Into the Distance: Shades of Right

by jtm1848

A novelization of the episode "Judgment," and an attempt to place it in the broader context of how Klingon society was rapidly mutating during the years of Enterprise.

- SHADES OF RIGHT -

"Bring in the prisoner," the Klingon magistrate growled, banging a spherical hunk of metal onto plating with enough ferocity to send up a cataclysm of sparks. Clad in heavy, fur robes, his thick, graying mane draped loose over his shoulders, and the tufts of his beard curled under with a stark austerity. He turned his head, slowly, deliberately, as he scanned the chamber around him, with the absolute command of one who is the absolute ruler of his fief.

The Chamber, tucked into a constricted shaft, as though an afterthought, was vertically vast and horizontally small. The massive stone walls formed a hollow, triangular pillar, which appeared to grow progressively narrower as they towered into unlit darkness tens of meters above the well of the hall.

On two sides of the triangle, two inset boxes, roughly four meters off the ground, broke the smooth finish of the walls, with harsh, metallic plating underlying the booths. Staring down from overhead, the booths were lined with emblems of the Empire. To the rear, three large red drapes hung down from above, bearing the trefoil symbol, and the slats of stone between them bore carved writings lit with glowing red coals. On either side, a box emerged, the interior lined with fiery embers and flaming fuels.

Inside each inset box lay two rows of benches, the rear raised higher to enable the sharp visuals angles needed to see the floor. Standing in front were two rows of six Klingons each, wearing a mixture of ritualistic leather, metallic, and fur robes to show their status in the Chamber. Most were older, with streaks of gray and white in their hair, and the stern scowl of a long life as a warrior, but several younger faces could be seen in the dim lighting. Standing tall, they were pounding tall spears, bearing various hooked endings, against the floor of the booths, and engaged a rhythmic chant that thundered in the acoustic shaft.

These twenty-four Klingons were the jury.

The three corners of the triangle were looped off with angular walls. To the rear of the chamber, between the jury boxes, the first of these walls began on the ground with a set of steel doors, which led to the prison cells underneath. From there, skyrocketing up to the dark, domed ceiling, two rows of lamps flanked a vertical display of weaponry, symbolizing the martial justice of the Empire. Curved swords, hooked lances, and blunt maces, the weaponry showed the defendant his all-to-certain fate.

On the other two corners, flanking the magistrate's wall, two massive banners draped down from the darkness, pouring downwards, until they stopped only meters above the floor. Emblazoned with humanoid-sized red, Klingon script boldly proclaimed the new imperial dictate of "to believe, to obey, to fight."

The magistrate's wall was remarkable for its stark austerity. On either side of his booth, standing on the floor and reaching only meters high, were two statues of the Qui'Tu, the slain gods of Q'onoS, symbolizing that all bow down before the just might of the Empire. Above the magistrate's head, the imperial crest was carved in bas-relief; two crossed shafts, each made of several rods, with an axe blade protruding from one side. Soaring far above that was the emblem of the Empire, the great trefoil.

The chant rose in unison as the prisoner was dragged thru the steel doors, into the well of the Chamber. With a merciless throw, he stumbled into the only object, a short dais with waist-high railings. A powerful spotlight shone down from high, encompassing the defendant's block, and by partially blinding the prisoner, it cast stark relief onto the imagery and pomp of the shaft.

The magistrate banged his spherical gavel, calling for order in the Chamber, and grumbling, the jury members halted their chant and took their seats on the backless stone benches. Surveying his terrain, the magistrate waited momentarily as the last echoes floated upwards. His eyes bore no anger or fury; the preeminence of his authority within the Empire needed no buttressing.

"You stand accused of conspiring against the Klingon Empire, of instigation to civil war, and of justifying criminal acts, in that you have given aid and comfort and harbored known traitorous subjects of the Empire," the magistrate growled. A scornful round of jeers and catcalls flowed from the jury boxes, forcing the magistrate to alter his gaze and subdue the noise with a glare. "How do you respond?"

The prisoner stuck his chin forward, holding his head proudly, as if to challenge the magistrate to physical combat. "I'm not guilty," he proclaimed firmly, earning himself another round of jeering laughter. The gavel banged once, twice, and three times before the derision was quieted.

"When this tribunal re-convenes, you will be given a chance to prove your innocence," the magistrate snarled. "If you cannot, there is only one punishment: execution."

Defiantly, Jonathan Archer returned the glare of his accuser as the hoots of disparagement rained down upon him.

…

On a planet swept clean by seismic upheavals and constant warfare, the Hall of Justice stood as one of the oldest buildings, its foundations having been laid nearly eight hundred years earlier, in the early generations of the First Empire. Towering upward in the middle of a broad canyon, meter upon meter of carefully-hewn stonework formed the defensive base of the Hall, burying the dungeons deep within the ultra-thick walls of the structure. Reaching a plateau roughly even with the bordering canyon walls, the compound was linked to the surrounding highland by an arching stone bridge. Far underneath, a thin, silvery river cut thru the floor of the canyon, and all around, massive pillars of gray stone shot upward, punctuated with fortified towers and spanning bridges.

The outside terminus of the bridge leading to the Hall was guarded by twin towers, each relatively small, at only six meters tall, but in the days of steel weaponry, they formed a forbidding gate for the compound. As one passed thru, the sides of the bridge were lined with a half-dozen red banners apiece, alternating between the imperial crest and the omnipresent trefoil, and on the near-terminus of the bridge, a long, sloping ramp brought the observer up to the courtyard level.

The Hall of Justice consisted of four parts, sitting on a roughly-rectangular base. In the middle, greeting the newcomer, a massive stone complex shot up several stories, hewn in the same dull gray that permeated the region.

Gently sloping inward, the base complex came to a second courtyard level far above, from which a narrower, taller tower emerged, which held the main chambers of the Hall of Justice. Great wooden doors flanked the front side, allowing access to the outdoors, and another trefoil emerged in relief above the doorway. The tower itself was crowned with a symbolic guard post, and a great cauldron burned in eternal fire.

On either side of the base complex, broad hallways ran parallel to the rectangular foundation, attaching two smaller buildings to either side of the central compound. Hewn in stone as well, these buildings were noticeably shorter, and crowned with tall, narrow domes that ended with sharp spires. Around the edge of the courtyard, a meter-high stone wall ran the distance of the foundation, large torches spaced every few meters.

Their business done in the Chamber, two massive guards grabbed Captain Archer by his biceps and dragged him from under the spotlight, sending him thru the prisoner's doors with a none-to-gentle shove. He stumbled as he went thru, his eyes trying to adjust to the dim, fire-lit tunnel. Two more massive guards caught him before he fell, causing Archer to reflect sardonically that prison guards across the galaxy have one thing in common: they're always the largest members of their species.

It's possible that the tunnels have never been retrofitted for power, the captain thought to himself as he stumbled across the uneven floor. The guards, who seemed to have no difficulties, pulled Archer with them, and they quickly descended into a dizzying array of sharp turns, angles, and blind alleys, always descending deeper into the heart of the compound. At this rate, Archer thought, we're already into the stone foundation. I wonder how deep the interior goes.

At long last, the rate of descent slowed, and the tunnels became better-lit with regular electrical lighting. This can't be a good sign, Archer mused, as he noticed the rough stone walls giving way to masoned stonework and fitted metal sheeting. They stepped thru a pair of heavy wooden doors, and entered the main prison.

Moments later, Archer was thrown into a holding cell, the door slamming shut behind him. Shaking his head to clear it of vertigo from the rapid descent and tepid air, the captain surveyed his surroundings with the quick precision of a trained officer.

The cell itself was relatively large, or at least larger than Archer had expected. Three walls were barren stone—undoubtedly, there's meters and meters of stone behind them—and the front wall, on either side of the door, was simple metal grillwork which provided a constant view inside for the passing guards. Overhead, a narrow row of electrical lights was embedded in the stone ceiling, and two torches provided the other lighting. Nothing high-tech, Archer ruminated, but if I got out, where the hell would I go? He was located under incalculable tons of stone.

The captain sat down on the sole rock shelf, and with a groan, he lay down, stretching his taunt muscles and forcing his body to relax. He had been abducted several days before, and in the noise and stench of the Klingon Raptor-class vessel—not to mention the constant abuse of its crew—rest had been rare and brief. As Archer's muscles gradually loosened, he dozed off into exhausted slumber.

…

Archer awoke many hours later to the clanking sound of an old-fashioned key triggering the pins within the door lock. With a grunt, he opened his eyes, blinking furiously in the bright electrical lighting, and tried to sit up on the rocky slab. His muscles, unaccustomed to sleeping on such a hard surface, complained miserably, and with a gasp, he lay back down, feeling the pain in his joints.

"You have five minutes," the Klingon guard rumbled as he escorted Dr. Phlox into the cell. For his part, Phlox brought with him a standard-issue medical kit and, on a plate, the butchered, partially-cooked foot-long drumstick of some unknown beast. The guard, under orders to keep the doctor under constant surveillance, took up position inside the doorway.

Archer winced as he tried again to sit up, and laying the medikit and plate on the floor, the Denobulan physician came to the captain's aid, grabbing the captain underneath the shoulders and easing Archer upward. Several loud pops could be heard emanating from the captain's body.

Placing his hands on either side of his abdomen, the captain slowly arched his back inward and twisted from side-to-side, feeling the sore muscles of his back unclench and stretch. After a few moments, he was able to sit up and address the doctor.

"Glad you could drop by," Archer said nonchalantly.

"How are you?" Phlox asked.

"I've been better," the captain answered.

Phlox nodded grimly. "I wasn't sure if I'd find you alive." Several days' worth of facial stubble couldn't mask the bloodshot eyes, or the greenish-yellow welt growing on Archer's right cheekbone. Several cuts crossed the captain's face, leaving unwashed trickles of blood behind. Phlox couldn't help but notice that Archer was standing tilted to his left side, protecting an unknown injury; most likely cracked ribs, Phlox thought, diagnosing the signs, although there could be internal bruising.

"They promised me a trial before the execution," Archer responded sardonically. At least his wit's still functioning, Phlox mused. The doctor withdrew his handheld scanner from the medikit and ran it over Archer's torso.

"Is something wrong?" the captain asked, catching Phlox's look of concern.

"Xenopolycythemia can be highly contagious," Phlox answered, shooting a discreet look over his shoulder at the guard. "I'm surprised they haven't put you in isolation." For his part, the guard quickly ducked out of the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.

Phlox continued double-checking his readings. Archer gave the doctor a pointed look. "You did pick up a strain of pneumonia," Phlox confirmed. It's not just a trick to get you medical care, was the unspoken finish. "You no doubt contracted it in these unheated conditions. Were you unusually tired, feverish, any faint hallucinations?"

Archer nodded slowly. "Yes, a few days ago. I could barely stand in the justice chamber. I thought I was just dehydrated."

"That, and malnourished, as well. Probably minor oxygen deprivation too." Only Klingons would think that it's a good idea to have so many open flames in a confined cavern. "How was the trip?"

Archer groaned softly, the thought making him uneasy. The trip itself wasn't so bad—the company, however, was quite depressing.

"Any residual symptoms?" the doctor asked, continuing his scans. "Fever, dizziness?"

"Just a scratchy throat."

The doctor hmmed casually, noting that there was no source of water in the flame-heated cell. The sad thing, Phlox mused, is that this is, no doubt, one of their best cells. I can't imagine the conditions that the common criminals are kept in. "Let's have a look." Archer sat down on the rock slab and looked up at the Denobulan, opening his mouth to allow the doctor to inspect his throat. As Phlox expected, it bore the unmistakable signs of acute dehydration.

"When did you get here?" Archer asked, gratefully closing his mouth as Phlox finished his examination. The captain swallowed twice, trying to return moisture to his warped gullet, and coughed once from the effort.

For his part, Phlox retrieved his medikit, and flipped open the latches. Inside was a one-liter thermos, holding a super-saturated solution of straightforward, basic water. Without speaking, the doctor handed the thermos to Archer, who twisted off the cap, welcoming the soothing embrace of cooled water.

"Not to fast, Captain," Phlox intervened, tsk-tsking as he went. The doctor took back the thermos, and set it on the slab next to Archer. For his part, Archer sat still, his head arched upwards, holding a mouthful of the pure water in his throat. He closed his eyes in the feeling of pleasure.

"I got here two days ago, but they refused to let us see you," Phlox said in response to Archer's question. The physician opened his medikit again to pull out additional supplies.

Archer sighed as the last droplets of water trickled down his parched throat. I imagine manna is something like this, he thought to himself, only this is better. Letting the final sensation linger, he finally opened his eyes and lowered his head to address Phlox. "Enemies of the state aren't allowed visitors," the captain remarked sarcastically. "You might smuggle something out."

"Given the rather thorough search I received, I'm not sure that's possible." Phlox responded lightly, although it masked a fair degree of ire. Being forced to submit to a strip-search by Klingons is not something I'd care to repeat, the doctor thought to himself. The only way to slip anything past them is raw information in your head…oh.

"Heaven forbid I use you to send out orders," Archer said, confirming Phlox's speculation. "So how did you get in?"

Phlox unwrapped a package of old-fashioned moist towelettes. "Look up at me," he told his patient, raising the captain's jaw with one hand. He began dabbing at the dried blood with the towelette. "One of Earth's best contributions to medicine—and fatherhood: a basic—" dab. "Moist—" dab. "Towelette." Dab.

For his part, Archer wondered if Phlox had just compared him to a Denobulan child, but let it go.

Phlox continued to talk as he cleaned the blood and grime from Archer's face. "T'Pol lobbied the Interspecies Medical Exchange to petition the Klingon government," the doctor explained. "Most civilized species allow their prisoners to receive medical care, even 'enemies of the state.'" Phlox punctuated the phrase with a hmmph. "The IME eventually convinced the Klingons that your condition necessitated a medical visit, and I—just happened—to be available. It wasn't easy, although. The Klingons didn't want anyone to see how they've been treating you."

Archer winced involuntarily as Phlox got too close to the welt on his cheekbone. "They just don't want me to die before the execution," he commented wryly.

"Even in the Klingon legal system, you have a right to a trial," Phlox observed, noticing a nasty gash under crusty blood. "If they let you die before trial, they'd be denying you that right. It would be…dishonorable." Phlox opened another towelette.

"It was very thoughtful of T'Pol."

