitation, D’eVo brought the communicator to his lips and uttered an officially polite, terse response: “The Empire is in grave danger. The House of Dk’tahg will, no doubt, find and prosecute the guilty parties. In the meantime, I need the Axel to track our movements - and provide extra logistical and tactical support as needed (“Not to mention light air support and a quick beam-out of this sorry mess!” D’eVo thought, not at all pleased) – no questions asked.” Giving a nod to Daius, he added, politely: “If you could please help us out here, I’m sure the rewards would be … substantial. Unfortunately, I cannot divulge any other details at this time. I’m sure you understand.”
He offered the communicator back to Thedaius with rolling eyes and an aggravated expression that seemed to scream ‘help!’ The couple kept moving through the Great Hall as they carried on the conversation. Calvin (D’eVo) noticed that his pace his picked up considerably as their little chat grew increasingly tense and dangerous.
"Our ship, our rules. Tough shit," Selvine deadpanned. "If you're in legit trouble and there's something in it for us, we'll be glad to help. But I'm gonna need some details, no arguments."
D’eVo said nothing further. Before closing the channel and turning off the communicator, he selected a blinking, strangely shaped symbol on the floating display. The icon switched to a bright green color, then the image dissolved completely from the holo-screen. D’eVo could only hope that the device was working properly, and the Axel’s communications systems were sensitive enough up the coded message he just sent into subspace.
The message (which by now should be scrolling across the monitor of any and every station on the Axel capable of receiving it) read: =/\= ATTENTION. Immediate military or terrorist action targeting the Klingon House of Dk’tahg, please respond with requested assistance, immediately. Target and tracking data acquired. Uplink data? =/\=
Watching D'eVo flipping the signal on the comm link Dauis walking along side him. "Think they'll receive the signal and understand why you sent it?" She asked as they walked. Something about the whole thing unsettled her. She had to make sure the family remained safe. At lest for Mina's sake. Gods if anything happened to Mina she'd skin the one responsible alive. Remembering the last time she saw Mina. The girl didn't want her to go. She was soon taken out of the past by D'eVo placing and hand on her shoulder. He saw the tears and worry in her eyes something he hadn't seen in along time the last time was when they said goodbye just before his marriage.
"I sure hope so …" D'eVo replied, sounding very distant and distracted. While his eyes searched for a service corridor or emergency exit, his pace quickened into a fast, almost leaping stride, all the while trying to look as 'casual' as possible. He knew that they needed to get out of the building, NOW, even as he wondered why they hadn't been "shot or arrested" yet. D'eVo again stopped himself from yanking the communicator out of his inner vest pocket and turned to look at Daius.
D'eVo could tell by Daius' expression that she was just as confused by current events as he was. However, he couldn’t shake the lingering concern that there had to be something else bothering her. Even if his suspicions about the General turned out to be true, he knew he could count on an appropriate reaction from his Romulan girlfriend: shock and hurt at the betrayal; a determined, slow-burning rage fueling thoughts of revenge and retribution (remembering, yet again, that she was “the most KLINGON Romulan” he had ever met), but she seemed sad and distracted, as if her mind was a million miles away … a marked difference from the military-minded, disciplined brain of Thedaius Ch'DeMara (“Is she … crying?! What the hell’s going on here?” he wondered, his own thoughts growing preoccupied with the emotional well-being of his – usually rock-solid – lover and comrade-in-arms). Deciding that it would be better to address this head-on, he cleared his throat:
"How are YOU doing, ar'rhea?" he asked in a sweet, low whisper.
"I...I'm fine just worried for your family."
When Daius spoke, her eyes were boring a path directly in front of her; her words sounding very hollow and faint.
Her distant reaction set off alarm bells in Calvin's mind. There were just too many things about this that didn't make sense … His thoughts started racing with the unpleasant possibility that Thedaius wasn't telling the truth – and that her deception was much more involved than a simple, hushed, 'honorable lie' in the stress of the moment. He looked over at her again while they walked: she was still staring dead ahead, as if intentionally avoiding his suspicious glare.
"How did the General know about my StarFleet job?" he wondered. "The only person I've told so far – is Daius!" He remembered her comments in the office earlier, which suddenly sounded more and more like a justification for the cause … "And what about her 'intelligence contacts?'" He was starting to question everything about the young woman and their relationship. Whether it was a delayed reaction to "that whole 'B'Edra' business" or a logical connection of the facts, his paranoia was starting to spiral out of control. He turned back to Daius and asked, bluntly:
"Are you SURE that's all that's going on?!"
"I am telling the truth, Calvin!" She answered thru gritted teeth. "Now what’s your plan? When this is over you owe me a vacation."
D'eVo pushed any concerns about Daius' honesty and allegiance out of his mind. The paranoia was still there, but since he had no proof of any treachery or dishonesty on her part, he decided to set aside any – very plausible - concerns about her character. "Besides …" he thought "for all I know, I'm just playing right into the 'General's' hands." 'Divide and conquer' was one of the oldest military psy-ops stratagems known, and; "I'm not going to let a bunch of Klingon separatists and throwbacks turn me against Daius – at least not without PROOF (he thought, his thoughts still muddled and anxious).”
"Fair enough" Calvin (D'eVo) eventually responded, keeping his voice low and neutral as they continued through the Hall. "My plan … my plan is to get us out of this building in one piece. We can discuss 'Phase Two' once we're out of here." He fought back a smile before adding; "And hopefully we won't be spending your 'vacation' on a forced-labor Klingon penal colony. You've got to be kidding …" D'eVo added, his voice trailing off …
"No I am, not kidding. Is there a secure comm channel around here? I need to make a call to your Mother and Father. They need to know" She looked around mumbling about someone named Mina. D'eVo had never seen her so obsessed before like a wild animal protecting its young. She was protective about the family but this was something more and He was getting a strange feeling.
"Nope! No secure channel in here … my communicator was a present from my 'special friends', and it isn't even safe here." D'eVo responded, pausing Daius with a soft hand on her shoulder and pointing in the direction of a darkened service-access corridor.
He started towards the narrow hallway –Daius tagging a few steps behind him – and continued; "Mom and Dad should've received my 'all-hands' hail by now ("Not to mention every brother and sister within a three-parsec radius!" he added, silently, finally admitting to a reasonable sense of panic about his 'lost' mayday message). My guess is that whatever – or whoever – tried jamming our link to the Axel probably already caught the message." Seeing Thedaius so obviously upset, he decided to lighten the mood. "Just a few more meters, and we're outta here" he said, quickening his pace to a light jog (and obviously more concerned about their predicament than he was willing to let on).
She followed him relieved that his message will have reached them. His mother would keep Mina safe. She knew when they got out of here she'd have to tell him everything about what had happened to her since they last were together. The secret had been eating at her for awhile but she hadn't been able to find him until now. "When we get out of here and safe, I have something to ask you, and I need you to listen and understand."
“Uhh … ok” D’eVo replied; his thoughts centered on the mission at-hand (annoyed by the implications of the uncomfortable social pause). The pair had arrived at a deserted side-exit, and D’eVo –grateful for the distraction – led the way out into the hallway, through the outside doors, into the black skies and cool, dry air of a spring night in the capitol city.
