Title: The Final Frontier
See Chapter 1 for the shiny disclaimer
Chapter 3
Greg's search had turned up one result. Francis Langley was not only a member of one of the local Klingon clubs, but was also the point-of-contact for the Klingon contingent of the Star Trek Convention that was being held in Vegas that week. Deciding they would head over and check things out, no one appeared to notice that Sara grabbed a black duffel bag in addition to her field kit.
Grissom, Sara, and Greg had arrived at the convention site before Brass, but after waiting ten minutes they were all getting antsy. Grissom hit a button on his cell phone, and a very exasperated voice answered after two rings.
"Brass," he said.
"Jim, this is Grissom. Where are you?"
"Stuck behind an accident," the weary cop said with a sigh. "You're at the convention center?"
"Yeah. Any ideas on how long you'll be?"
"Gil, I hate to do this to you, but I'm going to have to work this accident. I may be a while."
Grissom sighed. "I understand. I've got Sara and Greg with me. I don't think we're going to run into any kind of trouble in such a public place; we're going to go have a look around and see if anyone knows how to find this guy. Just meet us inside when you're through."
"I'm sending another officer on ahead…I'll be there as soon as I can," Jim promised before hanging up.
"Looks like we're on our own for now," Grissom said. Stepping into the lobby, they were greeted by a small alien with huge ears.
"Ten dollar admission," he said in an oily voice as he eyed Sara lasciviously. "But if you leave your woman here with me, we'll call it even and you boys can go right in."
Before either man could voice any sort of protest, Sara cut them off. She stepped forward with a low growl, and leaned in to whisper something to the irritating little man. He suddenly paled and scrambled back.
"P-please enter w-with my compliments, Mistress," he stammered.
"Worm," she said disdainfully as she stalked off.
Having been briefly taken aback by the man's reaction to whatever Sara said, Grissom and Greg snapped out of their reverie and rushed to catch up with her.
"What did you say to him?" Greg wanted to know.
"Nothing much," Sara said with a shrug. "I just told him I would eviscerate him and hang him from the wall by his intestines." She ignored their shocked looks. "I hate Ferengis."
They entered the convention hall and stopped to take in their surroundings. There were booths selling every kind of Star Trek related merchandise, as well as food vendors. Grissom noticed that each group of aliens tended to gravitate to separate areas.
"I was afraid of that," Sara said as she scanned the room.
"What?" Grissom asked.
She gestured to the opposite corner. "The Klingons have congregated by the bar." She winced as a particularly raunchy comment reached her. "And from the sound of it, they've been there for a while. Getting them to talk isn't going to be easy."
They made their way across the convention hall, passing all manner of aliens and humans. Costumes ranged from the mundane to the extravagant, and Grissom was amazed at how much some of the items at the booths seemed to cost.
Reaching their destination, Grissom reached out and tapped the nearest person on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he said politely. Grissom took a small step back when the person turned and he was face to face with a large man in full Klingon regalia. After looking him up and down with disgust, the Klingon snarled something and stalked off.
Grissom blinked, still processing the exchange. "That was productive."
Sara was trying to hide a smile. "It can take a certain…approach…to deal with Klingons, Griss. Especially inebriated ones."
Grissom's eyebrows ascended further up toward his hairline. He gestured to the nearby crowd. "By all means."
Sara nodded, sighing. "It was inevitable, I suppose," she said. "Stay here and keep an eye on my kit," she instructed. "Don't try talking to any more Klingons. I'll be back as fast as I can." Without further explanation she walked off into the crowd, bag slung over her shoulder. Greg, who appeared to be just as bewildered as Grissom, shrugged. They stood there in silence, neither one sure what was going on. It was not quite ten minutes later when Grissom noticed a figure making its way toward them. At first glance, it was a Klingon. Obviously female, from the amount of cleavage the uniform put on display. From what he had seen of the show, the costume was technically accurate, and the wearer even had the forehead plate, which Grissom had noticed was absent on many of the less serious convention-goers. It took Grissom a moment to realize that there was something familiar about the way the woman was walking.
"Sara!" Greg choked as she stopped in front of them. She just grinned.
"Still fits," she said smugly.
Before she could say anything further, a large hand clamped down hard on her arm. Apparently, Grissom and Greg were not the only people to witness her approach.
"Hey baby," another large and obviously drunk Klingon slurred. "Why don't you leave these puny humans alone and come hang out with a real man."
As Grissom watched, she seemed to draw herself up. The easygoing Sara he had walked in with had now faded away completely, and a sneer began to form on her face. He and Greg stood frozen as she grabbed the wrist of the hand that held her captive and swung him around to pin him against the wall.
"I see no real man here. Merely a yapping dog!" she growled. "tlhIngan Hol Dajatlh'e'?" Do you speak Klingon?
"nuq'neH," the man replied sullenly. What do you want?
"Francis Langley," she stated, not letting him up off the wall as she flashed her identification. "Where is he?"
A mostly-inebriated crowd was quickly gathering. "qaStaH nuq jay," someone shouted. What the hell is happening!
"yItamchoH," she ordered. Silence! "We are looking for the one called Francis Langley," Sara told the masses. "Is he among your ranks?"