Phlox chuckled. "She sends her regards, and she wanted me to assure that both Starfleet and the Vulcan High Command are doing everything possible to get you released. You've become a bit of a celebrity cause—even my own government has lobbied on your behalf." Satisfied with his work, Phlox tossed the towelette to the ground by his medikit, and turned Archer sideways on the rock slab. Placing one foot on the shelf, the doctor put his knee in between the captain's shoulder blades, and gently pulled back on Archer's shoulders.

"Are they having any luck?" Archer asked, gasping for air. The muscle stretches were painful, but the 'good' kind of pain; he thought he could hear the crinkle of a thousand rigidified tendons loosening their death grip.

"Not yet," Phlox answered, twisting Archer's torso left and right. With each twist, the elasticity of the captain's left abdomen increased, bolstering the physician's diagnosis of a deep-bruised muscle. "Commander T'Pol and Commander Tucker have begun exploring 'other options' for regaining your freedom."

I'd expect that from Trip, Archer thought to himself, referring to Commander Tucker by his nickname. But who would've expected that out of a Vulcan? "Doctor, I'm counting on them to get the Enterprisesafely out of Klingon territory. If they break me out—what the hell are you doing?—If they break me out, they'll land on the Klingons' most-wanted list as well. Their duty is to protect the Enterprise."

"Breath deeply. Reach your left arm up and over your head." Phlox put pressure against the captain's right abdomen, keeping the lower torso vertical. "I'll let T'Pol and Tucker know. Now lay down on your stomach." Archer stretched forward, bringing his legs up onto the bench behind him, and within moments felt the pain of a deep-tissue massage, as Phlox worked on loosening the knotted muscles.

"How are your accommodations?" the doctor asked conversationally, pushing deep into the thoracolumbar fascia.

"Not so bad," Archer replied facetiously, and gestured with his head to the meaty drumstick. "Can't say that I'm a big fan of Klingon cuisine, although." Especially not when the hair's still on it.

Phlox paused and ran his scanner over the dinner entrée. "It may not appear appetizing, but it seems like a good source of protein," he observed. He gave his best smile as Archer sat up. "I suggest you eat it." Whatever it is.

Phlox received a pointed glare in response.

Hearing footsteps outside the cell, the Enterpriseofficers looked over to see a second Klingon step thru the threshold of the holding pen. The newcomer, his hair and beard almost entirely white, gave a decidedly different impression; he was not a big, beefy guard who relied on physical size, nor even like the magistrate, who drew from the imperial might of his office.

"Is he infectious?" the Klingon growled, addressing Phlox.

"I don't believe so," the doctor answered hesitantly. Of course, the captain wasn't remotely infectious, but Phlox couldn't find a plausible argument to claim that Archer was.

"Then return to your ship," the Klingon responded shortly.

"I'd like to run some more tests," Phlox said, taking a shot.

"You're not here to treat him." The Klingon spoke, not with menace or fury, but with cold certainty.

Phlox nodded in resigned acknowledgement. Retrieving his gear, he repackaged the medikit, discreetly leaving the thermos of water on the rocky bench.

"Thanks for the house call, Doc," Archer said gratefully, catching Phlox's attention as the Denobulan turned to leave.

"I'm sure I'll see you soon," Phlox answered softly, hoping against hope that this would not be the last time he would his friend and captain. With growling encouragement from the guard, Phlox left.

The Klingon's eyes followed the departing doctor until Phlox was out of earshot.

"I'm Kolos, your advocate."

"Jonathan Archer."

"The tribunal's about to begin." Without another word, Kolos turned brusquely and stepped out of the cell, forcing Archer to chase after the Klingon's receding back.

…

"We haven't even discussed what happened!" Archer broke in as he caught up with Kolos.

Kolos refused to stop, or even slow down, as he brushed past the stone outcroppings which lined the corridor. His robe billowed behind him. "I'm familiar with the charges," he snapped, content with that explanation.

Archer fumbled with his uniform collar, trying to restore himself to something akin to formal dress. "Well, I'm not familiar with your justice system!" the captain barked. "What can I expect out there?"

Archer could've sworn that Kolos let out a sigh, as the Klingon reluctantly pulled to a halt. "Now that you've been charged," Kolos said, turning to face the shorter human, "the evidence against you will be presented."

"Do I get a chance to testify?"

Kolos grumbled in displeasure. "I will conduct your defense. All you have to do is stand still and shut up." The torch-lit hallway cast long shadows across Kolos' ridged brow.

"How can you do that when you haven't heard what really happened?" Archer demanded, moving forward to confront the Klingon.

"I have heard what really happened—at least, I've heard what the court will hear," Kolos growled. "What you have to say—doesn't matter."

"Don't I get a chance to say my part?" Archer insisted, refusing to back down on such a fundamental point.

Kolos gritted his teeth, and stared down at the human with hooded eyes. "Are you a fool, human?" he snarled, baring his pointed incisors. "You're a criminal—and your accuser is a Klingon warrior. Do you really think the magistrate will care about what you have to say? You'll just be accused of lying, and the court will come down even harder on you. No, you mustn't speak during the tribunal. I'll do your speaking for you."

With that, Kolos turned abruptly and continued down the corridor, brushing the great iron doors aside, causing the torches to flicker with the breeze of his passing. Behind him, with a none-to-gentle nudge from the guard, Captain Archer followed silently.

…

As the doors of the Chamber were thrown open before him, Archer blinked furiously, trying to adjust to the stark lighting contrasts in the towering room. The powerful spotlight shone down in the center of the room, plummeting from the far-removed ceiling, inscribing a cylinder of bright light around the defendant's docket, and casting the rest of the Chamber into shadow.

Archer closed his eyes momentarily, waiting for the flash on his retinas to dissolve, before he turned his head to the gloom and pried his eyes back open. The sides of the Chamber, dimly lit with fiery torches, gradually came into focus, highlighting the towering walls in flickering flame.

The hulking guards pushed the captain forward, across the well of the Chamber. The captain moved forward without resistance, thru the permeable boundary of the spotlight, and stepped up into the raised platform that underlined the defendant's docket.

Archer looked up and around at his surroundings, his eyes trying to pierce the halo of light, but it was his ears that gave him the needed information. From the twin spectator boxes, on either leg of the triangular room, he heard the rhythmic pounding of spears banging on the metallic floor plating. Naturally, Archer thought. If the plating was stone, it would absorb the sound.

Over the constant cadence of the spears, which beat as though a single heart, Archer's ears detected a spoken chant raining down from both boxes. Willing himself to listen, the captain screened out the hammering and focused on the spoken mantra.

"jagh! jagh! jagh!" The Klingons repeated, chanting the simple one-word phrase in unison, the throbbing sound timed to the tempo of the spear beats. "jagh! jagh! jagh!"

Archer's Klingonese was weak, and admitting the inevitable, he leaned towards Kolos. "What are they saying?" the captain asked his advocate.

"Enemy," Kolos muttered gruffly.

"I hope they're not the jury," Archer responded glibly.

For Kolos, the answer was anything but facetious. "They are."

It took a moment for the advocate's words to sink in, but when they did, Archer turned to stare at Kolos in amazement. "What happened to an impartial jury?" the captain demanded to know, having to raise his voice over the pulsating rhythm echoing in the chamber.

Kolos gestured for Archer to stare straight ahead, and waited until the captain complied to answer. "You were apprehended while committing crimes against the Empire," Kolos replied curtly. "What need is there for impartiality?"

Around them, the chants began to increase in tempo and volume, the regular pounding of the spears accompanied by the endless "jagh! jagh! jagh!" of the jury. As they reached a feverous rhythm, the beat broke down. Archer's squinting eyes saw that the Klingons were now waving their spears in the air, and the chant submerged into a raucous round of throaty growls, heralding the emergence of another Klingon from a recessed doorway.

The newcomer stepped out into the Chamber, shaking his snarled white mane behind his head. He was greeted by the adulation of the jury, and as he stepped into view, the Klingon basked in the warm reception. He lifted his proud countenance to the jury, receiving a roar of approval, and crossed in front of the docket to take a position before the judge's box.

"Who's that?" Archer asked Kolos, unsure if he was more curious or more concerned about the answer.

"Prosecutor Orak," Kolos snarled. It was unclear who he was snarling at, although, being a Klingon, maybe he's just snarling. "Orak's success is well known," Kolos added roughly.

Should've known they'd send in their best—don't want anything to disrupt my conviction and execution. "How about you?" Archer asked, choosing to confront his advocate. "What's your success rate?"

For his part, Kolos continued to stare straight ahead. "I've done my duty," he answered, his voice even with satisfaction. Archer was less than satisfied with the response, but didn't press any further; there was no point in alienating the closest thing he had to defense counsel.

Having allowed the jury to reach its highest fervor, timing his entrance for the maximum show, the magistrate emerged from the rear of his box, receiving another throaty roar of approval. With great deliberation, the Klingon slowly sat down, and looked, first right, then left, at the standing jury and spears thrust outward. Content, the magistrate solemnly banged his gavel, once, twice, three times, sending showers of sparks outward. The jury members, knowing better than to challenge the all-powerful magistrate, sat down on their benches, and the roar died off.

"This tribunal is now convened," the magistrate announced imperially as the last trace of chant subsided. "rI' yaj!"

A full chorus answered back, proclaiming "rI' yaj!" at the top of twenty-four pairs of lungs.

"Prosecutor Orak," the magistrate called the Klingon forward. "You may proceed."

Orak nodded to the magistrate, and raised his voice. "I call Duras," he proclaimed, "son of Toral, son of Councilor Duras, all of the Great House of Duras." His pronouncement reverberated around the now-silent Chamber.

To one side, another Klingon, this one much younger than the others, emerged from a recessed doorway. His hair still black, his build muscular but trim, Duras walked with the gait of a beaten man, resigned to his misery in life. Approaching the magistrate's box, Duras pounded his left breast with his right fist.

"Captain Duras!" Orak called out, pulling the youthful Klingon's attention away from the magistrate and towards the prosecutor. "Tell the tribunal about your encounter with the accused."

"I am no longer a captain," Duras declaimed, his voice bending with sorrow.

Orak responded with pantomimed surprise. "Explain," he ordered.

"I am a second weapons officer serving on the Ty'Gokor defense perimeter."

"The Duras I called to testify is the commander of the battle cruiser Bortas!" Orak bellowed.

"I was he," the Klingon answered, grinding his teeth as he sought to choke back his fury. Unbidden, Archer realized that the defense advocate served two functions: not just to argue his case, but to protect him from physical attacks. "I was recently…reduced in rank," Duras finished, spitting out the despicable words, accepting the unspoken scorn of the jury.

"A distinguished Klingon warrior, of a Great House and honorable lineage, stripped of his command?" Orak roared with theatrical refinement. He paused and surveyed the jury, letting the question sink in before calling for an answer. "Did the accused have anything to do with your…disgrace?"

"Yes," Duras growled softly, his eyes cutting towards Archer. Archer met the gaze head-on, refusing to look away.

"Go on, weapons officer," Orak said, prodding Duras with the disdain harbored in his voice.

Duras took a deep breath, and lowered his gaze to the floor, reflecting his hesitation to share such a shameful story. But having little choice, he began.

"A group of rebels had fled the Klingon Protectorate at Raatooras. I was ordered to bring these traitors to justice. We followed their warp trail to a system just outside Klingon territory.

…

The pursuit had lasted for five days, crossing two sectors and doubling back. The fleeing pujwI' refused to show their faces in honorable combat, and tried to hide their trail in gas clouds and magnetic fields, more like a bregit hiding in its hole than Klingon warriors. But they had committed acts of terrorism against the Empire, and we would not let them escape. The crew of the Bortas were their superiors; we clung to their path until we cornered them in the Ikalia system.

"They're near the fifth planet," my weapons officer reported as we came within range. "Another vessel is docked with them."

One vessel or two made no difference: we were ready to fight to recover the traitors. I gestured towards the viewscreen. "Show me," I commanded. An image of a ship I had never seen appeared on the screen; it looked like a round disk, with two pylons jutting outwards to hold the warp nacelles. How a ship like that could even fly, much less fight, I had no idea: but attached to it was the vessel of the cowardly traitors. "What kind of ship is that?" I asked.

"Unknown," my weapons officer reported. "But they've taken the rebels aboard."

"Armaments?"

"Torpedo launchers fore and aft. Low-yield particle cannons. We can defeat them easily."

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest; it was a glorious day for battle. "Intercept," I ordered.

"They're signaling us."

How like a traitor, I thought—when it is time for battle, they try to talk their way out like a RomulaSngan. "Viewer!" I commanded.

On the screen appeared the pale, flat face of him! [Duras furiously pointed at Archer.] "Identify yourself!" I told the alien. I recognized him as TerraSngan—a weakling human.

"Captain Archer of the battle cruiser Enterprise," the alien answered spitefully. The bIHnch clearly needed to be taught a lesson in respect.

"Two people aboard your ship are wanted for treason," I informed him, giving him a chance to escape without battle. "Surrender them immediately."

"By whose authority?" the insolent Ha'DIbaH responded.

"The Chancellor of the Klingon High Council!" I told Archer, wondering if he would dare challenge the rightful power of the Empire.

He did. "I don't know your Chancellor, and I don't give a damn what he wants!" Archer replied. "I've formed an alliance with the rebels, and I'm going to support their revolt!"

I had no more patience for his posturing. "Give them to me now, or I'll destroy your vessel," I ordered Archer, ready to blast him and his ship to Gre'thor.

Archer wasn't done talking. "Fire one shot, and you'll be joining your ancestors in the afterlife!" he proclaimed grandiosely.

…

"So he refused to surrender the rebels?" Orak asked, although it was more a statement for clarification. If Archer had surrendered the rebels, the captain would not be on trial in the first place.

"Yes," Duras answered, gritting his teeth. Unlike a human courtroom, the statement did not send a ripple of murmuring thru the jury, although Archer imagined that he could feel the twenty-four Klingons leaning forward, their anger burning welts into his back.

Unable to believe what Duras was saying, and perhaps feeling the heat of the Chamber, the captain finally broke and leaned towards Kolos. "I didn't say any of those things," Archer protested. "Can't you object?"

His white-haired advocate kept his attention riveted on the interchange between Orak and Duras, responding to Archer out of the side of his mouth. "I know what I'm doing, Captain," Kolos whispered roughly. "Trust me: what you said is irrelevant. The court only cares about your actions."