“So” D’eVo said at full conversational volume (“now free of one set of prying ears, at least”); “Did you ever hear such a magnificent line of bullshit in your entire life?! I don’t know about you, but there’s allot about ‘The General’s’ story that just doesn’t make sense -to me, at least.” D’eVo then dropped his boisterous, casual tone – lowering his voice, as if still trying to avoid eavesdropping - as he said; “Daius, I don’t want to involve you in anything you don’t feel comfortable with.” Knowing the value the young woman placed on loyalty, he explained; “I know how you feel about my family … it may very well turn out that the old man will need to be dealt with, in the ‘Klingon way’ - if what I think is true. If you didn’t want any part of that, well, no-one would think any less of you. In fact, you can go back to the Axel if you want, but …”
"It’s not what you think, I'd never do that - I'd rather kill the old Klingon myself. I need your help, Ar'rhea. I ... I … want out of the Star Empire." Dauis felt her voice crack as she spoke. The stress was getting to her. Years of hiding, of being who she wasn't, of playing both sides, was getting to her. She had too much to lose. She had to think about Mina. I have to tell him. She thought....
D’eVo said nothing at first, staring down at the styrocrete walkway, his serious expression eerily lit by the illuminating strip along the guardrail. After a few seconds of charged silence, he only said “We’ll have to see what we can do about THAT - later …”
The pair continued walking up the raised walkway, towards the street above, each deep in a serious silence. D’eVo suddenly felt Thedaius’ hand sliding into his …
As they found their way out she reached for D'eVo's hand wanting to make sure he was still there. "Calvin, something doesn't seem right." Daius whispered. "I really don't like this set up. Are you sure the family got your message?"
Calvin (D’eVo) gave Daius’ hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before responding; “That’s a damn good question …”
Now at street-level (the winding, narrow walkway trailing underneath their feet, while the impressively gargantuan mass of the Imperial House of Dk’tahg loomed behind them like a cursed mountain), D’eVo stopped on the sidewalk and reached inside his cloak. He produced the disk-shaped communicator and flipped it open (after a quick visual scan of the city-block around them). “Let’s see …” he said, cheerfully (although his intuition told him otherwise) turning his attention to the comm. nestled in his open palm …
As they found their way out she reached for D'eVo's hand wanting to make sure he was still there. "Calvin, something doesn't seem right." Daius whispered. "I really don't like this set up. Are you sure the family got your message?"
Calvin (D’eVo) gave Daius’ hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before responding; “That’s a damn good question …”
Now at street-level (the winding, narrow walkway trailing underneath their feet, while the impressively gargantuan mass of the Imperial House of Dk’tahg loomed behind them like a cursed mountain), D’eVo stopped on the sidewalk and reached inside his cloak. He produced the disk-shaped communicator and flipped it open (after a quick visual scan of the city-block around them). “Let’s see …” he said, cheerfully (although his intuition told him otherwise) turning his attention to the comm. nestled in his open palm …
When he checked the communicator, he noticed that there were no new waiting (or incoming) messages. After double-checking the unit to make sure it was fully powered and operable, D’eVo tried a quick scan of the local civilian band. That’s when he encountered something very puzzling - and alarming, in it’s full paranoid implications: no channels were open! When he tried manually adjusting the tuning sensitivity, all he could get was scrambled, faint bits of indecipherable conversations. Even more disturbing, the emergency band seemed to be completely lit up. He ignored the government channels for the moment, instead logging into the ‘personal’ data-base on the device.
Opening his secured, private datafiles – which were projected as a page-sized, floating holo-screen – he brought up a list of family members and other House contacts. All channels were ‘currently unavailable.’
“We should probably get a move on, huh?” he said, blankly staring dead ahead, while handing Thedaius the communicator. He felt his long legs taking long, hurried strides, without giving Daius a chance to respond to what he was showing her. Although the couple had already been slowly moving away from the massive House compound, in quiet, paranoid silence, they both – almost instinctively – started moving away from the Dk’tahg compound, like a couple of field mice scurrying away from a very distracted housecat.
She took the communicator as he handed to her. She check it out herself plus a few other channels he forgot. "Weird, Nothing not even a squeak." She looked up at her Lover as something dawned on her and filled her with a sicking dread. "Umm Calvin... The only thing this could be is either a weather problem or..." He didn't let her finish the thought.
“How is this even possible?!” he said, nodding at the palm comm. in Daius’ hand while marching down the street (both hands filled with phaser pistols under his thick, ruffling cloaks). “There’s no physical reason for such a total communication breakdown. Anything that would normally mess with subspace or conventional radio– solar flares, ionized radiation, cosmic storms, ‘warp pollution’, or even planetary interference … I’m not picking up any of that!”
“Besides” he continued, checking down either side of the street for any oncoming traffic “even if the weather was that crappy, we’d still be able to get a hold of SOMEBODY by now!” The Klingon central communication net was one of the strongest, most powerful systems ever devised, it would require much more than a spot of rough cosmic weather to disable it this severely. “It would take a strike team of techs and highly trained soldiers” he mused, “to take over the command center … and they would need someone on the inside to pull it off. The only people with that sort of access are high-ranking military officers, members of the Imperial Council, or …”
AS I was saying when you interrupted me, Or someone is jamming us. SO we CAN"T get through to anyone family, or on our ship. I've used that technique myself a few times as I know you have. Now who would be able to, or who would want to? I hate to say this, Love. But we are being played by a very good puppet master. This whole thing is just away to get us either out of the way or to set us up." She let it sink in not liking what she was thinking herself.
His heart sank with the sudden realization that the two were being completely manipulated by the engineers of whatever catastrophe was causing the radio blackout and the disastrous level of activity on the emergency channels. While he wasn’t completely sure of how, or by WHO, the picture was starting to become clear … and the most likely suspect was his dear uncle, General Vos’toK Dk’tahg!
Seeing it sink in as his face changed in away she hadn't seen in years. "Calvin? What is it? DO you know who's pulling the strings? Its Your Uncle isn't it?"
“Oh … SHIT!” he whispered, pulling Daius in close . “Taxi!” he shouted, yelling and waving his arms in the street like a madman.
As the automated passenger car pulled up, D’eVo could only look at Thedaius with a panicked expression on his face. “We need to talk!” he said, frantic, as he guided her in to the backseat of the car.
The sound of a nearby explosion caused the pair to swing their necks towards it’s source. A flaring pillar of fire and billowing smoke was shooting up from the ground, only mere blocks away. The source of the fire was hidden from sight by the thick clusters of buildings on either side of the street, but they could hear the sounds of urban warfare drifting over from the surrounding blocks; shouts, curses, screams, the high-pitched whine of energy weapons, the dull, booming thumps of smaller, unseen infernos …
“Time to go?” he asked, although he only stood in the middle of the street, mute and transfixed by the sound and fury of the – rapidly approaching – battle …
"Time to spill Blood!" She grabbed D'eVo, and shoved the big man into the car, and gave it directions back to the General's Offices. "When I get done with him, There won't be anything left..." She saw the look of shock on his face at her violent reaction to the information. "DO you have the sneaksuit?"
D’eVo pulled out his customized, all-purpose comm. / tricorder / PADD unit, and selected the ‘cargo’ menu. He then activated the built-in StS transporter matrix; materializing his carry-case in the autotaxi’s forward baggage area. “As a matter of fact I do!” he responded, getting back to feeling like himself again. “And a few other helpful items …” he added, reaching forward to drag the metal lock-box to the back-seat.
