Khage stood on the chalet's balcony, looking out across the terrace and the artificial pool, and lighting up his first cheroot of the morning. With a frown, he rubbed his forehead, surprised he felt so lucid.
No hangover yet.
He wasn't at all sure what to think about the memory of Zet carrying the Fed girl back to the chalet in his arms. She had been laughing and hugging him, kicking her bare feet playfully. They had drunk more – Madsa had produced some green poison from somewhere – and watched two old episodes of Battlecruiser Vengeance back-to-back, an experience which proved increasingly anarchic as they tried to translate for the human, and re-translate for Madsa.
It ended when Zet and the girl pitched drunkenly off the couch, and Khage ordered them both to bed.
If she was a Fed spy, he mused, she was a very good faker.
Soft footsteps padded on the deck behind him, and for a moment, he thought it was Madsa returning. For such a physically imposing being, the Marine officer could move very quietly when she wanted to.
But it was the human. Barefoot. Perhaps her strappy sandals had been jewelry, after all.
"Oh," she said, stretching. "That was quite a night."
"Zan Marcus," he greeted her, with a grin.
"Morning," she nodded, with a friendly smile. Then she realized what name she'd answered to. "Oh," she said, followed by something curt and dirty and annoyed.
Khage didn't even blink. "There is no Carol Wallace at the Daystrom Institute. No Carol anything."
"Carol Anything," she frowned. "Is that my name now?"
At that, he grinned. "The last Carol Anything at Daystrom was a certain Carol Marcus, a daughter of one of your Thought Admirals. She did study genetic mechanisms, similar to Zet as far as this one understands these things. And she's now a Lieutenant in your Starfleet's equivalent of Detached Service."
The human breathed out. "She's me, in other words."
Khage nodded. "So perhaps the one would like to explain why a Federation spy spent last night with my Executive Officer?"
"I'm not a spy," she said. "Yes, I'm Starfleet, and yes, my name is Marcus. Carol Marcus. Lieutenant-Commander, now. And yes, my father is Admiral Alexander Marcus, Starfleet Chief of Operations. But I'm a weapons designer. Not a spy." She paused, a bob in her throat. "And I want to defect."
Weapons designer. Khage absorbed that surprise in silence. Defect. And she's young for the promotion, by their standards. "I assume this isn't just to do with tensions within your house?"
She shook her head. "Not if you're asking if I'm just trying to break away from Daddy. We're arming for an aggressive war against your people, Captain, using technologies from the future. A long-range transporter to insert agents and commandos deep into Klingon space without our ships even having to enter the Neutral Zone. A new class of battleship, three times the size of the new Enterprise, with armament and power output to match. They've already laid the keel of the lead ship. Someone has to stop them."
"And you thought it best to deal with this by getting drunk on Khitomer?"
"I thought I could be on a shuttle out of here before you or Zet found this," the human said, reaching into her top and producing a miniature memory core. "Elements of the transwarp beaming algorithm. Partial schematics and shipyard imagery of the battleship, some details of a new torpedo design. Enough to convince you that I'm serious, but nothing to help you reverse-engineer the technology." She looked rueful for a moment. "And instructions on how to contact me again to get the next installment."
Khage gave her an ugly half-grin. "The one controls the information, to retain her usefulness. Kai kleon."
She shrugged. "I don't want to end up in an agonizer booth. Or a speed-learning program. You need me inside Starfleet, Captain."
Khage laughed, and leveled his disruptor pistol at her.
She looked a him in shock. He decided he liked the look.
"First lesson of negotiating with Klingons," he grinned, taking the memory device from her fingers, and pocketing it. "Klingons don't negotiate. Zet and I will review your files, and decide how you can be of use to us."
Her nostrils flared. "Of use?!"
"The daughter of a Fed Thought Admiral would be an enviable trophy for a Scout Captain," Khage shrugged, flipping open his communicator. "Action, Harrier. Beam her up."
Khage thought she looked even better when her shock was combined with outrage – jaw dropped, eyes blazing at him, as the transporter beam swirled silently around her, and plucked her from the deck.
"Apenn, put her in the cell, but don't touch her, and don't let any of the Marines know she's aboard. Don't even think of using the booth. I'll deal with her when I get up."
"Affirm, Captain."
Khage pocketed his communicator and turned back towards the chalet, looking at the little device she had given him. The not-yet-sober lucidity behind his brows felt like the start of something new and exciting now.
Humming to himself, he walked back inside to wake up Zet.