Ahead of them, ignoring the hushed tones of the defendant and advocate, Orak continued his inquiry. "And how did you respond to Archer's defiance?" he asked Duras, spitting out the final word. Orak paced around for emphasis, lifting his voice to each section of the Chamber.

"I pitied him," Duras responded, his eyes burning from underneath his heavy brow. Embarrassment was a dangerous emotion in Klingons, and Duras was smoldering under the embarrassment of having to relate his dishonor to the Chamber. "He was about to die in defense of those wretched 'urwI'." The Klingon growled an epitaph. "Hegh neH chav qoH."

Archer, feeling the blood raging in his veins, could stay silent no longer. "They weren't traitors!" he barked out loudly, garnering the attention of the Chamber. The magistrate, the jury, the prosecutor, and the witness all stared at him, in varying degrees of shock at the defendant's insolence, but Archer responded with a stubborn glare of his own.

The gavel crashed with a resounding clang. "ghay'cha'!" the magistrate swore fiercely. "Advocate," he said, snarling dangerously, "haven't you informed the defendant of the rules of this tribunal?" The two soldiers standing guard in the doorway moved forward, coming to a halt a pace behind the captain, waiting for the order to drag Archer from the Chamber.

"My apologies, Magistrate," Kolos answered with a surprisingly uplifting tone. "It won't happen again." Kolos lowered his voice, and glowered at Archer. "QI'haH! Be silent, or you will be removed!" Under the admonition, the captain swallowed back his bile, hoping that Kolos was not selling him up the creek.

Orak waited for the Chamber to settle down, adding a flair of drama to the already-tense session.

"Continue, weapons officer Duras," the prosecutor finally commanded.

"I showed him more patience than he deserved," Duras answered, festering under the scrutiny of his peers, "but obviously he wanted blood to be split."

…

"Don't be a fool," I told the terraSngan captain. "Your weaponry is inferior. You won't survive a battle with us. qoH vuvbe' SuS!" I thought of Kahless' command on fighting futile battles; if Archer persisted, he would lead his crew to certain death. There is no honor in such an act.

"Death to the Empire!" the petulant petaQ responded, and he cut the communications channel. I knew then that my efforts to resolve the situation peacefully were pointless, and Archer was intent on violence; but if he wanted a fight, we would give him a fight.

I watched as the Enterprise fired two shots from their phase cannons. Their puny weapons struck the Bortas amidships, causing no damage, and I resolved to end the confrontation as rapidly as possible.

"Return fire!" I ordered my weapons officer, and we scored several direct hits on the Enterprise. Rather than staying to fight the battle he had started, Archer turned his ship away from us, and ran like a cowardly taHqeq.

"They're heading for the ring system!" my weapons officer reported, referring to the fifth planet in the Ikalia system.

"The bIHnuch thinks he can hide!" I said, recognizing his desperation. "Pursue them!"

We followed them into the debris field circling the planet, and clung to their tail like a cha'bIp hunting 'uSgheb, until the Enterprise fired on one of the rocks, making it explode in a shower of dust.

"Where are they?" I demanded of my crew. "Answer me!"

"The debris is interfering with sensors," my weapons officer reported.

I brought the Bortas to a crawl, and we flew thru the dust cloud, stalking our prey. Moments later, our view cleared, and the Enterprise became visible. It hung, trying to hide, on the opposing side of a large rock.

"There!" I said, pointing to it on the viewscreen. I was ready to bring this pursuit to an end. "Target their engines! All weapons!"

…

Duras paused in his retelling, clearly uncomfortable telling this part of the story. "Continue," Orak prodded.

…

Before we could fire, the Enterprise launched a single torpedo. It crossed the vacuum between our two ships. If it hit us, it would've caused little damage; but the craven captain refused to engage in honorable combat. The torpedo struck a gas plume, creating a huge explosion that flung the Bortas backwards.

"We've lost sensors. Shields are down!" my officer reported.

I wasn't going to give up. Such a dishonorable foe deserved no quarter. "Manuel targeting!" I commanded. "Fire!"

As the Enterprise flew past us, it fired on us again and again, striking us when we were defenseless. Their fire sent a raft of explosions thru the Bortas.

"They're leaving orbit!"

"Follow them!" I ordered.

But it was not to be. Their weapons fire had knocked out our engines.

…

"It took us three hours to repair our warp drive," Duras said, finishing his summation.

"But of course, by that time, they were gone." Orak felt the eyes of the jury upon him as delivered the coup de grace. "You're fortunate your First Officer didn't kill you for such a failure," the prosecutor snarled at Duras, mirroring the disdain of his fellow Klingons. "You're a tu'HomIraH! Be glad that you're still alive to recover your honor! Get out of our sight!"

With his head hung, feeling the collective opprobrium, Duras slowly crossed the well of the Chamber. It was almost enough—almost—to make Archer feel sorry for the former Klingon captain. The Chamber remained silent as Duras made his way out.

"You're not going to question him?" Archer asked Kolos, his attention jumping back to his advocate. The captain was alarmed: That's not what happened! Don't I get a chance to set the record straight? Or is the court going to swallow whatever the prosecutor says, without any critical review?

"He'd say nothing that would help you," Kolos answered gruffly.

"Do you have any further evidence to present?" the magistrate commanded, addressing Orak.

"No, Magistrate," the prosecutor answered. "Duras' testimony is clear." Orak started a slow pace, one foot in front of the other, circling the defendant's docket. He launched a pointed glare at Archer.

"Duras was attempting to carry out his lawful mission to bring enemies of the Empire to justice," the prosecutor proclaimed. "But this aggressor—" he pointed at the captain—"this human, conspired with the terrorists to foment disorder and rebellion against the Empire, and then conspired to disgrace a once-proud warrior of a great family name!" A rumble of agreement came down from the jury boxes.

"There can be not doubt!" Orak's tone rose in fury. "By aiding and harboring the traitors, Captain Archer has proclaimed himself to be our enemy as well! Yes, he claims to be innocent—innocent of WHAT?!" The arhythmic pounding of spears resumed. Archer glanced above him, but struggled to see beyond the light barrier of the spotlight; he could only hear, hear the sound of the beating spears and a nascent chant of "jagh!"

"This tribunal has already been far too lenient," Orak continued, at the center of a stage of sound and fury, filling his role beneath the great banners of the Empire. He thundered with vehemence. "We haven't accused his crew or his government, even though we would be well within our rights to do so! He's fortunate we haven't dispatched a fleet of warships to his homeworld!"

The jury started working itself into a fury as Orak wiped the spittle from his mouth. "But we do demand that Jonathan Archer be held responsible for the crimes he has committed!" The prosecutor bellowed, roaring to the top of his lungs. "He is a criminal, and we demand that he receive the most severe punishment our laws decree!" The snarls rained down from the sides of the Chamber, intermixing with the heat and flame that swirled over Archer's head. The captain felt himself growing dizzy in the heat and thunder, feeling the effects of his physical treatment combining with the towering orgy surrounding him. Swaying, Archer gripped the railing of the docket, holding himself steady.

The great banners flanking the magistrate, proclaiming "To believe! To obey! To fight!" fluttered in the breeze of so many strong voices. The chorus of "jagh" continued, unchecked, until the magistrate banged his gavel, restoring order to the Chamber. "Do you have a response?" he bellowed at Kolos.

"No, Magistrate," the advocate replied calmly. As the words sliced thru Archer's mind, his concern rose into alarm.

"Then I will consider the evidence and deliver my verdict," the magistrate imposed, lifting the gavel, prepared to call the session to a close.

It's now or never, Archer thought to himself. Looks like it's up to me. "I'd like a chance to defend myself!" the captain yelled, struggling to make himself heard thru the din. The effort sent him swaying.

"You have been warned," the magistrate rumbled, echoed by the torrent of sound piling down on the defendant's docket.

Defiantly, Archer pointed a finger at Orak. "He's distorting the truth!" the captain proclaimed, sucking every mole of oxygen from his deprived body. The torrent of noise increases, sending crashing waves thru Archer's head, but he hung on gamely.

"Be silent!" the magistrate commanded, restrained violence rippling thru his body.

"Those people weren't rebels, and I wasn't trying to start a rebellion!" the captain continued, ducking several handfuls of fiery ashes showering down from the jury boxes. I am not your enemy—aggghh!" Archer screamed in pain and bent over backwards, the rip in his muscles overwhelmed by the slicing arc of electricity shooting thru his body. The guards behind him jabbed their painsticks into his back, sending tens of thousands of volts of energy into the captain's already-punished nervous system, and he slumped down to the bottom of the docket, unable to control his motor functions. An acrid stench filled the air, and Archer felt his heart skip several beats, before the guards finally removed the electrical batons.

The guards grabbed Archer under each shoulder, yanking him to his feet. His legs were like jelly, but the firm grips of the Klingons kept him upright as the magistrate spoke.

"This tribunal is in recess," the magistrate intoned, slamming the gavel down.

Jonathan Archer was dragged out the rear of the Chamber.

…

The daily meal came and left, a metal plate tossed into Archer's cell with the familiar drumstick of…I hope it's an animal, Archer thought to himself wryly. He knew he should eat; his lingering pneumonia, combined with malnutrition, dehydration, and oxygen deprivation, left him physically drained and mentally weary; the abuse he suffered at the hands of the guards taxed his already-wrecked body to the breaking point. As he sat in his cell, even with the overbearing heat provided by fiery torches, he could feel himself shiver and quake. He tucked his body tight, trying to save whatever body heat he could muster.

Staring at the drumstick, common sense (and Phlox's voice in his head) finally triumphed, and Archer hesitantly pulled off a loose, bite-sized piece of meat. He shook his head once, to clear his double vision, and the food resolved itself into a single hunk of greasy flesh. With a grimace, he put it in his mouth.

And spit it out.

It was beyond foul. Uncooked, dried to within centimeters of embalmment, and preserved with a scattering of something that tasted like…coal?...the meat had a taste that went beyond unpleasant, beyond gamey, into the land of…dear God, is that a tapeworm?

A clash of metal resounded from outside the cell, causing Archer to look up as the wood door swung open to admit Kolos. "What is this?" Archer asked, holding the plate up for the Klingon to see.

"Targ," Kolos answered curtly. "It may not be what you're used to, but it's what the other prisoners get. It's quite healthy—for a Klingon, at least."

"It's a little underdone." Archer dropped the plate on his rock slab.

"I told you to remain silent," Kolos jumped in, the greetings done. "You should have listened to me—you would have saved yourself a lot of pain."

"Sorry if I interfered with your 'legal strategy,'" the captain answered disdainfully.

Kolos, accustomed to working with difficult clients, let the barb go. "My strategy may yet spare your life," he informed the captain. "I've spoken with the magistrate. He's willing to show you mercy if you cooperate." Kolos spoke firmly, decades of experience buttressing his favorable evaluation of the proffered deal.

For his part, Archer was less sanguine. "How?" he asked, looking up at the advocate.

"Tell him where to find the rebels," Kolos answered. "If your information leads to their capture, the magistrate will sentence you to time served and release you." Kolos starred down at the human. "I suggest you cooperate—it's a remarkably generous deal."

"If I'm such a dangerous enemy of the Empire, why are they so willing to let me go?" the captain asked glibly. Feeling a wave of nausea, he grabbed the narrow ridge of the rock slab tightly, letting the pain in his fingertips focus his mind.

"You're not the one they really want," Kolos observed with forthrightness. "But if you don't cooperate, they won't hesitate to nail you to a wall." Archer wasn't sure if Kolos was being facetious, or if that was an actual punishment in the Empire.

Archer sighed, his tired brain struggling to make sense of everything going on around him. "So I'd be convicted for aiding and abetting enemies of the Empire, but I'd really be punished for not telling the magistrate where to find their real targets?"

Kolos grunted. "If we can't find the true terrorists, you're the next best thing. The Chancellor needs a victory, and you're next in line."

Archer closed his eyes, noticing the swirl of colors on his eyelids. "Just how is that fair?" he asked, resignedly.

"We're at war, Captain. Victory comes first."

"And how does imprisoning me constitute a victory?"

Kolos chuckled mirthlessly. "Are you always so argumentative, Captain? Wasn't it your own people who coined the phrase, Daq poHmey vo' veS chut lu tam?"

In times of war, the law falls silent, Archer mused. It does sound more natural in Klingon.

"Captain, do you deny knowing that they were wanted as enemies of the Empire?" Kolos barked. "Do you deny refusing to turn them over to Duras?"

"No," Archer admitted quietly.

"Then face the reality: you're guilty. Nothing you can say in that Chamber will change what you did. Your only hope for leniency is from cooperating with the magistrate. Tell him where to find the rebels."

"I told you, they're not rebels," Archer responded tiredly.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, Captain." Kolos' temper flared. "Another Chamber has already made the finding."

"I want to speak before that Chamber!"

"Those are sealed proceedings. Only those with a security clearance are permitted in. Besides, the rebels are subject to the laws of the Empire."

"Most of them aren't even members of the Empire!"

"Captain," Kolos snarled, leaning down towards Archer, "understand this: they were—and still are—engaged in acts of violence and terrorism against the lawful authority of the Empire. Nothing you can say will change that."

"I haven't been able to say anything!"

Kolos came dangerously close to Archer's face. "Where did you take them? Another ship? A planet?" The captain stayed silent. "Do you understand what will happen if you don't tell them?"

"I have a pretty good idea," Archer muttered.

"ghuy', TerraSngan, I'm offering you a way to save your life! The only way to save your life! Don't you think, if there was any way to fight the charges, I would?" Kolos' jaw shook with fury, centimeters away from Archer. The hot, rancid breath caused Archer's vision to blur again. "Whatever you may think about the rebels, it is not my job to defend them! My job is to defend you. My priority is your life, and the only way to save it is by telling the magistrate what he wants to hear!"

"Let's say I did cooperate," Archer posited, running his hands down his thighs, trying to stir up some heat. "What would happen to these people?"

Kolos took a step back, his angered breath subsiding. "They would be charged with treason," he observed. "No doubt convicted, and ritually executed."

"They'd end up in a court like this one?" Archer asked, speaking steadily. "I can't do that to them. It would be—dishonorable—to subject them this travesty of justice. Tell the magistrate I'm going to pass on his offer." Archer slowly stood up, gingerly walking across the cell. The tingling in his legs gave him an uneven, shaky gait, but he stayed on his feet.