"What Am I going to do with it? what does one do with a sneaksuit? Use it to get inside his office that’s what."
D’eVo cut her off, the anxiety in his voice belying his concern for her safety; “Bad idea. I’m sending the AXEL a set of orders to take out General Vos’toK’s wing of the Dk’tahg Great Hall. By the time you get there, who knows what you’re gonna find – or who. Your best bet is to hightail it to the junkyard and impound lot by the space-port. There’s an open-air landing and takeoff area, you can’t miss it.” He then removed the portable SGPS mini-tracker from the hefty device, handing it to Daius. “I have it highlighted here, under ‘homeworld contacts.’ Ask for Du’vak GwArr, he’s the dockmaster there … Mention my name – my KLINGON name, and give him this” he said, reaching into a thigh pocket and retrieving Korav’s (slightly depleted) credit chip –pausing to swipe it over the autocab’s payment scanner first. “He should have a working – off the grid – transporter, or at least something you can use to get back to the Axel. Don’t let Du’Vak’s massive collection of useless crap fool you, the man’s an engineering genius …”
D’eVo then looked up from his floating monitors, waving them off with a shake of his hand (like someone brushing away cobwebs or secondhand smoke), but looked straight ahead –avoiding eye contact with Daius entirely. “Umm … I need to send the AXEL and some other people some more information about this, and I think I should probably get a ‘sniper’s eye view’ of the streets.” Ironically, as he said this, he was also arming himself with a Cardassian disruptor rifle; checking on the ammunition, action and charge-level with the cold precision of a trained professional.
They both flinched, automatically, at the sight of a flaming piece of refuse – apparently used as a crude projectile weapon - flying through the street directly at them. The flaming chunk of wood chunked harmlessly against the polyglass windshield of the autocab, and bounced off the roof into the street behind them. As the burning furniture was sputtering and fuming in the street, he continued; “I need to get off-world too, and besides …” Realizing that he was starting to ramble, D’eVo finished, quietly, saying; “I don’t want to worry about you getting hurt.” As if to cover his previous tender statement with an appropriate, battle-hardened Klingon street general’s response, he added; “And besides, I can’t afford to have anyone fuck this up!”
"Now have I ever let you down? Umm don't say a thing, THAT was YOUR fault and your Brother's. If you hadn't gotten into that bar fight...."
She shook her head as she pulled the suit on not carrying he was watching. "I promise I won't. I have many reasons to live."
Once dressed she smiled. "Ok You ready to make noise?"
As D’eVo watched Daius adjust the ‘sneak suit’ to her smaller, shorter frame, he agreed; “Yeah, I’ve got a few reasons of my own.”
Suddenly, the moment was shattered by the shrieking whoop of the autocab’s emergency siren and the sudden, shifting forward motion of an emergency stop. The Romulan woman and ‘Klingon’ man in the passenger car looked to see a lone, human woman stopped in the middle of the street, looking very confused, alone, and definitely out-of-place in the middle of a Klingon civil disturbance!
The woman started waving her arms frantically but refused to budge from the direct path of the oncoming cab. Her clothing was in total disheaval. Though it appeared to have once been a one piece jumpsuit, it now looked like it had been shredded by a Tarkalian razorbeast. She stared emploringly at the occupants of the vehicle and gestured back towards the alley from which she must have just exitted. D'eVo focussed all his attention on this new twist of events.
"Help!....Please!" The woman yelled breathlessly. "This freak is trying to rape me!"
A Klingon Male practically flew out of the alleyway. He was a staggering fool, but incredibly fast and with the appearance of bloodlust (or at least LUST) in his eyes. He growled out a response to this accusation. "Shut up woman you promised me a reward for my assistance. I am laying claim to payment in advance!"
"Are you a Klingon or a Ferengi, you over-swilled sex offender?!" The woman yelled as she started now to run directly to the side of the cab. Now addressing D'eVo and Thedaius, she begged, "Please, let me in!" and began pounding on the side windows. This woman was obviously way over her head, in immediate danger, and scared shitless of her pursuer. There was only one thing for a mercenary to do.
“OK, now I want to shoot BOTH of them!” D’eVo growled, beginning to amble out of the parked autocab with his rifle. “This better be worth it, goddamit …” he grumbled, while he fumbled with the door and disruptor rifle, as well as passing Daius one of his phase pistols – all at the same time; “Cover me: this smells like … trouble …”
Daius did a double take. Was that who she thought it was? Yep can't miss THAT body even if you wanted to. "I think plans have been slightly altered D'eVo, I know her and as was the case the last time I saw the cupcake she needed help."
With that The Romulan woman exited the car before her partner could say anything and grabbed the rifle from his hands and leveled it at the male grabbing for Roquel. "Get your hands off the Lady big guy." The Klingon man looked over at the lone figure standing beside the car.
"What if I don't?"
"Then I'll make sure you do." The laugh from the large Klingon didn't seem to make the Romulan bat a lash.
"I said let … the Lady ... go."
The sound of the rifle charging could be heard and the Klingon realized the woman meant business and pushed the woman he was holding to the side. Roqi fell to the ground and scampered away as the sound of the rifle's discharge filled the air.
Suddenly, the Klingon was on the ground clutching where his manly parts had been and the Romulan walked over and aimed the rifle at the man's head; "When I say let her go - I mean let her go." She then turned on her heel walked over to Roqi and offered her hand.
"Why is it I always have to bail you out?" Suddenly the woman gave Dauis a tight hug.
As Roqi thanked her, she felt D'eVo walk up behind her. "Who's your buddy, with the briefcase?"
D’eVo only glared at the woman, saying nothing. The last thing he needed was another unknown element, and this strange woman already seemed like more trouble than she was worth.
"This Woman is a friend, Roquel Atrell. Roquel, D'eVo. Now that we all know each other lets PLEASE get out of here."
“Agreed.” D’eVo assented, without any offered social grace. “I can offer an armed escort back to the junkyard, but I might need to double-back after you guys are secure. There might be some cleanup for me down here …”
"Hey wait." Roquel said. "I can't go much of anywhere looking like this!" She pulled at the scraps of clothing hanging off her body to emphasize her predicament. "Someone at that spaceport is bound to notice this. Can we get some clothes somewhere ... fast? Then, as long as we can get to my shuttle undetected, I am pretty sure that I can get it up and running. That is ... unless the Klingons chopped it into small pieces." The very thought made her shudder. ‘Wouldn't that be a bitch’, she thought. Well if they did, there would be a bunch more Klingons in the same condition as the one Daius dispatched.
“Uhhh” D’eVo groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose (attempting to massage away the stress headache forming behind his eyes). “Fine …” he responded, "Here. Use this.”
D’eVo then pulled off the floor-length, black traveler’s robes he was wearing – revealing the traditional Klingon ‘street armor’ underneath – and tossed them, in a pile, at Roquel’s feet. “Hurry up.” he finished.
"Uhhh" D'eVo groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose (attempting to massage away the stress headache forming behind his eyes). "Fine …" he responded, "Here. Use this." D'eVo then pulled off the floor-length, black traveler's robes he was wearing – revealing the traditional Klingon 'street armor' underneath – and tossed them, in a pile, at Roquel's feet. "Hurry up." he finished.