"Only a fool would sacrifice himself for people he barely knows," Kolos observed drolly, watching the captain cross the small room. "Then again, only a fool would have interfered in the first place."

Archer turned to face the Klingon. "I know them well enough," he stated. "They're good people, and I won't turn them over. If the magistrate would listen to my side of the story, it would become clear why I helped them." Archer paced towards Kolos, his voice rising in anger. "But from what I've seen, you're all perfectly happy to ignore what you don't want to hear!"

"Don't be so quick to accuse me of sharing their interpretation of the law," Kolos growled dangerously, the understated vehemence nearly knocking Archer backward. "My duty is to protect my clients from the worst excesses, and hang on until the day comes when respect for the law is restored. My…acceptance of the current reality is a far cry from an endorsement."

Archer made small circles in the cell, half-jumping as he paced. "No?" he said, looking at Kolos. "What is your interpretation?"

"I became an advocate many years ago," Kolos answered, his voice rough. "They were different times."

"Better or worse?" Archer asked softly.

Kolos grunted. "The courts were more willing to listen."

"Then maybe you should remind them of those different times," Archer pressed. "Nothing like a good history lesson."

"Advocates have tried," Kolos answered, a noticeable melancholic tint in his voice. "The prosecutors respond with words like 'new paradigms' and 'new dangers' to justify abandoning our principles."

"The courts on Earth have gone thru similar episodes in the past," Archer commented, continuing to push his point. "But in the end, when the abuses of power become apparent, fairness and justice return with even greater vigor."

Kolos appeared to ponder the captain's comments for a moment before responding. "I'm an old man," he said, with a resigned shake of his head. "Too old to challenge the rules." He stepped away, unable to look Archer in the face.

Archer weaved his way in front of Kolos. "Even if your client's life depends on it?" the captain demanded. "Isn't it your duty then? I get the feeling you're as frustrated as I am. That you want to stand up to them, but you've given up. You're afraid of them."

The point hit home—Kolos could not even work up an angered response. "I'm not afraid," he muttered.

"Then prove it. Challenge them." Archer stepped forward. "Remind them that, in times of war, the law becomes more important, to guard against hysteria and abuses of power. Show them what a real trial is like."

…

The clanking of the cell door shook Archer out of his slumber, sending his dreams fleeing back to the land of Nod from whence they came. Laying flat on the rock slab, feeling the cold stone underneath him, the captain kept his eyes closed for a moment, relying on his ears to document what was occurring around him. It was a shaky proposition; the sound of waves crashed thru his hearing, brought on by the fever that was wracking his sore body. Mentally, he tried to perform a self-checkup, and quickly gave in when he was unable to focus thru the fog.

Prying his eyes open, he blinked several times, trying to clear the haze. He didn't flinch when he saw a rocky Klingon head hovering over his face, starring down at him; he didn't flinch moments later, either, when he finally decided that the Klingon was real, and not just another feverous hallucination.

Before he could groan, Archer felt himself levitating from the slab, rising thru the superheated air of the cell, floating upwards as if in zero-g. He found himself upright, face-to-face with the Klingon guard, the room weaving behind the Klingon's craggy head. He swore he could see the tendrils of heat wrapping their way up to the ceiling.

His body cringed with the sudden impact of near-frozen water, shocking him into full consciousness. As the liquid dripped from him, sending daggers into open cuts and wounds, Archer shook his head clear and took stock.

He was joined in the cell by two Klingon guards, one holding him upright, a meaty fist grasping the captain's uniform, the other standing in the doorway, holding an empty bucket. Both guards were large brutes, easily two meters tall, with broad shoulders and barreled torsos, and the guard holding him bore a nasty scar stretching from his right ocular lobe to the corner of his mustached mouth.

Scarface growled at Archer, sending a wave of rancid breath that threatened to overwhelm the captain's new-found awareness, and with an understated motion, the Klingon flung Archer across the room. His limbs flailing like the metaphorical rag doll, unable to raise his arms to protect himself, Archer tumbled uncontrollably until he hit the opposing wall. Pain informed him that his momentum had stopped.

Communicating only via grunts and growls, the two guards quickly performed their duties, removing Archer's uniform with care—they obviously intended to reuse it. Stripping the human of his underclothes took only seconds; the captain's limp body offered no resistance. Now stripped naked, his tender skin scrapping across the rough stone floor, Scarface placed a two-centimeter-tall metallic collar around Archer's neck, sealing it with a laser torch that left behind scorched skin. Rolling the human over, Scarface shackled the captain's wrists behind him.

The preparation complete, Scarface and Brute grabbed the captain under each shoulder, yanking him to his feet with enough force to send another wave of misery thru Archer's broken body. His head bobbled atop his spine as his inner ears sluggishly sought to regain their equilibrium.

Without a word, the two Klingons dragged Archer from his cell, his unprotected feet scrapping across the ground as the captain sought to lift one, then the other, in a rough approximation of walking. They passed by the remaining guards of the cellblock, by Archer did not feel embarrassed about his nudity amid the clothed sentinels; his field of perception barely extended past his own body, his senses failing to recognize the presence of the other Klingons.

The captain duly sensed their passage thru a set of doors, but noticed when the air temperature dropped rapidly. His barren skin, with droplets of water still hanging on, rose with involuntary goosebumps as shivers ran thru him, and his teeth began to clatter, and his eyes squinted, reacting to the shift from the torch-lit chambers to the harsh, artificial light of the new passageway.

A little later—Archer was unsure how long—their travels stopped, and the captain was ushered into another cell, this one brightly lit with a sanitary glare. Scarface and Brute led him to the familiar rock slab, and forced him to lay down on his stomach, his shackled hands in the air behind him. Unlike the slab in his room, he noted that this one bore a concave indention. His head swimming, Archer passed out.

When he awoke, Scarface and Brute were lifting him from the slab, and a third Klingon unfastened the shackles binding his wrists. Before the captain could express any gratitude, although, the new addition re-cuffed Archer's hands in front of him. The two guards pulled him across the room, where they lifted his shackled arms upward, draping the chain over a hook in the ceiling. As his body drooped down, his toes centimeters above the floor, Archer could feel the pressure building in his shoulders.

The Inquisitor stepped forward, staring the nude human in the face. "If you tell me everything you know, this will end," the Klingon snarled, his sharp teeth bared. With a furious grunt, the Inquisitor launched a vicious, backhanded slap across Archer's face, followed by an underhand punch in the abdomen. With a twisting howl of pain, lightning rods shot up and down the captain's body; the bruised muscle in his back had ripped open under the twin pressures, and the weight of his body rendered the muscle in two.

Archer's mouth was filled with cotton, and he spoke thickly, concentrating on his vocal muscles with all his might. "What…about?" he asked slowly, his voice flowing like jelly. His body spasmed, trying to reduce the pressure on his ripped muscle.

"Where did you leave the rebels?" the inquisitor barked, showering Archer with spittle.

"I…don't…know," the captain gasped out.

"Do you expect me to believe that? I know they were on board your ship. You clearly delivered them somewhere. Where did you leave them?"

The pain building in his shoulders was too much to bear, forcing him to answer, but Archer couldn't, wouldn't, let the Klingons track down the rebels. "Valhalla," he huffed.

The Inquisitor responded with slit eyes. "Don't play your foolish games with me, terraSngan." Another backhanded slap lashed across Archer's face, this one coming from the opposing side. As his head lolled, rolling on his neck, Archer ran his tongue along his teeth, noting that two were distinctly loose. "Where did you leave them?"

"Who?" This earned Archer another blow in the abdomen, the force causing his body to curl, inwards, lifting his feet farther off the ground.

"Perhaps a little time to ponder your…situation…" the Inquisitor growled thoughtfully. "Remember, fool: this only ends when I say so." With a curt spin, the Inquisitor left the room, leaving Scarface and Brute to observe Archer. For his part, the captain dangled from his manacled wrists, trying to ignore the waves of misery that assaulted his body.

…

Minutes, hours, days later—Archer didn't really know; any sense of time had retreated far into the recesses of his mind, as it struggled to detach itself from his physical hell. For fun, Scarface and Brute had taken to spinning the captain, twirling him one way to wrap the manacle chain around the hook, then letting him spin back, picking up speed as he went. He tried to close his eyes, to ignore the spinning floor beneath him, but it was hard to gauge which was worse: seeing it, or closing his eyes. Either way, nausea erupted from his deprived stomach, sending a spurt of projectile bile outwards onto the floor.

Whenever he came close to fading out—he wasn't fooling himself; he knew it was unconsciousness, not sleep—Scarface or Brute would step up, retrieve a pain stick, and jab Archer with the electrodes. Arcs of electricity lit every nerve receptor, sending the captain into violent twitches, in a spasmodic dance in the air, and as the fried receptors slowly settled down, Archer could swear that he smelled the distinct odor of burned flesh. The jolts caused his bowels to void, sending the refuse running down his legs.

Over time, the human body becomes numb to some forms of pain; the intense pressure bearing on Archer's shoulder joints eventually became nothing more than a dull ache, as his pain receptors shut down to save his overtaxed system, and the rip in his left side faded into nothingness as the captain's mind isolated itself from his physical suffering. Even the pain sticks gradually became less and less, his nerve receptors burned too thoroughly to function.

The time for the next step had arrived.

As Archer's head dangled in mental fog, he slowly became aware that the Inquisitor had returned, and his body belatedly realized that Scarface and Brute had taken him down from the hook. His arms dropped in front of him, dead weights dangling from his stressed shoulders, and he instinctively curled to the left, trying to protect the ravaged, torn thermocolumbar muscle. His legs refused to answer, as his torched nervous system struggled to send messages to the lower portion of his body.

The two guards held Archer upright as the Inquisitor approached. Scarface shifted his grip, allowing him to roughly grasp the back of the captain's head, holding it forward. His rough nails dug into Archer's scalp, but the captain was far beyond feeling such minor pain.

"You will speak to me!" the Inquisitor snarled, backhanding Archer across the face. Blood flew from the captain's mouth. "Where are the rebels?"

Archer's head would have sagged forward, but for the hand of Scarface firmly grasping his hair. His vision was a mere slit, clouded over with fog, resembling nothing more than a bad impressionist painting. Thru it, he could barely see the wavy, smeared visage of the Inquisitor.

"What rebels?" Archer groaned, his chapped, bloodied lips cracking as they slowly moved. His voice was soft and raspy, his throat dried and his vocal cords unused.

"Do not play the fool with me, TerraSngan," the Inquisitor growled. "You rescued a ship of Arin'Sen in the Ikalia system. Three days later, they were no longer on board your vessel. It's a simple question: where are they?"

The Klingon's voice swam thru Archer's head. The Klingon's remarks sounded familiar, but incomplete. "We left them," the captain croaked, his mind struggling to form complete thoughts.

"See how easy that was?" the Inquisitor responded softly, encouragingly. "Where did you leave them?"

Archer's thoughts jumbled as he tried to weave the shattered strands of memory back into a narrative. "We repaired their ship."

"Did you now?" the Inquisitor replied, verifying the old cliché that there's nothing scarier than a Klingon being nice. "Then what happened?"

"They…left."

"Where did they leave?" the Inquisitor pushed.

Archer halted for a moment, trying to make sense of his recollections. "They left…while we were in the Ikalia system," he finally managed.

"Where did they go from there?"

"I don't know…they didn't tell us."

"I don't believe you. Where did they go?"

"I don't know," the captain said again, haltingly.

"I need information, terraSngan, and I'll get it, one way or another, so tell me: where did they go?"

Archer's mind reeled, but the more he pondered it, the more convinced he became. "They didn't tell us."

Archer felt himself flying thru the air, across the room, coming to a sudden stop as he hit the stone wall. His shackled hands did nothing to protect him, and he collided, with the side of his face turned to the barrier; he heard a crunch, and pain shot behind his right eye as his vision blurred with a viscous red. He dazedly realized that his ocular bone had shattered.

The captain slumped to the floor, his muscles well past the point of responding, but Scarface and Brute yanked him back to his feet for the Inquisitor. "I know you're not telling me everything," the Klingon said, sweetly, insouciantly. "Where did the Arin'Sen go?"

Archer racked his brain, trying to find a kernel of relevant information that he hadn't told the Klingon. "I don't know," he finally responded, his head dangling from his neck, his vision blurred beyond use. "They didn't tell us."

The Inquisitor's fist landed in Archer's stomach, sending a violent whomp of air upwards. "You know more than that," the Klingon reasserted. "Where are they?"

"That's all I know," Archer answered, his parched voice screaming for mercy. Why won't they believe me? I don't know anything more!

The captain felt himself gliding thru the air, courtesy of the massive guards, and belatedly found himself laying horizontal on the rock slab. Its concave interior, shaped more like a bathtub than a bowl, came up roughly parallel with the top of his body. If he could have seen, he would have noticed that only his face remained above the plane of the rock.

Archer's limbs were maneuvered, shifted around, and secured with steel clamps. He felt, but didn't see, the Inquisitor lean down over him. "I'll give you one more chance," the Klingon whispered. "Tell me where the Arin'Sen are."

Archer slowly pieced fragmented words together. "I've told you…everything I…know," the captain gasped out, desperately.

"What a shame," the Inquisitor responded. Archer dazedly felt a piece of cloth placed over his face, wrapped around to his ears, fastened into position with hairclips.

When the first bucket of water poured over his face, the captain's body shot into alarm, the intense panic penetrating the foggy haze and shooting bolts of terror thru every fried nerve receptor, echoing the fright with a new exercise in pain that permeated into the depths of his body. Gallons of water poured over him, filling every orifice, coursing up his nose, and when he opened his mouth to scream, the water gushed down his throat, following the open windpipes into his lungs, causing his body to instinctively choke to ward off the knowledge of imminent drowning.

What took seconds, seemed to last hours, before the last trickle of water cascaded downwards and flowed into the depression holding Archer. His body twisted, and he violently hacked, trying to cleanse the water from his lungs, but the sensation of panic refused to diminish: the cloth over his nose and mouth was drenched, so every time he attempted to inhale, it brought more water into his system, jolting him back again into intense panic. His once-languid limbs shuddered violently, trying to break free of the restraints, and he found himself banging his head backwards on the rock, trying to evade the fright by knocking himself unconscious.

Another wave of water slammed into his face, and his body arched, trying to prevent the liquid from draining into him, but in his hyper-alert state, his lungs were desperately gasping for more air. With every breath, new torrents of water broke the threshold, pouring into his system, creating a harsh weight on his chest that bespoke impending death. Panicked beyond sense, he rocked his head to and fro, trying to escape the water that seemed to come from every direction.

As the minutes passed, the gush of water slowly ebbed, and Archer became aware the other sensations in his body. The rocky tub was half-filled with liquid, creating a full-body immersion that added to the physical diagnosis of drowning, and the sound of rushing water was replaced by the sanguinary voice of the Inquisitor.

"Just tell me what you know," the Klingon repeated, hovering somewhere overhead. Archer irrationally wondered if the Inquisitor's head was detached and floating in the air. "Tell me what you know, and this will end. Where are the Arin'Sen?"

The captain desperately racked his mind, searching for any iota of information that might satisfy the Inquisitor, but could find nothing. Why won't he believe me? Archer wondered frantically. Why does he insist that I know something more? "Ikalia," he grunted, and went into vicious choking under the force of the soaked cloth.

"You've already told me that," the Inquisitor responded. "But you know where they went from there. Are you ready to tell me?"

The hyper-charged neurons in Archer's brain fired mightily, but could find no response, and as another torrent of water surged across his face, any thought of the Arin'Sen disappeared. His body shook, and if he could have ripped off his limbs and escaped, he would have; his nerves burned with the force of terror shooting thru them, and his hyperventilated gasps for air only drew more water in, forming a liquid grip on his lungs, choking off the life-giving air.

With several violent retches, the captain's body finally succeeded in purging itself, sending a wave of watery vomit back up his esophagus and to his mouth, from whence it could go no further; blocked by the heavy, saturated cloth, the captain had to gulp back down the bile, to prevent it from adding to the pressure soaking his lungs. I'm going to die, he thought wildly, as he hysterically tried to suck clean air thru the waterlogged mask. His only reward was the heavy feel of liquid, and he sputtered, his gag reflex finally reacting, but choking off the remaining sliver of air with it; Archer felt his world grow dark, and he lapsed into the bliss of unconsciousness.

…

Inside the mammoth complex of the Hall of Justice, the Chambers took up relatively little space; the stone building atop the artificial plateau was filled with offices and administrative rooms, and the far-larger stone foundation housed the vast array of tunnels and cells devoted to the newly-founded Office of Imperial Intelligence. Despite their small size, although, the Chambers could be physically imposing, as the darkened recesses of the ceiling plunged downwards with the great symbols of the Empire decorating the towering walls, lit by flame, and the massive spotlight focused on the defendant's docket.

Archer was led into the Chamber, his guards escorting him to the dais; after two weeks of constant interrogation, he had been given a week to recover, so that he would be physically presentable in front of the magistrate. From his perspective, it was a scarce blessing; Phlox was not allowed to visit again, so the captain had to receive his medical care from a Klingon physician who not only knew little about Terran medicine, but knew little about Klingon medicine as well.

As he stepped into the blinding spotlight enveloping the docket, Archer could hear the constant refrain of "jagh! jagh!" pouring down from the boxes, accompanied by the percussive beat of spears banging out a rhythm on the stone floors. It swirled around him, stirring the superannuated air at the floor of the Chamber, and the captain nearly staggered under the hot breeze.

The magistrate's gavel pounded once, twice, three times, signaling for the assembled members of the jury to be silent, and the accompanying glare of the magisterial Klingon finally silenced the chamber.

As he waited, Archer squinted his eyes, and his vision gradually pierced the halo, making out the array of torches and flames highlighting the magistrate's box.

"Strength to the Empire," the magistrate finally announced, his voice rumbling across the Chamber. "rI' yaj!" The chorus of baritone voices thundered in response, sending an echoing cry of "rI' yaj!" spiraling upwards to the fetid air swirling about the ceiling. "Have you informed the accused of our offer?" the magistrate asked, locking eyes with Kolos.

"I have," the advocate answered, his voice steady.

"And does he wish to address this tribunal?" the magistrate questioned with solemn precision.

"He does," Kolos stated, then changed the script. "He wishes to testify in his own defense."

A disconcerted growl swept thru the jury, the displeasure evident from the muted rumbling. "I object!" Orak thundered bombastically, giving voice to the rapidly building anger. "The time for testimony is over!"

The magistrate stared down at Orak. "Prosecutor, you forget your place," the aged Klingon snarled. "I will decide when 'the time for testimony' is over."

Kolos pressed the opening. "With respect, Magistrate, no verdict has been reached." A chorus of enraged growls cascaded down, but Kolos held his ground, letting the fury wash over him without force.

"Irrelevant!" Orak responded, his voice rising. He looked at the magistrate. "I urge you to end these proceedings!"

"I am within my rights to present further testimony!" Kolos declared, his voice ringing in confidence.

Orak snarled back at Kolos. "You're speaking of archaic rights!"

The crash of the gavel silenced the sweeping mutters in the Chamber, and rattled the captain's exhausted muscles.

"Surely I don't need to remind the Magistrate," Kolos forged on, "that the Sixth Article of the Judicial Charter of Koloth clearly grants every defendant the right to be heard?"

"That's a Klingon law, and a Klingon right," Orak snapped back. "It doesn't apply to a TerraSngan!"

Kolos raised his arms, addressing the assembled jurors. "From the time of Kahless himself, our courts have stood as a forum where justice is dispensed with honor." The jury fell silent. "The right to speak on one's behalf is one of the most fundamental guarantees of life and liberty! It is essential to the provision of fair and honorable justice! What does it matter, who the defendant is?"

The magistrate ceremoniously banged the gavel. "Contrary to the prosecutor's assertion, the Sixth Article states that 'no person' shall be deprived of justice, not just 'no Klingon.' Unless the prosecutor contests that a Terran is not even a sentient person, this court will hear the testimony. And prosecutor, in fairness, anyone held accountable before Klingon law will receive the protections of the same law. Advocate, call your witness." The ensuing uproar was silenced by the steady banging of the gavel.

Kolos stepped up to the docket. "Identify yourself."

"I'm Captain Jonathan Archer of the Earth Starship Enterprise."

Orak stepped forward. "Do you admit, Captain Archer," he snarled viciously, "that you gave aid and comfort to a vessel fleeing the Empire?"

Archer returned the prosecutor's glare. "We answered a distress call. They were starving, their life support failing."

"Their health isn't at issue here! They were a pack of terrorists, enemies of the Empire, and you helped them escape! That is all that matters!"

Kolos, maintaining his cool, turned to address the magistrate. "Will my client be allowed to testify, or not?" he asked, stating his request firmly.

The magistrate spoke with deliberate gravitas. "Prosecutor, you will show the Advocate the same respect he has shown you." He shifted his gaze to Kolos. "Continue."

With a respectful nod, Kolos turned back to Archer. "Captain, please tell this tribunal what happened."

"As I said, we had received a distress call…"

…

We were conducting a routine astrometrics survey of the Ikalia system when my communications officer, Hoshi Sato, picked up a distress signal from the vicinity of the fifth planet. We altered our course to investigate.

When we arrived at the planet, we found a small ship, little more than a drifting barge, floating amidst the debris fields circling the planet. We could tell just by looking that their main power was out.

"Any biosigns?" I asked my science officer, Commander T'Pol.

She checked her readings twice. "Twenty-seven," she told me.

"Any response?" I asked Hoshi, wondering if their communications system was even working.

"No, sir," she told me quietly. I could hear the concern in her voice.

Next, I checked with my tactical chief. "Malcolm?" I asked.

"Their main propulsion's offline," he answered. "Life support is failing." He looked up from his console. "They're in a bad way, sir—they're not going to make it on their own."

With that in mind, I ran thru our options in my head.

I checked with my pilot. "Can you dock with them?" I asked.

"Their port engine is venting reactor coolant," he responded. He was noticeably hesitant. "I can try to come in on the starboard side, but it'll be tricky."

"Do your best," I told him, and he brought the Enterprise into the debris field.

…

Archer paused in his retelling, coughing hard from the strain of talking so long. He could feel his chest rattle from the combined aftereffects of pneumonia and interrogation.

It took some careful piloting, but we were eventually able to dock with the alien shuttle, and we transferred their survivors to our sickbay. I stayed on the bridge until both vessels were secured at station keeping, then went down to sickbay to meet our guests.

"Our warp drive failed three weeks after we left," the alien captain, who I learned was named Asahf, told me as he lay in a biobed. His species was called the Arin'Sen. Only a handful of the aliens were on their feet, the rest under intensive medical care. "We tried to set a course for the nearest system at impulse, but main power went down."

"How long ago was that?" I asked Asahf.

"I don't know," he answered. "Six weeks, maybe more." If they didn't even know how much time had passed, their situation must have been dire. "We diverted auxiliary power to life support, but it wasn't enough." He paused for a rough coughing fit, then continued. "Food processors failed, water recyclers went out. We tried to stretch our rations, but over time, they ran out as well." I thought his body looked gaunt, but I wasn't sure with the alien physiology.

Our ship's doctor confirmed. "I've put them all on protein supplements," he told me, "but two of them are in serious condition."

Asahf picked his story back up. "When we left, there were fifty-four of us aboard," he said. "Half of us have died. We thought the rest of us were goners, until you arrived."

"What brought you out here?" I asked him. We were a long ways from any inhabited system—at least, as far as I knew. I wondered what could have caused them to forsake their home and take their chances with their beaten craft.

"Several years ago, our colony was annexed by a species we had never seen before," he explained. He didn't identify the species, and I didn't press, as I wanted to hear the rest of the story. "They said they'd provide for us in exchange for our allegiance, that we'd become a part of their Empire. We didn't have much choice, so we went along with it. They stripped us of our resources, left us with nothing, not even a ship to leave with. We waited for them to return—they said they'd bring food, fuel, clothing and shelter. But they never came back."

Kolos paced across the well of the Chamber, timing his questions to match the rhythm of his steps. Twenty-five pairs of eyes were focused on him; either Archer's veracity, or the sheer novelty of the defendant speaking, silenced the Chamber as the jury hung on every word.

"You knew they were fleeing the Empire?" the advocate asked steadily, his voice staying at constant pitch.

"Not exactly," the captain responded. The all-but-assured chorus of hoots failed to materialize. "We never learned who their conquerors were, and we didn't know that anyone was pursuing them—their colony had been abandoned by its providers."

"And you chose to show them compassion?" Kolos pushed on, letting a hint of disbelief enter his voice.

"My…personal code of honor requires that I provide compassion to those in need, regardless of who they may be," Archer answered firmly. "The Arin'Sen were starving—they wouldn't have lasted another week."

"They were subjects of the Empire!" Orak broke in, snapping harshly. "Their welfare wasn't your concern!"

"Apparently it wasn't yours, either!" Archer retorted, sending the jurors into a muted fury.

Orak pointed a grandstanding finger at the captain. "You see the contempt these humans have for us," he declared to the jurors. "He still believes he did nothing wrong!"

Kolos smiled. "And Prosecutor Orak has yet to prove that he has."

The advocate's barb lanced under Orak's skin. "He aided these rebels," the prosecutor declaimed, his voice booming angrily. "And now he refuses to help us bring them to justice!"

Orak's declaration brought the jury to its feet, all twenty-four Klingons, in their flame-lit alcoves. A handful started the familiar chant of "jagh! jagh!" Moments later, the chant had spread throughout the jurors, bringing the gavel banging down under a cloud of sparks.

"I will hear what the accused has to say," the magistrate's voice resounded through the Chamber, bringing the chant to a halt and the jurors back to their seats.

Kolos acknowledged the magistrate, then spoke to Archer. "Continue," the advocate ordered, ready to return to the retelling.

"My chief engineer had determined that their vessel was in need of major repair," the captain began.

After talking with Asahf, T'Pol joined me in my ready room to discuss our plans. "Some of the crew will have to double up," I told her, "but I think we can accommodate all of them." The Enterprise wasn't built with passengers in mind, but in an emergency like this one, I was resolute: we would find the room.

"I've already given the order," T'Pol answered, surprising me. It was unlike her to give such an order without checking with me in advance, but she went on to explain. "Considering the alternative was to set the ship adrift," she said, "and having had the opportunity to observe your decision-making process, I logically anticipated your decision." What else would you expect from a Vulcan? "Where do you plan to take them?" she then asked, changing the subject.

"They were headed for a system a few light years from here," I mentioned. "That should keep them safe."

"Empires tend to expand," T'Pol replied thoughtfully. "They may eventually discover they haven't traveled far enough."

We were interrupted by a comm hail. "Captain." It was Malcolm Reed. "Please report to the Bridge."

Archer paused momentarily, closing his eyes and leaning forward on the railing, waiting for a wave of vertigo to pass over. His throat had grown raspy, as unused vocal cords and abused muscles tried to withstand the stress of so much use.

T'Pol and I left my ready room and stepped onto the Bridge. There, on the viewscreen, was the frontal view of a Klingon cruiser. Only then did I know for certain that the refugees in our sickbay had been fleeing the Klingon Empire.

"Looks like they didn't abandon the colonists after all," I mused.

"Perhaps they're bringing the supplies they promised," Malcolm added, although I knew he was being sarcastic.

By then, T'Pol had returned to her station, and was running sensor checks. "It's a D5 battle cruiser," she informed me. "I doubt it's bringing supplies," she added.

We were outgunned and outshielded. "How long before they get here?" I asked.

Malcolm answered. "Seventeen minutes."

That didn't give us much time. "Are all the refugees aboard?"

"Yes, sir," Malcolm confirmed. Thank god for small favors, I thought.

"Cut their ship loose," I ordered. "Go to tactical alert."

"So, you were preparing for battle," Orak snarled, jumping in yet again. He was struggling to adapt to the unusual situation of not controlling the flow of testimony.

"I was preparing to defend my ship," Archer shot back at the prosecutor, refusing to back down. It was his day in court, and he was going to use it.

"As any good Klingon commander would be," Kolos added on for the benefit of the jury, unconcerned as Orak tried to bait Archer into a verbal battle. While the human may join combat, he was a good match for the overconfident prosecutor.

"The accused has already admitted that he knew the rebels were subjects of the Empire!" Orak bellowed, fixated on Archer.