"Umm a bit over dressed for you isn't it?" Dauis said winking at her old friend.
"I can help Roqi with her ship and we beam you out."
"Well, if you're going to do anything down here, I recommend you do it fast. I don't intend to hang around any longer than I have to. This planet has been nothing but trouble for me."
“Sister … you don’t know the HALF of it!” D’eVo agreed, snapping a fresh charge into the rifle’s chamber. “Are we ready, ladies?!”
"Been ready. Now can I get this over with since this cupcake ruined my chance at killing the slime ball so I am very pissed." She expertly reset the rifle and shook her head. "Get yer own flyboy. This baby is mine now." With that Dauis started off in the direction of the impound yard her steps cat like. Roqi had to move fast to keep up.
"You have 30 minutes Loverboy! Or you're gonna get left." Daius said even she knew Calvin knew it would be otherwise. She'd never leave him behind not now and not ever.
As Calvin (D’eVo) ‘handed’ the disruptor rifle to Thedaius, he only nodded in response (to what would, under normal circumstances, be an almost universally accepted act of rudeness). “It’s fine, sweetie, I’ve got my own.” He replied, calmly (but with a bit of sarcastic sweetness), as he kneeled down on one leg. D’eVo then placed the carry-case face down on the ground in front of him, and began to unlock it. Before finishing the entry code, he tossed Roqi one of the Bajoran-style phase pistols still holstered to his belt.
“So, ‘Rocky’, do you know how to use one of those?” he asked, gruffly (relieved he had the common sense to switch the safety ON before tossing it to the human woman). He shot Daius a brief, searching look (as if to ask “Is it safe?”) before returning to the lock-box at his feet.
The lock box hissed open, it’s contents making D’eVo break into a broad, boyish grin at what he saw. The TR-118 sniper rifle was an obvious first choice: given his multiple (and often conflicting) identities and obligations on this strange world, he assumed it would be best to take “a well-placed backstabbing shot or two, and get the hell out of here!” His eyes then shifted to the Isomagnetic Disintegrator tucked underneath the TR-118. The rocket-launcher could be used to create massive casualties and property damage, not to mention a well-timed, helpful distraction in the raging mob violence taking place in the capitol city streets. D’eVo then finally checked on his supply of photon grenades, or ‘party crashers.’
D’eVo smile soured into a nervous frown as he double and triple-checked the deadly inventory in front of him. “I really need something more short range …” he worried. He then closed up the open lock-box and stood up, tucking the bulky container under one arm. “OK, here’s the deal” he announced, avoiding eye contact with either woman (as his eyes looked past them in every direction; scouting out the safest foot path to the spaceport, as well as looking for defensible positions along the way). “You two go on ahead – I’ll try to cover you gals the best I can … let’s go.”
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With a mug of bloodwine in his hand, Karr, Son of Tu'Waht, turned on his bar stool and cheered the brave warriors who fought outside the Inebrian Bar. "Qapla'! Fight well and prove your metal. Or, die an honorable death trying! Ha..haa...haa.! He couldn't remember how long he had been here. He knew little of the House War in progress other than that House Ved'Wa was not involved; and so, he had no rightful place in the melee. His head hurt whether from too much drink or too many head butts with his drinking companions he didn't know. The ringing/ beeping sounds that had started seconds ago, however, were irritating him. He wished them away and shook his head vigorously as though to dislodge the sounds by force. Unfortunately, the only thing to be flung from his head was a loud belch, which rivaled the volume of the explosions outside.
"Damn that beeping!" He yelled. Then, he boxed his own ears to make it stop.
"You fool!" Shouted one of his companions. "It is your personal comm unit. If you stop acting like a crazed targ and answer it, you would have peace."
"Did you think I was unaware! Of course, its my comm! I'm not stupid! He reached out and seized the man by his shoulders and yanked him into another head butt. The man, being off balance and caught by surprise, was easily knocked to the floor. (He would not get up until 20 minutes later.)
Karr pulled his comm from it's belt pouch and answered. "Who is it? Make it quick I'm busy.
"Karr", came a raspy yet unmistakeable voice. "I have been attacked!"
"Then, fight back!"
"It...it...was a Romulan female." Continued the voice staggeringly.
"She...pulled...a..disruptor on me...as I exited...the alley. She...has...left me...unable to...provide heirs for....my house."
What are you saying? Speak plainly. I don't have time for games.
"Listen brother! I'm...dying. She has..........castrated me! I....am bleeding...to death...I will not see the next sunrise."
"Ghuy'cha! The honorless Romulan will not see it, either! This I promise you. You will be avenged."
"Karr....you must come quickly. I must perform the Hegh'bat. You must give me the knife, lest I go to Gre'thor. Sto-Vo-Kor awaits, but.....only if you assist....me. Please....Hurry!"
The final beep indicated that the channel had been closed from the other end. Karr replaced his comm into its holser. 'What was this all about? His brother, Kor'Vot attacked and left for dead by a Romulan during a House War? Perhaps, he was honor-bound to get involved after all.
Karr got up swiftly off his seat and headed for the door. He moved recklessly through the chairs, tables, and other patrons shouldering his way across the room. As he crossed the threshhold he failed to realize that the door remained closed. His head slammed against the transparent door and he folded in half as he slipped to the floor.
Kor'Vot would get no Hegh'bat tonight. The sins he committed this night against the Risian woman along with one hundred others would not be cleansed by ritual suicide. Gre'thor would claim him, and somewhere Fehk'lar would laugh.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Locations:
Qo’Nos; the mean streets of CamChee (imperial capital city), &; The IKV Honor Blade (transporter room)
Timeline:
before Calvin makes contact with the Seiklon Axel & IKV Valkyrie
G’roK RagNa’Rok strolled down the narrow tile avenue slowly, almost casually. When he was about half-a-city block from the chapel, he heard a soft, bassy explosion behind him - the telltale thump of a quantum grenade. He couldn’t help but break into a broad smile as he walked down the deserted city street (even as his thoughts returned to the important matters at hand). “I’ll check the surveillance logs once I’m back on my ship. I WILL find out who this interloper was. As if it matters … soon the House of Rag’na’Rok will be ruling all of Klingon – what can one or two petty Houses do against the entire Imperial fleet?”
“That fat old fool, Vos’toK, is actually letting me command his Warbird? I will burn the House of Dk’tahg to cinders and have his fat, foolish face shoved in the ashes.” As G’rok plotted and planned, he heard a soft dinging chime from his pocket. Pulling out his communicator, he noticed that the monk had activated the ‘all-hands’ battle alert. Soon, he would be transported to the decks of the IKV Honor Blade, one of the most effective and advanced pieces of military technology, of this or any age.
The House of Rag’nRok would make entire star systems tremble in fear at the mere mention of it’s name. The House had been subject to countless indignities over the past few centuries of ‘progress.’ G’rok had long believed that the ridicule of the House, and it’s declining status, were unfair punishments for it’s patriotism and respect for a twisted version of Klingon history and ‘tradition.’ “Now is the time for all of the fools, the traitors, the cowards … they will all see what true Klingon power looks like!” As his criminal mind simmered with devious schemes and fantasies of violent retribution, he felt the unmistakable sensation of …
--Hello--
… a transporter beam. The ‘General’, Grok Rag’naRok, surveyed the scene in front of him. The transporter room was state-of-the-art, with an assortment of platforms and pads handling everything from simple cargo to personnel. As he glared over the railing of the transporter platform, he was somewhat shocked to find that none of the Klingon warriors working in the transporter room bowed in his presence, or – even more odd – attempted to challenge his authority. In fact, most of them completely ignored their future master, something that made part of him scream out for their blood. “No matter” he told himself as he stomped off the platform and out of the room. “I will deal with more pressing matters first, BEFORE I remind the crew of proper discipline and respect.”
G
’rok Rag’naRok stepped onto the bridge of the IKV Honor Blade II. He had traveled directly from the transporter room (enduring a long, disrespectful ride on the ship’s turbolift system along the way), and was more than ready to take command and begin the handing out many painful lessons to the true Emperor’s enemies and unbelievers. The executive level officer’s lift he stepped out of emptied directly onto the giant warship’s main bridge.
G’rok surveyed the scene through narrowed eyes, scowling his disapproval at the well-lit, thoroughly modern starship command center in his view. Unlike the cramped, dirty, and uncomfortable bridge layout of the average House Bird-of-Prey, this area was organized, clean, fully manned, and filled with the latest cutting-edge technology (unlike many of the House ships he had served on; often designed for maximum cheapness and minimum creature comforts).
He marched onto the padded floor, ignoring a handful of confused looks and outright venomous glares from some of the crew. Most ignored the petty tyrant as he stood over the railing, hands on hips, puffing out his chest as he surveyed the main bridge and executive crew of ‘his’ new starship.
It was an especially tense and confused situation, even for a Klingon vessel. Monks scattered from station to station, apparently relaying orders and instructions between warriors from the House of Rag’naRok and the Dk’tahg-loyal assigned crew of the Honor Blade. Most of the Rag’naRok warriors were standing off to the side, ‘guarding’ otherwise empty areas of the bridge. Most of them looked terminally bored, and somewhat intimidated, as if their current guard posts weren’t exactly their idea. In fact, as Cmdr. Rag’naRok stared down one – especially bored and nervous looking – young warrior, he noticed the prone form of one of his comrades lying on the floor behind him. The young man was obviously dead, several open stab wounds and bruises decorating his traditional body-armor and peppering his graying, lifeless skin. G’rok wondered what sort of infraction the warrior committed to earn such a grave punishment. He wondered if the – still breathing – youngling tasked with guarding the other man-boy’s lifeless corpse was ordered to do so by the Dk’tahgs.
As he made his way down to the main bridge floor, he was determined to find out who would dare to disrespect his kin, and eliminate these potential threats to his authority … the ‘House of Dk’tahg’ be damned. Then he would crush all of the pathetic opposition on the surface, wait until the new Emperor was installed, and wait …
Wait for the new Emperor to be installed, wait for this ship to be rightfully taken from the Dk’tahg scum and handed over to him, waiting for a chance for the House of Rag’naRok to truly rule all of Klingon, then the Alpha Quadrant, then the whole, entire, galaxy. But first, there was a little matter of ship authority and decorum that must be established …
G’rok Rag’naRok marched down toward the center command console and the captain’s chair. As he bore down the steps to the main bridge floor, he missed the two tactical officers’ silent conversation behind his back. The two men – who looked almost like identical twins – were located directly across from each other at separate, standing stations. After the first warrior motioned at G’rok with a slight tilt of the head (and rolling of the eyes), his partner only nodded slightly, and then activated an unseen control on his tactical console. After this strange exchange, both men returned to their ‘at ease’ positions behind their stations, as if nothing had happened.
G’rok put his hand on the back of the command chair (ready to forcibly eject and execute the unruly warrior who dared sit there), and began to swivel the chair around. When he did, the mighty Klingon warrior almost tumbled back over the railing behind him. A fierce Klingon warrioress was seated in the ‘big chair’, and she almost lunged out of her seat at him. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?!!!” she shrieked, looking like she was ready to claw the disrespect out of the much larger Klingon male. “Oh. It’s YOU.” She assented, still seated in her command chair. “I am Lla’asha, daughter of TuuRaa, House of Dk’tahg, and commander of this vessel. And you … you are a guest on this ship. You WILL respect my command, and my crew, or I will gut you like a sick dog right here on the bridge! Now, I will relinquish my station to you. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance, sir. Thank you!!!” She emphasized the last bit of Terran courtesy, placing a sarcastic twinge to the honorific ‘sir.’ After motioning him to the command chair with an exaggerated sweep of her arm, followed by a slight curtsy, she stepped directly behind G’rok on the raised command center platform. Just in case the temporary Captain didn’t fully appreciate her low opinion of his abilities, she added “The General [Vos’toK] seems to think you have what it takes to quell the disturbance on the homeworld. I for one am not convinced, but … we shall see …”
‘Captain’ G’rok took his seat, determined to deal with the ungrateful, honorless wench at a better time. “I might need her knowledge of the ship and her systems, for as long as she can call it ‘her’ ship …” he plotted. For now, he was content to play Captain, relishing his revenge fantasy and glancing over the controls and displays surrounding him.
Just as he leaned forward to read the closest monitor, he heard one of the helmsmen announce “Approaching Qo’Nos system. Orders?”
--------------------------------------------------------------
Locations:
Qo’Nos – CamChee [capital city] - KLF armory (initial location); the streets of Cam’Chee
Timeline:
The ground battle begins
Each of the vehicles was on full auto-pilot, each driving itself to it’s own destination. The vehicles were programmed to stop at predestined locations, each complimenting it’s own set of excessive weaponry with it’s an additional set of organic killing machines. The service trucks leading the way were the same design as those used by city maintenance crews, even down to the paint jobs, license holograms, etc. These would pass unnoticed, as they were often unmanned for night duty, and were as ubiquitous as long hair and unveiled threats in the Klingon capitol city. T’ork allowed himself the earthly pleasure of a brief, ironic smile: the ‘maintenance’ trucks were filled to the walls with artillery pieces, and other heavy-duty tools for any proper ethnic cleansing. The battle vans would pick up their crews as well, all the while using their modified inboard systems to scan and identify any possible threats or traitors. The assault vehicles modified – and fully capable – customized weapons systems would easily eliminate any threats or traitors … with or without a driving crew.
The old man staggered along the road, stumbling off, and then back onto, the sidewalk (and then off again …). His long, stringy hair was gray, matted, and soaked with sweat. His breathing was labored, his steps plodding and uncertain, and he was having trouble staying upright. In spite of all this, the grizzled, ancient, and very drunk Klingon man was smiling broadly (if not somewhat foolishly).
JonN Ka’rak was stumbling home from an especially good night at the tavern. After an early day of drinking, he found himself challenged, again and again, by a small gang of bored, overly aggressive young toughs. He had worked up quite a sweat – not to mention a righteous thirst – knocking some sense in their thick, Klingon skulls, over the course of the evening (often repeatedly).
A few of the more foolhardy young lads went so far as to make wagers on their chances of success, even while they watched their friends’ heads hammering in the floorboards. JoNN had a few of the ‘old dogs’ keep the fight honest, while the bartender kept track of the bets.
At the end of the night, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of four semi-conscious Klinzhai ‘trainees’ sprawled on the tavern floor, surrounded by their awed and intimidated friends. Polishing off his last flagon of ale, and then pocketing his winnings, he stepped out into the soft spring night, tired, sore, buzzed and ready for bed!