"They may have been subjects of the Empire," Archer retorted, "but it sure as hell looked like you had abandoned them!"

Orak went on, undeterred. "And he knew the Bortas was coming to retrieve them, but he refused to turn them over! That right there is enough for a conviction, but he went even further!" The prosecutor roared furiously. "He launched a deliberate attack against an Imperial vessel!" An arm shot up, launching an accusatory finger. "This human is guilty of more than inciting rebellion—he has committed an act of war!"

The jurors rose to their feet, rumbling sweeping their ranks. "jagh!" they bellowed, disjointedly, then coming together in rough unison. "jagh! jagh!" In the staggered lighting, Archer could only see their silhouettes, but the voices told him of their fury.

The magistrate waited several moments as the first wave subsided, then brought the gavel down thunderously. "ENOUGH!" he bellowed, and iron-clad silence descended on the Chamber. The jurors reluctantly took their seats. "Prosecutor," the magistrate growled with lethal resonance, "I will tolerate no more of your interruptions! You dishonor yourself, and this court, when you fail to show the defendant the same courtesy he showed you!"

Orak was stunned into silence. It had been many years since a magistrate had talked to him in such a manner; indeed, it had been several years since any magistrate had asserted control of the Chamber, over the authority of an Imperial Prosecutor.

…

We had seventeen minutes to figure out a plan for survival.

We gathered in the Enterprise's situation room. "I don't suppose there's any chance of outrunning them," Malcolm suggested first. [A loud scoffing sound rolled down from an anonymous juror.]

"Their maximum speed is warp six," T'Pol answered. "They could overtake us within minutes."

"Can we disable their engines?" my navigator asked. That sounded better to me; it would allow us to escape with as few Klingon casualties as possible.

"Sustained fire from our phase cannons should be able to penetrate their armor," Malcolm said thoughtfully, "but I doubt they'd sit still long enough to give us the chance." Not bloody likely, I thought to myself. I knew it would take several minutes of sustained fire to pierce the battle cruiser's armor. Any way we looked at it, we were at the disadvantage.

I checked the sensor readings, searching for any natural phenomena that we could use. "What's the composition of those rings?" I asked, indicating the debris fields circling the planet below.

T'Pol pulled up the readings. "Nothing unusual," she reported. "Methane ice, isolytic plasma, diamagnetic dust."

Isolytic plasma, I thought. There must be some way we can make use of that. My next question was for Malcolm. "When we pulled that Klingon ship out of the gas giant, did you get a look at their sensor array?" I asked him, hoping for a positive answer.

"A brief one," Malcolm said. "They were pretty standard multi-spectral sensors, not too different from ours."

A plan was coming together. "If we could ignite the plasma in those rings," I asked, "would it disrupt their sensors?"

A smile crept onto Malcolm's face as he caught on. "For a few seconds," he told me.

"A few seconds will have to do," I replied, confidant that it would be enough. "Can you modify a torpedo?"

"I believe so," Malcolm said.

"How long?" I asked. Time was running short.

"How long do I have?" he retorted lightly.

T'Pol answered. "The Klingon ship will be here in less than eleven minutes," she reported.

"Get moving," I ordered Malcolm.

"So, you laid a trap for the Bortas," Orak leapt in, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

"We had no intention of firing first."

"Such a noble human," Orak replied, his voice scathing in sarcasm.

This time, Kolos stepped in front of the prosecutor, physically cutting him off from Archer. "I was assured that the accused would be allowed to speak without interruption," the advocate snarled, daring Orak to make the first move.

Orak caught the furious glare of the magistrate pounding down on him, but couldn't resist one last comment. "By all means," he said. "I find his version of events…extremely entertaining." The prosecutor stepped back, accompanied by a round of supporting laughter.

Archer resumed his narrative, speaking into the bright light surrounding him. "The Bortas dropped out of warp, with their weapons charged…"

…

"They're on an intercept course," Travis reported, as Malcolm returned to the bridge. He had finished the torpedo modifications with a full minute to spare. "Two hundred thousand kilometers and closing."

"Hail them," I ordered. Hoshi tapped the necessary commands into her console.

I didn't recognize the Klingon on the viewscreen. "Identify yourself," he said harshly.

"I'm Jonathan Archer, captain of the starship Enterprise," I responded calmly. I wanted to do everything possible to prevent the situation from escalating.

"You're harboring fugitives," the Klingon commander—Duras—answered. His tone made it clear that he had no intention of resolving the situation peacefully. "Surrender them."

I wasn't going to hand them into certain death; to do so would be…well, dishonorable. "I wasn't aware they'd committed any crime," I told Duras, wondering if he would listen to reason.

"They're wanted for inciting rebellion," he snapped.

I found it hard to believe that the same fugitives lying half-alive in our sickbay could pose any threat to the Klingon Empire. "From what I can tell, they're in no condition to incite anything," I answered. "Apparently, their colony was abandoned by—"

Commander Duras didn't let me finish my sentence. "Turn over the rebels, NOW!"

"What do you intend to do with them?" I asked.

He refused to tell me. "That's none of your concern," he claimed.

It was very much my concern—like I said, I wouldn't hand them over to be executed, but if he had offered certain guarantees, we might've been able to work out a compromise.

"I'm sorry," I responded, "but I'm not prepared to hand them over without a little more information. If I could speak to someone in your government—"

"I speak for the Empire!" Duras snarled, moving as though he would leap at me thru the viewscreen.

"Fair enough," I said. "Let's sit down and try to—" Duras cut off the transmission, and moments later, we were hit by disrupter fire from the Bortas.

…

Archer took a moment to suck in air, his lungs gripped tight by the fluid still coursing in them.

We returned fire, even though the weapons on the Bortas were far more powerful than our own. "Hull plating's at eighty percent. No damage to the Klingon ship," Malcolm reported from tactical, confirming the imbalance between our vessels.

"Head into the rings," I ordered. We had one chance to escape with our lives, and Duras had forced us to use it.

"They're pursuing," T'Pol verified. "Ten thousand meters." The Enterprise went thru a dust cloud, and then emerged into the rocky field. A bang overhead announced the first hit. "We're approaching a large fragment, six hundred meters in diameter, bearing two two seven mark four."

"Put us behind it," I told Travis. He eased the Enterprise into the lee side of the miniature satellite. We lay in wait, trying to turn the tables on our hunters.

"They're closing, sir," Malcolm reported. "Four thousand meters."

"Stand by," I told him. We needed to time our shot just right.

Malcolm continued the countdown. "Three thousand meters. Two thousand. Eight hundred meters."

"Fire!" I ordered as the first volley of disrupter fire came around the edge of the rock. Malcolm launched the torpedo, sending it on a parabolic course around our shield. It hit a cloud of plasma and detonated, creating a massive fireball between us and the Bortas.

"Our sensors are down," Malcolm notified us.

"Let's hope theirs are, too," I answered. We could have stayed and attacked the Bortas again, but I had no intention of shedding Klingon blood. "Get us out of here," I ordered.

…

"You say the Bortas fired first," Kolos stated, eliciting Archer to confirm this crucial piece of evidence. The advocate felt strangely alive; the attention of the Chamber was focused on him and his client. He swore he could feel the mood beginning to shift.

"Yes, they fired first," Archer verified, stating it clearly and firmly. He, as well, recognized that this was a crucial fact.

"And before you fired, you tried to reach an accommodation with Captain Duras?"

"We tried, but he refused to even listen."

"Duras was under no obligation to accommodate this human," Orak snarled from the shadows. Kolos barely glanced at his adversary, not deigning to acknowledge the comment.

"So you were simply defending your ship when you attacked the Bortas?" the advocate went on, highlighting the theme of the testimony.

"Yes," Archer replied. "I acted only to protect the lives of my crew." A quiet buzz rippled thru the jury's alcoves.

"And then what happened?" Kolos pushed on.

"We left the system, and took the refugees with us. A couple days later, their ship was repaired enough to fly under its own power, and they took off."

"You could have destroyed the Bortas," Kolos stated, as if puzzled. "Why didn't you?"

The Chamber was silent as Archer's response resonated upwards. "Because Captain Duras is not my enemy."

"Not—your—enemy," Kolos repeated, drawing out and stressing each word. He paused, allowing the captain's statement to weigh in the fetid atmosphere of the Chamber. No one moved.

"I submit to this tribunal," Kolos declared mightily, "that Captain Archer is guilty!"

…

A ripple of confusion coursed thru the jury, and twenty-four Klingons shifted forward, nearly in unison. Had the defendant's own advocate just declared him guilty?

For his part, Kolos took his time, letting the shock permeate the Chamber. "Captain Archer is guilty of meddling in Klingon affairs, on more than one occasion!" He raised his arms to address the assembled citizens of the Empire. "In fact, I've discovered that his name is well known to the High Council! The accused once stood before the Chancellor himself to expose a Suliban plot, uncovered by his meddling, that would have thrown the Empire into civil war!"

"That is absurd!" Orak scowled.

"The facts are on record," Kolos bit back, understated ferocity in his tone. "Perhaps the esteemed prosecutor has grown complacent in his research." Orak, unused to being challenged in such a manner, gritted his teeth and offered no response.

"The records of the Imperial Fleet also mention this man," Kolos continued, recounting the honor that Archer had accrued in the Empire. "His ship was instrumental in the rescue of the Klingon Raptor, the Somraw, from the dense atmosphere of a gas giant—at great risk to himself!"

"Even if this is true, it has nothing to do with this case!" Orak blustered, still half-hidden in the shadows on the floor of the Chamber.

"It has EVERYTHING to do with this case!" Kolos thundered back, his voice rumbling with strength. "It shows a pattern in Archer's behavior that was repeated in his encounter with Captain Duras. Yes, he may be self-righteous, but his meddling has saved a Klingon ship, and perhaps even the fate of the Empire itself. He has done this, not for any gain, but because his own personal honor requires no less! How can we, of all species, fault him for that?"

Kolos dropped his voice, allowing the softer volume to declare the gravitas of the words. "If Captain Archer is guilty, he is guilty of nothing more than being a nuisance—and is hardly worth the attention of this tribunal. And if he must be punished, let the punishment fit that crime."

Kolos and Archer exchanged a look of gratitude and pride.

…

Despite the flickering flames, the atmosphere in the incarceration cell remained dark and gloomy, as Archer and Kolos waited. Sitting side-by-side on the rock slab, the advocate stared straight ahead, lost in thought, while the captain rocked minutely, his abused body struggling to generate sufficient heat to keep his systems running. It may have been day outside, or it may have been night: there was no way of knowing, deep in the bowels of the Hall of Justice, nor did it matter much in the gray-lit skies of the Klingon homeworld.

Jonathan Archer was not a man born of intensive patience; he was an explorer, ever-active, pressing forward, and while the weeks of interrogation and incarceration had taken their toll, the kindling of impatience still burned in him. "How long should it take for a verdict?" he finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice was hesitant: while he wanted to be done, he was filled with a sense of forbidding. His advocate's strong finish was no guarantee of a favorable outcome; indeed, he was steeling himself for the inevitable conclusion of guilt—and execution.

Kolos stirred from his musings. "It usually doesn't take long at all," the advocate growled. Unlike Archer, he was accustomed to waiting for verdicts to return, and he felt no anticipation. In recent years, the finding had become little more than a ritualistic ceremony, as determinations of guilt thundered down with regularity. As if the authorities have never arrested the wrong person, Kolos thought, sourly. But when criticizing the Empire is considered sedition, and the Chancellor is the Empire, what do you expect? A lot of good people in prison. "I must have been more persuasive than I thought," he chuckled mirthlessly.

Archer glanced over at his advocate. When he had first arrived at the Hall of Justice, he had expected the exact opposite: a fair tribunal, and defense counsel that sought only to hasten his path to the gallows. Indeed, his first encounter with Kolos had seemed to confirm his expectations: the advocate was harsh, uncaring, disinterested in his client's story, more interested in seeking an accommodation with the court than in defending Archer's claims of innocence.

Four weeks later, Archer realized that it was he who had judged too harshly. Kolos' initial coldness was not disinterest, but experience: the advocate had sought the best, achievable outcome under the stacked rules of the Chamber. When Archer had pushed Kolos to challenge those rules, the Klingon not only fought for the captain's future: the advocate placed his own future on the line, opening himself up to charges of lending aid and comfort to the enemy. What kind of justice system punishes defense counsel for defending justice? Archer mused. "Thank you," he said softly, causing the Klingon to turn his head. "Thanks for what you've done for me."

"Rrrr," Kolos growled. "Don't thank me yet." He spoke wearily. "The odds are still very much against us."

The two lapsed back into a companionable silence for several minutes, until Kolos reached into a fold of his clothing. He pulled out a small flask. Twisting off the cap, he tapped the side, hearing the dull ring that announced the presence of its contents, and he held it up for Archer to take.

"What is it?" the captain asked cautiously, taking the flask from the Klingon. He ran it over his nose, inhaling the remarkably-sweet bouquet.

"Bloodwine," Kolos stated blandly. "It should help make the wait more pleasant—and it should warm you up, as well."

Archer tilted the flask upwards, taking a full swig of the liquid. As it ran across his tongue, he took it apart in his mind, noticing that the sweetness was accompanied by a strong pungency; the liquid flowed, slowly, like warm molasses. Letting the last molecules slide down his throat, he grimaced under the powerful punch. "What's it the blood of?" he asked at last, his voice stronger than it had been in weeks.

Kolos gave a friendly chuckle, and took back the flask. "Don't feel badly if you can't stomach it," he said, tilting it back for a shot of his own.

Archer took the flask again. "I didn't say that." Taking another mouthful, he winced once, but his system was already adapting to the powerful Klingon liqueur. And Kolos was right: his shaking had stopped, as the alcoholic warmth permeated his body. The captain stood up, fiddling with the neck of his uniform. "How many cases have you won?" he asked the advocate, wondering what the answer would be.

Kolos took a thoughtful moment. "Oh, I'm not sure…over two hundred, I'm sure." Archer was surprised. "But that was a long time ago," Kolos went on. "Back when the tribunal was a forum for the truth and fairness, and not a tool for armchair warriors. But a sect of the political class took over. Anyone who opposes them is labeled 'anti-Klingon,' as if that even means something."

"There are other classes?" Archer asked, confused, taking his seat on the rock slab.