Between the pleasantly cool spring night air against his skin, his soaring Klingon ego, and the excessive amount of alcohol sloshing around in his system, JoNN didn’t even notice the black troop-transport hovering directly behind him.
The transport’s automated systems were up and running, it’s modified auto-pilot system tracking the individual in the street ahead. Scanning and analyzing the inebriated senior citizen as “Threat Level: MINIMAL” the vehicle continued on course, without any need for arming it’s defensive or offensive systems.
However, the man was moving very slowly, and kept stumbling into the vehicle’s path on the narrow, ancient tile street. The land-bus’ modified sensors and computer core wasn’t programmed to handle civilians. Encountering such an unworkable contradiction in it’s programming, the vehicle slid to a sudden stop.
T’ork Ma’naTi stumbled slightly as the vehicle stopped short, almost tumbling head-first into the hanging suits of body armor in the bus’ cargo hold area. He had boarded this last transport out of the service tunnels, and had been monitoring the operational progress on his PADD while he examined the remaining pieces of hardware on the modified transport.
He scurried to the front of the vehicle, anxious to see what the problem was. So far, the operation couldn’t have gone any smoother. Using the cover of night in the slightly deserted city was proving to be a stroke of unprecedented genius. The city of CamChee, as well as it’s valuable wealth of political power, lay open like a broken safe, apparently as unprepared for a ground-based attack as the engineers of this vast, right-wing conspiracy assumed it would be. The rest of the troop transports and assault vehicles were locked and loaded, each heading to their respective locations, if not already there … T’ork was swept away by a momentary fantasy action-sequence in his mind; the sight of dozens of black-body armored shock-troops streaming into the open, democratic Halls of Klinzhai progress. Their blue-black, insect-like exoskeletons almost invisible in the moonless night, the troops moved like a powerful black river, crushing over any opposition without a shot being fired, or a single muffled cry of protest escaping under their thick boots …
The alert sound from the driver’s console snapping him out of his reverie, T’ork leaned forward to check the transparent front portal. The low-tech viewport displayed an older Klingon warrior squinting through the glare of the headlights, his free hand raised in an obscene gesture. Even through the thick armor plating around every seal, he could hear a long, almost unbroken string of shouted profanity and physical threats to the land-bus emanating from the intoxicated citizen.
Unsure as how to proceed, the young man scanned the transport’s control console, looking for any remotely recognizable means of engaging the vehicle. Finding none, he turned to the basic driving controls located in front of the captain’s chair. Brake, accelerator, steering … all systems were fully engaged, ready and locked into autopilot mode. He released the system to a partial manual control, and then pressed – what he assumed to be – the emergency lights and siren. Instead, the vehicle lurched forward, smacking into the drunken pedestrian with a loud thump. T’ork could hear the man’s body smacking against the hood of the vehicle, and instinctively slapped the hand-brake pad. The vehicle lunged to another short stop, and T’ork, in a panic, opened the driver’s side door to investigate. He patted the front of his vestments, grateful for the cold, heavy bulk of the disruptor pistol stuffed into his belt. He checked his immediate surroundings before stepping carefully off the armored ground vehicle …
Unknown to T’ork, a crowd from the ‘Targ’s Head Soup’ Tavern had been trailing the transport for some time, keeping their distance to a half-block or so behind the battle-modified & armored bus. Apparently, some of the young toughs had woken up in a drunken, confused fit of bloodlust, and were out looking for another shot at the old-man. While some of their wiser (and less bloodied) friends were still attempting to talk reason into their hormonal, rage-blinded comrades, others were still clamoring for the elder Klingon’s blood.
The crowd was stunned into a grumbling, drunken silence at the strange sight in the street in front of them. What looked like a militarized city land shuttle was parked in the middle of the street, it’s headlights on full, while the ‘old man’ in question lay in a bleeding, huddled mass in the middle of the street. The gaggle of inebriated Klinzhai youngsters approached the scene cautiously, their drunken bravado dried up in the sober seriousness of the moment. If they could manage to finish the old-man off, and take credit it for it (their cowardice unseen by anybody else), then that was one option. If the old man died in the street, perhaps tales of their dishonor would die with them. Then again, if they were caught ‘rescuing’ the elder, that might also help to repair their damaged reputation.
This group of Klingons was being trailed by a smaller contingent of elders. Some were friends of the old man’s, others were simply concerned that the gang of youngsters weren’t going to do anything dishonorable, while the rest had their own reasons (ranging from blind opportunism to drunken curiosity).
T’ork heard the sound of a grumbling crowd approaching behind him. A myriad of possible choices and actions swirled in his head. No-one was more surprised than he, then, at the unexpected reaction his gun-hand chose. He watched himself pull out the pistol and fire, twice, into the twitching, heaving form on the pavement.
A collective gasp of shock arose out of the crowd(s) trailing the troop-transport. Seeing an unarmed, injured elder getting shot in the street like a feral dog was an unforgivable outrage. The crowd surged forward, shouting threats and curses, blades, fists and energy weapons being pulled out of hip-holsters, boots, etc. as they rushed the accident scene.
T’ork ducked back into the land-bus, securing the driver’s side door behind him. He could hear, and feel, the approaching angry mob now surrounding the modified troop-transport. In a blind panic, he started punching random buttons on the driver’s control console, trying to raise the ground vehicle’s built-in energy shields and armor any open windows or seals.
When he attempted to release full manual driving control over to him, he mistakenly activated the vehicle’s battlefield operations program. A shimmering haze of electric current crackled around the truck, dropping those closest to the vehicle. Amid the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair, there was the unmistakable sound of pain and suffering groaning out of the shocked and scarred in the crowd.
Those on the outside of the crowd, unaffected by the Tesla burst, were now enraged by the blatantly unnecessary use of extreme force, rushed the bus and began pounding on it with their fists, screaming out for T’ork’s blood. He could hear the soft thumps of fists banging against the ship’s hull, and well as the occasional scrape of a dagger or sword being scraped against it (probably in a vain attempt to pierce it’s thick armor plating). Within seconds, he could feel the crowd (which was growing larger by the second, people streaming out of buildings on either side of the narrow avenue; curious to see what all the fuss is about) begin to rock on either side of the troop transport, attempting to turn it over.
T’ork, meanwhile, was frantically trying to gain control of the strong-willed, hulking automaton. He wasn’t trained in the actual ground-vehicle’s operation (the operational paranoia of a planned Klingon military coup to blame for his ignorance). Engaging the ignition, the vehicle hummed to life. At this point, one of the rioters in the crowd produced an old disruptor rifle out of their cloak, and fired, point-blank, at the vehicle. A shower of sparks rained out from the side of the ground shuttle, which activated the transports automated battle alert protocols.
The ground-bus lifted several feet off the ground, as the ghostly, shimmering outline of it’s defensive energy shields materialized around it. As metal screens slammed shut over every remaining window on the bus, T’ork used the virtual comm. panel on the dashboard to send out an ‘all-hands’ emergency signal. Any vehicle within range would be able to pick up the signal and respond within mere minutes, at the latest, to take care of this growing mob of street trash ready to tear both the vehicle and it’s erstwhile driver apart.
T’ork turned his attention to the video monitors and sensor sweeps being displayed on the vehicles’ now fully-operational on-board tactical system. The crowd was still mulling around the ground truck, preventing it from any further movement – back or forth, in any direction – without T’ork committing himself to massive civilian casualties. So, the crowd stood around the shuttle-sized ground vehicle, occasionally taking a potshot or two at it, foolishly trying to disable it’s heavy shields or pierce the thick black armor coating. Most, however, seemed to be more curious and confused by the strange vehicle and the incidents surrounding it’s appearance, than anything else. T’ork, meanwhile, was trying to drive his way out of the situation, attempting tight, switching turns around the crowd, or even accelerating forward or back. Every slight move he attempted to make was parried and countered by the crowd. When he tried to turn out of the crowd, the mass would only move in the direction he steered. If he tried to backup, the mob would move to the back of the vehicle, or to the front (regardless of the few that invariably were knocked to the ground in the attempt).
After a few minutes of this back-and-forth, T’ork saw one of their battle tanks come roaring around the nearest intersection, straight for his location. He saw the hover-tank shear around a tight left-corner effortlessly (unlike the bulky, wheeled vehicle he was piloting), and scream towards him. The assault vehicle blasted on it’s shock-lights and sonic cannon, filling the eyes with burning, blinding light and a horrible, pain-inducing sound. Even T’ork found himself wincing at the washed-out video image of the blinding lights, and covered his ears in response to the faint, grating cacophony assaulting his ears through the onboard audio channel. Keeping one hand over an ear while his free one adjusted the audio volume, T’ork pulled out a pair of blast-goggles from the equipment mini-locker in the cockpit area.
He watched as the battle tank stopped, effortlessly, and hovered silently in the air for a few seconds. Then an array of small-arms fire erupted from the vehicle, cutting down the crowd around the bus …
After a few minutes of this back-and-forth, T’ork saw one of their battle tanks come roaring around the nearest intersection, straight for his location. He saw the hover-tank shear around a tight left-corner effortlessly (unlike the bulky, eight-wheeled vehicle he was piloting), and scream towards him, it’s powerful engines kicking up whirls of debris and dust as it went.
The assault vehicle was about the size of a 4-person shuttle, and took up almost the entire width of the street. Along with the rest of the rebel’s battle caravan, this vehicle had been painted a solid black color, just like the official government vehicles in the Klingon galactic capital. This is where the similarities ended, however; it lacked the official government seals and other identifiers, and was definitely a militarized version of one of the city’s official public safety vehicles.
The hover-tank blasted on it’s shock-lights and sonic cannon, filling the eyes with burning, blinding light and the ears with a horrible, agonizing sound. Even T’ork found himself wincing at the washed-out video image of the blinding lights, and covered his ears in response to the shrill, grating cacophony assaulting his ears through the onboard audio channel. Keeping one hand over an ear while his free one switched off the monitor volume, T’ork pulled out a pair of blast-goggles and a shock-helmet from the equipment mini-locker in the cockpit area.
As T’ork began fumbling with the goggles and helmet, he witnessed the hover-tank turn off it’s sonic cannon and UV ‘blinders.’ A few of the crowd were making it to their feet, and he could see the outlines of additional rabble rousers approaching from the adjoining streets, alleys and apartment houses that lined the block.
He saw the battle tank lift effortlessly off the ground, hovering silently in the street for a few tense seconds. Then an array of small-arms disruptor fire erupted from the vehicle, cutting down the crowd around both vehicles. Unlike the electrical deterrent used by T’ork’s vehicle, these disruptor blasts were set to kill. Most of the bodies now littering the street were completely still and dead. The eerie silence of death was occasionally pierced by the screams and moans of the dying, while the living only waited for the next move. A few remained pinned to the ground, in varying states of shock, uncertain how to proceed. Even the outlying crowd – safely outside of the disuptor miniguns limited range - stood in stunned silence, completely overwhelmed by what they had just witnessed.
The sinister air of murder and betrayal was broken by the faint whine of a mass transport beam. In less than a second, a unit of black-armored shock troops materialized in the street between both vehicles. With their headlamps on, and rifles held ready, the soldiers advanced, fanning out while they moved, stepping over bodies and using their guns to clear a path around them.
A number of citizens peeked out their windows, or around corners, trying to determine what was going on. Even as the rebel troops advanced further toward the troop-transport, countless calls were going out to the city’s already-stressed, emergency services lines.
As the troops advanced through the street, they were given a wide berth by the crowd. The fact that this paramilitary force was wearing the same type of black body armor as official government troops, not to mention their ‘professional soldier’ appearance and movements … it all added up to a surreal, almost unbelievable scene. Most in the crowd only stared at the advancing troops in silence (occasionally interrupted by whispered questions and low murmurs of disbelief amongst the mob).
The small contingent of soldiers – a unit of six in all – made it to T’ork’s troop transport; the sound of their boots against the tile-stone street accompanied only by the faint whirr of the tank’s mini-guns rotating on their turrets, and the murmurs from the crowd.
The soldiers boarded T’ork’s armored bus, single file, with the last standing guard outside – along with the ominous police ‘tank’, which appeared to be waiting for the slightest provocation from the crowd to open fire again. The leader of the squadron stopped at T’ork’s position, staring silently at the cowering monk behind the driver’s console. After a quick visual check of the vehicle, he lifted his disruptor rifle and fired, disintegrating the young man on the spot. After responding with an ‘all-clear’ signal, the rest of the soldiers under his command advanced fully into the bus, and began busying themselves by field stripping and ransacking the militarized civilian vehicle.
The perfect search and salvage mission’s quiet success was shattered with the sound of crunching metal and squealing gravity brakes. Apparently, one of the REAL police trucks had responded to the emergency with all due haste, slamming into the back of the parked hovertank still floating on standby - and almost toppling it over in the process. The police truck, which was followed by a series of onlookers, street opportunists, civilian militias and neighborhood watch members, crash-parked in the already blocked intersection. The crowd that accompanied it – along with those already assembled (and still alive) - all stopped in their tracks at the sight of the listing, rattling hovertank still floating unsteadily a few feet above the street.
The hovertank had lurched to one side with the impact, and was slowly tilting over in mid-air. For a brief, tense second, it almost looked like the assault vehicle was going to flip completely over and smash into the store-fronts and vending stations underneath it’s massive bulk. Then the vehicle paused in mid-air, righted itself, and immediately crashed down onto it’s engines with a loud, creaking thump. Across the street, the security officers from the police truck began streaming out – confused, battle-ready, and most bruised and battered by the collision. Meanwhile, the now-empty battle-tank engaged it’s self-defense protocols; closing all entrances, sealing any open windows, and generating a level three forcefield completely around it.
As the rebel separatists rushed out of their militarized city-bus – ignoring months of training and all common sense – to confront the government troops, the real police turned to look at these undercover imposters. A moment of tense confusion ensued, with the government troops staring at the imposters, then back at the crowd, and vice-versa, while the crowd kept turning from the uniformed police to the ‘unmarked’ cops, and back again. There were many on both sides who didn’t know who to talk to, fire at, or even whether they should attempt a ‘defensive retreat’ from the scene - at least until they knew, FOR SURE, exactly who they were supposed to be killing … and perhaps even why, once everything had been finally sorted out!