"You didn't believe that all Klingons were soldiers, did you?" Kolos asked gently, not intending to jab. He knew how other societies typified the Klingon race.

"I guess I did," the captain answered, thoughtfully.

"No," Kolos grunted. "Oh, sure, all Klingons call themselves warriors, but that's not the same as being soldiers in the military: it refers to the battle for the soul, not the battle for political power. To live a pure and noble life, to speak the truth, to do what is right and combat injustice, that is the Path of Kahless, the path of honor. Now, young Klingons are taught that honor only comes thru victory in battle: and even worse, any victory.

"But what honor is there in a victory over a weaker opponent? In killing women and children from the sky, in never facing the foe you slay? What honor is there in mistreating your enemy, just because he mistreated you? Had Duras destroyed that ship, he would have been lauded as a hero of the Empire for murdering helpless refugees. No, true honor is accrued by living a noble life, in whatever endeavors we undertake."

Archer pondered for a moment. "What did your parents do?" he asked at last.

"My father was a teacher," the advocate responded. "My mother, a biologist at the University. They encouraged me to take up the law, to earn my honor by fighting for justice." He snorted derisively. "Now, all young people want to do is take up weapons as soon as they can hold them…what about your parents?"

Archer smiled, the thought of his parents brightening his mood. "My mother was a writer," he said, picturing her beaming face in his mind. "Poetry, actually." Kolos grunted approvingly. "My father…was a warp-field physicist. He actually designed the engines in the Enterprise. He…died before the ship launched. He dreamed that humanity's arrival in the stars would bring about a new era of peace and friendship."

Kolos snorted. "The Empire didn't take to the stars looking for peace and friendship—we were interested only in defending ourselves against outsiders. Only by controlling the stars could the Empire assure its security."

He growled again. "And what do we have to show for it? We were a great society, not so long ago, when we followed the Path of Kahless, and honor was earned through integrity and acts of true courage, not senseless bloodshed. And now? Sometimes I fear that we've become a farce."

Archer nodded thoughtfully. "For thousands of years, my people had similar problems," he reflected. "We fought three world wars in a futile effort to create security thru bloodshed. But it never lasted: war begat more war. Whole generations were nearly wiped out. Single battles wiped out hundreds of thousands," he noted, thinking about the Verdun and Stalingrad. "Governments led their nations into war simply to satisfy the gleam in a politician's eye."

Kolos looked at his companion. "What changed?"

Archer pondered his answer. "A few courageous people finally realized that a different, better world really is possible," he said finally, "and together, they could make the difference." In his mind, he saw his father.

…

The magistrate's gavel banged thunderously, but unlike past sessions in the Chamber, the assembled Klingons were already silent; the cry of "jagh! jagh!" did not resound, nor did the irregular beat of spears on the hard stone floors of the jury alcoves. It mattered little to Captain Archer, who had never been able to see the jurors, except as darkened forms backlit by the fiery glow of yellow flame and red embers; he was certain that their attitude towards him had not changed, and the absence of the jury's pounding noise was replaced with the hard beat of his own heart.

For the first time, a second spotlight shone in the Chamber, shining down on the magistrate, and Archer finally saw the man who would be passing final judgment on his life. The elderly Klingon's tangled mane was white and silver, and appeared unwashed and unkept; his magnificent crest was wizened with age, and his face bore the unmistakable lines of a permanent scowl.

Beneath the emblems of age, however, the magistrate bore a powerful mien, his stout body still strong, his mind still fierce, and he glared down at the assembly with the ferocity of one accustomed to tolerating no dissent.

"I have weighed the evidence carefully," the magistrate enunciated slowly, choosing his words with lawyerly precision. He paused, his tongue picking over several choices, before selecting the next passage. "Advocate Kolos has made an impressive case, much to the surprise of this tribunal."

Prosecutor Orak looked up with alarm, his assuredness shattered in a heartbeat; this was not part of the normal elucidation. He tried to catch the eye of the magistrate, to get a hint of what was coming next, but the magistrate refused to look down at the well of the Chamber, instead keeping his steady, solemn gaze fixed directly outwards, addressing the twenty-four members of the jury. Archer may have been the defendant, but he was clearly not the most important person in the Chamber.

"Based upon the Advocate's arguments I am inclined to believe that the accused was a victim of his own foolishness," the magistrate declared somberly. "He was not fomenting rebellion, nor did he intend to undermine the Empire by providing aid and comfort to its enemies."

Archer's head jolted up as he heard the words, wished for but unexpected; it was like a warm blanket, soothing his ravaged mind, promising that maybe, just maybe, this entire surreal experience would still turn out okay. "He did nothing more than what he testified to," the magistrate continued gravely. "He saw a ship of half-dead aliens, and in the weakness so typical of terraSngans, he felt honor-bound to provide emergency aid." Kolos nodded, as if he had been expecting this; no good advocate would ever have revealed the magnitude of his harbored doubts.

"But," the magistrate went on, sending a shiver running the length of Archer's spine, "as Prosecutor Orak has made clear, the laws of the Empire have been violated." Orak nodded self-righteously, pleased that the magistrate listened to reason. "While Captain Archer bore no specific intent against the Empire, the charges against him do not require any such intent.

"Captain Archer did provide aid to subjects of the Empire, who were engaged in a state of rebellion against the lawful authority of the Chancellor. After being notified of their status, he refused to turn the rebels over, choosing instead to engage in battle with an Imperial vessel to shelter the rebels, and ultimately helped them escape, enabling them to continue their rebellion.

"Captain Archer must be held accountable for these actions regardless of his intent." Archer let his eyes drift shut as he pondered the magistrate's words, feeling his upsurge of hope being smashed with the bluntness of Klingon tact. It was not a new phenomenon, he knew, nor one located only on Q'onoS; even on Earth, for centuries, anyone who gave humanitarian aid to accused rebels—to accused terrorists—was charged with supporting their political goals. At the same time, however, the alternative—to go by, unfeeling, uncaring, letting the refugees perish—was unthinkable. I can accept the notion of being punished for a doing a good deed, Archer reflected serenely.

The magistrate continued. "I therefore accept the finding of the jury, and declare the accused guilty as charged."

Now the jury rose to its feet, the ritual spears banging against the stone, the angered chant resumed.

"However!" the magistrate bellowed, seeking to be heard over the acclamation. The jury was loathe to quiet; it was an unnatural state for a Klingon, but few were willing to challenge the authority of the magistrate. "However," the magistrate roared, as the jurors returned to their seats, "this tribunal cannot ignore his actions assisting the Klingon people." A look of panic crossed Orak's face, as the prosecutor stared up at the towering Klingon above him.

"Therefore," the magistrate thundered solemnly, "the sentence of death is hereby commuted."

The jury was on its feet, roaring in displeasure, furious that the magistrate had overrode their decision for immediate execution. The defendant was guilty of crimes against the Empire, and the only acceptable punishment was beheading; there were no shades of gray. The furious rumble poured forth, fists shaking, spears banging, voices raised in harsh accusations, accusing the magistrate of weakening the Empire by his showing of mercy.

"Silence!" the magistrate boomed, seeking to regain control of the Chamber. "Be silent, or I will have you removed!" Upon hearing this, the guards hesitated; their obedience dictated that they follow the magistrate, but in their hearts, they agreed with the jurors. The magistrate was betraying his duty, and didn't their loyalty to the Chancellor come first?

"Enough!" the magistrate roared, as the din slowly fell. "Jonathan Archer, you are condemned to the dilithium mines on the penal colony of Rura Penthe for the remainder of your life."

Kolos' face fell in gravitas as the magistrate's proclamation settled in, stunning the Chamber into momentary stillness. For his part, Archer tried to catch his advocate's eyes, seeking an explanation: he had never heard of Rura Penthe, but the phrases "dilithium mines," "penal colony," and "remainder of your life" did not sound good.

As he tried to figure out the sentence, the captain's heart slowly plummeted, as the realization struggled to sink in: he would be incarcerated until the day he died, never free to sail the stars, never able to explore strange, new worlds; never able to see his family, his friends, the shipmates that were a mixture of the two; never able to even sleep in his own bed, with Porthos napping on his lap.

As a new din slowly built in the Chamber, Orak broke, unable to stand it any longer. "I protest!" he bellowed, his voice cutting upwards from the well.

The magistrate leaned forward, focusing on the prosecutor, and spoke with a rare hint of humor. "I wouldn't protest too loudly, Prosecutor," the magistrate said. "You've won your case."

"And I complement the magistrate on his just ruling," Orak said carefully, trying to cover the ire in his voice, ultimately unsuccessful. "But the sentence for these crimes is death!"

"The sentence is death!" Kolos roared back, coming alive with fury. He glared at the magistrate, his voice filled with poison. "You condemn this man to Rura Penthe! What is the life expectancy of a prisoner there? Six months, a year, for a healthy Klingon?" Kolos spat out his spite. "And you expect us to believe that this is an act of mercy? In his condition, this is not just death, it is a torturous death!" The advocate's voice ripped thru the Chamber.

"This court has shown you a great deal of patience, Advocate," the magistrate replied, softly, menacingly. "Don't test my limits any further."

Kolos looked around him—at the Klingon warriors manning the jury boxes; the guards standing straight; dozens of torches lit throughout the room. To one side was Orak; above and in front, the magistrate, his box flanked by the statues of the vanquished Qui'Tu.

Kolos lifted his head, following the flames that leapt upwards to the recesses of the ceiling. On the wall behind him, the great weapons of the Klingons were displayed; a mek'leth, a bat'leth, and a dozen other steel blades, forged in the fires of lava that shaped the Klingon homeworld, forged in the heat of a hundred battles, wielded for the greater honor, not the glory of a battle won, but that of a cause worth fighting for.

He gazed upwards at the walls in front of him, flanking the magistrate's box. The great murals, draping down, bearing one of the slogans of the new regime: to believe, to obey, to fight.

He looked at his client, a human lost in a foreign world, and realized that there was only one answer.

"I ask for no special treatment," Kolos responded, addressing the magistrate, "but I will not back down from the zealous defense of my client's rights. I demand that my client be judged fairly, and be sentenced honorably, as any Klingon would be." His voice glistened with steel. "But it has been many years since anyone stood in this Chamber and received justice."

The Chamber stayed silent, stunned into stillness, as the assembly watched the battle between advocate and magistrate.

"Watch your words," the magistrate growled fiercely. "You insult the honor of this tribunal."

"Honor!?" Kolos barked, any hint of intimidation gone. "You acknowledge that Captain Archer acted with conviction and integrity, but how do you reward him? With this grand, public display of compassion, before sending him to a far crueler death in a frozen cave? Does that—dishonesty—assuage your sense of honor?"

"Enough!" the magistrate bellowed, his teeth bared.

"Forgive me if I fail to see the honor in that!" Kolos roared, his chest heaving with the ferocity of his stand.

The magistrate arose, his voice matching his rage. "You are in contempt of this tribunal!" he thundered vehemently, pointing a finger furiously at the advocate. "Since you have such admiration for the prisoner, you will join him on Rura Penthe for a period of one year! What do you have to say for yourself, Advocate?"

Kolos snorted contemptuously. "You and your kind will lead the Empire to ruin, Magistrate. You who claim to stand for principle, while you betray it as a matter of course. I have preserved my honor and my dignity, and if this is the consequence, then in a sense I have chosen it: and I will persevere."

"Remove them both," the magistrate ordered, and the Chamber's guards stepped forward to escort the prisoners away.

…

Commander T'Pol emerged from the captain's ready room onto the bridge of the Enterprise, her visage giving no quarter to whatever emotions that may have been roiling within. The staff was waiting for her, and she gave no hesitation to inform them of the grave news.

"The Vulcan High Command will continue to lobby for the Captain's release," she told the crew, "but they will not authorize any action to recover him."

The bridge was silent for a moment, before Commander "Trip" Tucker spoke up, confused. "So what do we do?" he asked, the possibility of leaving Captain Archer to his fate not entering his head.

"The Klingons have only allowed us to remain here during the trial," T'Pol answered. "We've been ordered to leave immediately." In deference to her human colleagues, the Vulcan modulated her voice, to make it softer, to ease the blow. While much of human emotional context was still a mystery to her, nearly two years of serving on the human vessel had taught her some of the basics.

"And abandon the captain?" Malcolm asked, alarmed.

"We don't have a choice," T'Pol responded flatly, cutting off the expected objection. "If we don't leave, the Klingons will send enough ships to destroy us."

The silence on the bridge grew heavy, before the youthful navigator, Travis Mayweather, spoke up hesitantly. "What's this…Rura Penthe…like?"

In T'Pol's estimation, the question indicated that the crew was beginning to accept the inevitably of the captain's incarceration. "It's quite inhospitable," she told Travis, reluctant to say anything more.

"Let me get this straight," Malcolm spoke up from the tactical station. "We have to leave Q'onoS, but then what? They're going to have to move him, to get him to Rura Penthe—and we'd be long gone before they could respond."

"We're deep inside Klingon territory," T'Pol answered, "and their ships are faster than Enterprise. A rescue attempt is out of the question."

"I'm willing to risk it," Trip spoke up, jumping at the ray of hope. Without guessing, T'Pol knew that Trip spoke for the senior staff.

"The captain isn't," T'Pol countered. "Dr. Phlox passed along his orders—the crew is not to be endangered on his behalf."

"So you're saying we just…forget about him?" Trip asked, clearly reluctant to accept the notion.

"I'm saying an armed rescue isn't an option," T'Pol clarified. "But there are diplomatic channels."

"We tried diplomatic channels," Trip retorted, his ire surfacing. Why did the captain have to leave this damned emotionless Vulcan in charge?

"Not all of them," T'Pol answered steadily. "At least, not the 'informal' channels." Tucker's face gradually relaxed as he caught on to the Commander's plan. "I've dealt with several Klingon bureaucrats in the past," T'Pol continued, obliquely referencing her time in the Vulcan Intelligence Directorate. "Some of them can be persuaded."

"Our orders are not to endanger the crew," Trip thought aloud, turning the idea over in his head. "And we can recover the captain without endangering anyone."

"Exactly," T'Pol confirmed. "Mister Mayweather, take us out of orbit."

…

In the core of the Klingon Empire, along the border of the Mempa Sector, lay a trinary star system, composed of a close-bound orange dwarf and red dwarf, locked in tight orbit, with a yellow dwarf encircling the core stars at a distance of several dozen AUs.

Itself the descendant of a much earlier, far more massive red giant that formed, burned, and died during the infancy of the galaxy. The swirling molecular cloud left behind by the ancestral star took eons to reshape itself, the rotation gradually pulling molecules inwards over millions of years until the density became sufficient to trigger gravitational collapse.

Its mass still too small to fuse the debris into a single protostar, the accretion disk settled out into three foci points, each with enough mass and pressure to jumpstart stellar fusion, and as additional millions of years went by, the delicate gravimetric dance of the Rura Penthe stars slowly stabilized into the coherent, trinary star system occupying its corner of space.

Physicists disagreed as to the formation of the Rura Penthe asteroid. The weak gravitational pull of the system's accretion disk had been unable to preserve sufficient mass to form any planets; the heavy metals collapsed into the star cores, and the lighter gases not captured therein broke completely from the system, floating into the interstellar medium.

While called as asteroid, the closest thing to a consensus held that Rura Penthe was, in actuality, a small, rogue planetoid that had drifted into the star system, likely crossing inside the orbits of the red and orange dwarves before being captured and settling into a distant orbit. Formed around a dense, metallic core, the planetoid contained one of the most sought-after ores in the galaxy: dilithium, the only known natural substance capable of regulating the matter/anti-matter reaction fueling a warp drive.

As the planetoid orbited the system, working its way outwards over a course of millions of years, to its present location at a distance normally associated with a Kuiper Belt, it swept the star system clean of the remaining gaseous dust, picking up countless molecules of hydrogen and helium, oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon.

The three stars forming the Rura Penthe system were weak, and the distance great: heat failed to reach the planetoid, the stars providing only a dim, twilight glow on the horizon. With a surface temperature fluctuating around 43 K (-230°C), any degree of exposure was lethal.

The planetoid's surface was a vast, undulating plain of ice, rising and falling with the pattern of rocky crags forming the underlying crust and the wavy peaks formed by the thin atmosphere. Various combinations of methane, carbon monoxide, and nitrogen formed the frozen seas, coming together to form a single, continuous flow that from above appeared uninterrupted, but from the surface revealed a subtle vista of whites and blues composed of thousands of details.

Tiny ice crystals hung in the rarefied atmosphere, only extending a few kilometers above the surface of the planetoid; any higher, and the delicate gases froze, dropping back to the ice cover of Rura Penthe. The little heat sublimated the solid surface, causing the ice to evaporate, thus stirring the few atmospheric currents shaping the vast, barren wasteland.

The kilometers flowed into kilometers, unbroken stretches that merged into the distance, once broken by a handful of flashing locator beacons. It was there that the Klingon transport landed, settling into a crevasse excavated by inmates long ago, the heavy atmospheric doors overhead slamming shut. The crew waited as the landing bay repressurized, before emerging from the transport, escorting their cargo into the waiting tunnels.

Snaking deep into the interior of the planetoid, the tunnels cut thru eons of ice before reaching the rocky core of Rura Penthe. Here, the living conditions were ameliorated, albeit still harsh: with proper clothing, and regular labor, an inmate could say warm enough to live, the air dense enough to breathe. Here, the miners worked.

Dressed in ragged furs that smelled of the unwashed bodies of their predecessors, Captain Archer and Kolos labored, hacking away at the hardened rock with old-fashioned pick axes and shovels, lifting the heavy tools overhead, swinging them forward with exhaustion, back and forth, again and again, the mining rhythm unyielding and unforgiving. One swing merged into the next, the world reduced to several square meters of tunnel, time condensed to the moment that came before, and the one that would follow after.

Checking on his older companion, Archer was alarmed to see the Klingon struggle to lift his pick, then slump forward over its handle in fatigue, gasping for breath. Using his own pick for balance, the captain stepped over to his comrade, holding out a hand to support Kolos.

"You all right?" Archer asked, unwilling to use too many words.

"Perhaps I spent too much time in the law library," Kolos answered, sucking in the thin oxygen, "and not enough in the battlefield."

"Not all Klingons are soldiers," Archer responded sardonically. "Remember?"

A moment later, Kolos arched his back and bellowed in pain, a guard's pain stick jabbed into his ribs, sending the harsh current of tens of thousands of volts of electricity into his weakened nervous system. Kolos slumped to the floor, lapsing into semi-conscious silence.

"Our ships run on dilithium," the guard snarled, "not talk!" The Klingon launched a brutal kick at Kolos' midsection, causing the former advocate to grunt with the force of expelled air.

"Leave him alone!" Archer growled, standing up to confront the sadistic young guard.

"Get back to work!" the guard snarled in response, waving the pain stick in warning. But Archer's sense of resistance was too strong, and marshalling his overtaxed energy reserves, the captain lashed out at the guard, sending the Klingon backward.

Catching his balance, the guard responded by stabbing the pain stick forward, as though a sword, trying to force it into Archer's ribs. Twisting to the side, Archer avoided the electrified weapon, instead catching the Klingon's arms and pulling the guard forward, using the guard's own momentum to send him sprawling. Twisting the pain stick away, the captain fiercely jabbed it into the guard's own chest, rendering the Klingon insensate.

As he looked down at his handiwork, his fluid-filled lungs struggling to suck in air, Archer was struck from behind by a second pain stick, a second guard having noticed the battle taking place. With a scream of pain, and lightning bolts shooting across his eyes, Archer collapsed to the ground.

"Any more trouble out of you," the second guard growled, "and you'll spend the night on the surface!" Retrieving his colleague, the guards stalked off.

Still unable to climb to his feet, Kolos pulled himself across the ground, and grabbed Archer by the shoulder. "You're a fool," the Klingon grunted.

"You're welcome," the captain responded half-instinctively. His chest rattled as he tried to breathe, resulting in a vicious coughing fit that shook Archer's pain-ridden body. Kolos shook his head; even an advocate could recognize the signs—the lingering pneumonia, the torture, and now the brutal cold, weak air, and forced labor. The captain had only days to live.

"Haven't you learned your lesson?" Kolos scowled. "This is why you were sent here in the first place—for interfering in affairs that have nothing to do with you!"

Archer hacked forcefully, sending a pile of phlegm flying across the tunnel. "It does have something to do with me—" he coughed again, futilely raising his fist to cover his mouth. "We have a saying on Earth… you don't kick a man when he's down!" Archer rose to an irate growl, before dropping his head back, the burst of adrenaline failing him, slumped against the rocky wall of the tunnel.

"So, are all humans like this?" Kolos scoffed in fake ire.

"Like what?" Archer asked. "Fair?" He tried to chuckle, but it sent him into another coughing fit, chunks of phlegm and spittle shooting out from his mouth. His body screamed, the pain warring with the instinctive contractions of his muscles.

"Stupid," Kolos answered. "Are all humans this stupid?"

This time Archer squeezed our wheezing laughter. "It's in our nature."

"Stand up," Kolos growled, slowly staggering to his own feet. "We have work to do, unless you really do want to sleep on the surface!"

…

Days passed, unnoticed beneath the wasteland of Rura Penthe, the inmates lost in a gradual death march. Archer's condition grew worse, the death rattle sounding from his chest. He soldiered on, unwilling to take a break, afraid that he would be unable to get back up. His surroundings slowly faded from his consciousness as his mind began to shut down, preserving what little fuel he had for his basic physiological needs.

Along with the other prisoners, Archer and Kolos continued to mine the dense, heavy dilithium crystals, chipping away at the bedrock until they could dislodge the ore, and then carrying it to the carts interspersed throughout the mine tunnels. Several inmates left, carried off in the death of sleep, but the captain found no energy to ponder his fate.

The prisoner transport returned to the penal colony, bringing with it fresh prisoners for the mines below, providing the laborers the only item of interest in their plodding existence. And as Archer and Kolos halted over an ore cart, seizing a moment of rest before returning to the mining, the tunnel doors slammed open.

"New arrivals?" the captain asked rhetorically, glancing upwards at the fur-clad wretches. The guards pushed the newcomers down the ramp, sending several sprawling.

"Prosecutor Orak has been busy," Kolos answered mirthlessly, watching the inmates struggle to their feet under the steady abuse of the guards. One prisoner slammed into a rock pillar, and fell to the ground, unmoving.

The guards glared at the assembled prisoners, and intent on attracting no attention, Archer and Kolos staggered back to their corner of the tunnel. Every few steps, Kolos had to hold up a hand to steady the human. Upon rounding the corner, out of sight of the guards, Archer gracelessly fell to the ground.

The new inmates scattered, quickly seeking the furthest reaches of the tunnels, where the guards were less common. One, however, seemed to move with a purpose; unusual, not to mention dangerous, he checked his surroundings, until he found the human captain.

Raising his pick, the prisoner eased down the tunnel.

He made his way down the corridor of ice and rock, staying in the disjointed shadows of uneven walls, and ducking behind the protection of stone pillars. The broad back of Kolos stood in front of him.

Too late, the inmate noticed that the form of Kolos stood unmoving, and realized that a trap had been set: in front of him was Archer, leaning against the wall, and Kolos slammed into the prisoner, sending him into the wall, the pick falling at his feet.

"Stay away from us!" Kolos snarled, baring his teeth. "We have nothing you want!"

Archer pushed off from the wall, staggering towards Kolos and the newcomer, and stopped in surprise when the man ripped off his hood. It was Malcolm Reed.

"Captain!" Reed said forcefully, trying to get his superior's attention before the Klingon killed him.

"It's all right, Kolos," Archer replied, the words coming in spurts. "He's from my ship." With a grunt, the Klingon released his grip.

"It's good to see you, sir." Malcolm's precise words clipped thru the thin air, out of place amid the walking dead of Rura Penthe.

"You, too. Malcolm, this is Kolos, my advocate."

The Klingon growled. "Pleasure," Reed responded.

"How'd you get here?" Archer asked, the surprise finally creasing his frozen face, and the excitement sent him into another fit of coughing. Slumping forward, Reed caught the captain, holding him upright as phlegm spat out.

"T'Pol knows a few Klingon officials from her days in the Ministry of Security," Reed answered, easing the captain down into a sitting position. "One of them put us in touch with a corrections officer here who was willing to look the other way—for the right price, of course."

Kolos baaghed disdainfully, the image of a dead, dishonorable guard flickering thru his mind.

"I came on one of the dilithium barges," Reed continued. "We bribed the captain to bring me here, and take us back to Enterprise."

"Is there room for one more?" Archer asked, indicating Kolos.

"I imagine so," Reed answered. He pulled the hood back over his head. "But we have to hurry—the barge will be leaving soon."

With a mutual nod, Kolos and Reed reached down, grabbing the captain, and pulling him to his feet. Unsteadily, Archer wavered, his head spinning, his balance confused, but time was short; his two escorts pulled him, half carried, half walking, down the corridor.

Reed's senses were on full alert as the threesome made their way to the auxiliary loading bay, where the barge awaited their arrival, far from the ordinary patrol routes of the Klingon guards. On several occasions, he came to a stop, physically directing the captain and Kolos into a recessed alcove or behind a corner, waiting for the hulking brutes to pass. The other inmates took little note of the curious trio; they had no energy to care.

The barge sat in the bay, its rear doors opened, piles of unrefined dilithium ore visible inside. Hurriedly, Reed pulled the captain to the hatchway, lifting Archer over the lip of the door.

Kolos stayed outside.

"I can't go with you," the Klingon declared.

Archer looked at his comrade, confused. "Why not?" he asked.

"I've been an advocate for fifty years," Kolos growled, "and I spent the last twenty of them standing in that ghuy'cha' tribunal, playing my part, holding my tongue, and all the while honorable men were being sent to places like this," he barked, waving a hand at the surrounding cavern. "Without the benefit of a defense, the opportunity to protect themselves, the chance to challenge the accusations against them! And it was because of me—because I refused to take the stand, because I refused to fight on their behalf, because I was content to accept the unjust actions of the tribunal!

"And then I was assigned to your case, Captain." Kolos' voice became grave. "You told me that on your world, a few courageous people made a difference. And who knows more about courage than a Klingon? Besides—I'll never be able to restore honor to my people living as a fugitive!"

"You realize what that means," Archer said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You said most prisoners here don't survive a year."

"Most prisoners here," Kolos answered, "have very little to live for. I, however, have been imprisoned in the service of a just cause. I will wear by incarceration with pride; and when I am released, I will continue the good fight. I will be fine, Captain. I only hope that you are not too far gone."

"Captain?" Reed hissed furiously, mentally ticking down their time for escape.

"Go," Kolos ordered. "Go!"

Archer stuck out a fur-clad hand. "Thank you," he told his advocate. Meeting the captain's eyes, Kolos returned the gesture, clasping the offered hand firmly.

Kolos turned and left the bay, returning to the dilithium mines of Rura Penthe.

…

Archer awoke, flat on his back, staring upwards at the bright lights of Sickbay. He—dazedly—remembered Malcolm closing the hatchway of the ore barge, and the noise of the engines as the Klingon ship lifted off from the planetoid, but after that, his memory faded into nothingness, nothing but bizarre, scattered snapshots that bespoke his feverish state.

"Ah, Captain!" He heard the joyful voice of Dr. Phlox from across the sickbay, and moments later, the Denobulan's face appeared above him. "You're awake! Don't worry—you're safe."

Gingerly, experimentally, Archer took in one breath, and released it. He didn't cough, he didn't hack, he didn't feel the liquid cloaking his air sacs: the breath was full and clear. Then he noticed that he couldn't move.

"It's okay, Captain," Phlox said soothingly, laying a hand on Archer's shoulder. "We had to immobilize you—several of your core muscles were ripped, and they need to mend. We've filtered the liquid out of your chest, and your pneumonia is almost gone, although you'll need at least a week of bed rest."

Archer nodded minutely, unable to move his head any further.

"Captain!" Trip's excited voice carried from the doorway, followed by the appearance of his face in midair. "The doctor says you're going to recover!"

Phlox chuckled, pleased to have brought such glee to his colleagues. "Yes, yes, although we can't rush it: his body took quite a beating. He's lucky he only spent two weeks in that torture chamber. I can't even imagine what several months would have done to him."

"Captain," Trip spoke up again. "Someone came to check on you—hang on a second. Over here!"

Archer's vision swam momentarily, before the face of Asahf appeared. Archer smiled, closed his eyes, and drifted off into quiet sleep.