A lone officer from the city’s public safety & security division approached the rebels (who were still fully armed and armored, their black-visored blast helmets fully concealing their identities). The commanding separatist officer felt his itchy trigger finger twinge with every step, ready to vaporize the bravely foolish police officer into a cloud of empty photons. Although his rifle was in ‘at ease’ position - slung down towards the ground and pointed away from the advancing security commander - the rebel gunman felt it’s reassuring weight grow somehow heavier and more comforting as he weighed his, increasingly limited, options … with each steady, unsettling step of his moving, uncertain target.
The rebel/separatist commander could try to talk his way out of the situation, claiming he and his men were the first on the scene. As if the cop wasn’t aware of any official radio order for the ‘undercover’ police in the first place! And what if the officer asked for identification (from him or any of his troops)? If the separatists couldn’t prove their story, either with well-crafted tales or phony documentation, would they have to fire on their Klinzhai brothers? Could the officers be bribed? Even if these cops put duty and honor above a fat pocket full of latinum, how could the rebels pull it off?! Especially in front of an already rabid crowd of onlookers: The same crowd was only calmed, temporarily, by both troop’s superior firepower and assumed authority. The same crowd that could be easily eliminated by the separatists, along with their newfound – and misguided – allies on the official government crowd control division on the spot! But … If any witnesses remained alive, they would certainly tell the tale of betrayal to anyone who would listen. And, this being Qo’Nos, there would definitely be those who’d seek violent retribution against the perpetrators of such a blatant crime against the people. The question was: could the rebels kill enough of the cops and street rabble, and quickly enough, to move on to their next mission objective?
Still uncertain, the young mercenary held his ground (for now). “This mission was supposed to go off smoothly, quietly, and without the tiniest little delay … we weren’t supposed to run into CamChee’s finest!” he worried. Drawing the government troops into an all-out firefight wasn’t ordered, and would only tip the rebel’s hand much sooner than necessary. “It’s bad enough we’ve got all of CamChee’s street trash watching the action, we don’t need this!” he thought, sweating in spite of the body armor’s climate controlled life-support system. The separatist leader felt his gun rising steadily with the man’s approach … by the time the two were face-to-face, it rested, quite comfortably, at waist-level (“locked and loaded…”).
The well-trained and calculating young rebel was slowly raising his gun. His trigger finger slowly, gradually, increasing pressure; ‘silently’ charging the weapon for a full beam strength blast. He was saved from the blame – or the glory - of starting a Klingon civil war, by the blur of motion in his forward video display. Something landed in the street, directly in-between both men. The two officers looked down at the rattling, metallic sound at their feet. The object – which must have been tossed from an overhanging balcony or window – was a crudely formed, fist-sized lump of metal. The makeshift device appeared to be fitted with some sort of sensor or timer, and was emitting a flashing red light. Both men – almost as if it was choreographed beforehand – leaned forward to get a better look at the device. And – again, almost as if on cue – both men drew back, slinging their disruptor rifles out and down. They both realized, within instants, what the rough-and-ready device was … a fully charged, homemade photon grenade!
Before the men could disintegrate the explosive into a harmless void, a blinding flash erupted from the bomb, along with a booming, crackling explosion. Both men were lifted off the ground by the force of the blast, which threw them, careening, through the air. The improvised explosive device apparently had a backup, conventional chemical explosive. By the time the atomic discharge had begun to fade, a second blast emanated from the bomb. This was immediately followed by an erupting shower of flames and a thick, billowing cloud of oily black smoke.
For those that were there, most reported experiencing a split-second pause before the street erupted into full-scale chaos. In that moment, some have said that the mix of hesitation, paranoia, boiling rage and good old fashioned ‘battle jitters’, could be felt in the air, like a palpable humidity.
The sound of their commander’s bodies smacking into the tilestone street, was like a starter-pistol shot for the police riot. The sight of the twisted, charred bodies of both commanders sprawled obscenely abandoned for the gates of Sto’Vo’Kor (or Gre’thor, depending on one’s perspective) was followed by the sounds of rage, shock, and grief, and then … violence.
In a flash, the scene changed into a blurring, swirling vision of raw anarchy. The police opened fire on the rebel imposters, who returned the ‘official’ sentiment in spades. Meanwhile, some in the crowd decided to get in on the action; choosing sides based on a mix of mob vengeance, gut instinct, and blind ambition. Some fired directly on the rebels, others attacked the government troops, while others were taking the opportunity to settle old scores or lighten the inventories of nearby shops.
The air was choked with the smell of burning chemicals (and flesh), and the metallic tang of spent ozone and blood. The night sky was intermittently lit up with the flash from energy weapons, explosions, and small fires littering the crowded, embattled city street. One could hear the sounds of disruptor beams, shouted curses and screams, and an entire symphony of chaotic violence.
The rebel commander looked towards the battle-tank; impenetrable and obscured by a spreading chemical fire and a wall of targeted enemies and potential unfriendlies.
He leapt behind a pile of smoldering bodies and street wreckage, taking cover while he motioned for two of his technical officers to approach. Diving and dodging enemy shots while the rest of the troops laid down a heavy stream of cover fire, the two lieutenants scrambled to their commander’s position. The three separatists carried on a silent, one-way conversation of finger signals and pantomimed movements, while energy beams, shrapnel and miscellaneous makeshift weapons whizzed past their heads.
Without warning, the three rebels climbed over the pile of carnage, and leapt forward. Disruptor rifles and pistols out, and firing away, the three officers ran directly for the hovertank still waiting for them a few meters away. The separatist troops behind them advanced forward, generating a hail of energy bursts at the pinned down, wounded, and dying government troops.
The separatist’s forward movement hid the retreat of a single soldier at the furthest rear flank. The rebel’s apparent act of desertion was seconded by another soldier a few moments later. Then two more, then three, and so on and on, until all that was left was about half-a-dozen officers, bravely holding the line against the dug-in, and recuperating, government troops (who were apparently reinvigorated by the sight of the ‘retreating’ separatist troops).
As the government forces began to advance on the rebels – conveniently forgetting about the three-man group already at the rebel hovertank – they were caught unawares by a sudden surge in the riotous crowd, bearing down on them from all directions. The sudden rush of civilians overwhelmed the dwindling security forces, allowing the rebels to swoop in, mopping up the remainder of official resistance.
In the meantime, the rest of the Dk’tahg mercenaries were heading back to the House compound. They were scattered into groups of two or three, alternately running and stalking through back alleys and side-streets. They were desperately trying to avoid further detection or confrontation (and hoping that any sensor sweeps of the neighborhoods only showed an assortment of random bio-scans, unidentifiable as friend or foe).
Their path would not be an easy one … This rebel unit lacked any form of conventional troop-transport - or access to transporter technology – and had to rely on hand signals for communication (maintaining radio silence and the cover of their helmets). They needed to cross several busy city streets, most of which were probably crawling with hordes of cops and meddling bystanders by now. The rebel troops were certainly outgunned and, even with their kinetically-shielded body-armor, there was no way they would be able to take on the entire Klingon capital by themselves. Still, they pressed on; prepared to inflict as many collateral casualties as necessary (and desperately hoping to run into some backup, en-route). Defeat was not an option, nor was a dishonorable death at the hands of their traitorous, shortsighted Klingon brothers. This battle was FAR from over …
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