"Why should we tell you anything," another snarled. "You police!"
Sara stared down the speaker, and then replied in a voice that sliced through all of the remaining chatter. "DaHjaj SuvwI''e' jiH." Today I am a warrior.
Grissom leaned over to comment softly to Greg. "Do you have any idea what they're saying?"
"Not me, man," Greg replied. "Remind me never to piss her off, though."
Another Klingon female, Sara presumed one of the leaders, stepped forward. "teskas tal'tai-kleon," she said with a slight smirk. Complements to a worthy opponent. "I am called Mara."
Eyeing the woman, Sara nodded and relaxed her hold on the man still in her grasp, nearly laughing as he scurried away. She had forgotten how much fun role-playing was. Had she not been tracking him as he made his way through the crowd, she would have missed the figure inching his way toward her unsuspecting coworkers. Grissom had crouched down to retrieve something from his kit, leaving his back completely exposed, and Greg's attention had wandered to a nearby woman who appeared to be clad only in body paint.
With the crowd around them still talking amongst itself, Sara doubted either would hear even a shouted warning. Sara's companion saw her tense, and followed her gaze. "naDev cha'maH cha' joQDu' tu'lu," Mara muttered. Something is not quite right. As Sara began making her way through the crowd, she felt a familiar weapon pushed into her hand. A cold smile settled across her features. Just as the would-be assailant reached Grissom and raised his weapon to deliver a mortal blow, Sara stepped between them, catching the downward strike on her own blade. Grissom paled slightly at the sound, and Greg's attention was pulled away from Paint Girl. Sara jerked her head, indicating that the two get the hell out of the way.
Several moved to intervene, but Sara called them off. "jIbechrup may' viols," she said. The battle is mine. I crave only the blood of the enemy. Turning back to the owner of the blade currently trapped in her own, she continued. "Seymour Johnson," Sara said in a deadly voice, recognizing him from the interview. "bIwogh." You go too far.
They disengaged, and began circling each other warily.
"This targ has come to take us prisoner!" Seymour shouted, panicking.
"yIHarQo'! nepwI' ghaH!" Sara countered. Do not believe him! He is a liar! "He is responsible for the death of four innocents!"
"You don't have any proof," he blustered. "How do you explain me being able to kill four people in the space of a few hours!"
Sara looked pityingly at him. "'Four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man', Seymour."
"pa'jIHpu'be'" he stammered. I wasn't there.
Sara didn't believe him, and he knew it. "We have evidence placing you at each of the four crime scenes," she stated, her face expressionless.
Seymour gulped audibly. "pIch vighajbe'." It's not my fault.
"qaStaHnuq, Seymour?" Sara taunted. What happened? "Couldn't handle the teasing anymore? Decided to get rid of them once and for all? You pujwI'!" Weakling.
Seymour drew back as if she had slapped him. "jIjatlhpa' jatlh Homvey," he snarled. The stars will talk before I will!
"Do'Ha'," Sara replied, keeping her weapon leveled at his throat. That is unfortunate. She looked around her, gauging the space she would have for an all-out fight. Glancing at Grissom, she smiled and winked, almost laughing aloud at the disbelieving expression on his face. She turned her full attention back to Seymour. "bljeghbe'chug vaj blHegh," she instructed. Surrender or die!
"jeghbe thlInganpu," he sneered. Klingons do not surrender.
Sara rolled her eyes as she was suddenly struck by the absolute absurdity of the moment. She had forgotten how utterly ridiculous Klingons sounded when they were psyching themselves up for a battle. Definitely a male-dominated society.
Even as these thoughts ran through her head, she widened her stance and took a firmer grip on her weapon. Though she hadn't used a bat'leth since college, the curved blade was still a reassuring weight in her hands. Hours of practice sessions with her fellow geeks had given her good muscle memory, and even fifteen years later, she was confident in her ability. Looking at Seymour, she noted that his grip on the large weapon was less than certain. It looked brand new, and Sara was willing to wager that he had either bought it recently, or had only kept it around for show. The crowd had pulled back until Sara and Seymour were in the center of a sort of ring.
Sara didn't really want to fight him. Not because she was afraid, but because she feared he would get hurt. "yIDoghQo'," she chided. Don't be silly. "You don't want to fight me. I will kill you and Fek'lhr will grind your bones for the rest of eternity."
Unfortunately, it seemed like the Fates were not with her.
"bItu Hpa' bIHeghjaja!" Seymour shouted, rushing at Sara. Death before shame! Their blades came together with a ringing clash.
"Killing you will ensure my place in Sto-Vo-Kor," he panted, lunging clumsily at her. Sara parried easily spinning away again.
"You're deluding yourself, Seymour," she said sadly. "You lost your honor the first time you killed, stabbing Brian Jessup in the back. You will never serve the Black Fleet of the afterlife."
Sara stopped talking as she strategically retreated under the onslaught of blows from her opponent. She did not respond to any of the insults he threw her way. Though it was the custom to yell insults and challenges at an opponent, she had always thought it was a waste of breath. She was quite content to let him take the offensive and wear himself out; plus, she often found that her unusual silence unnerved her opponent. It was one of the tactics she had needed when facing larger, stronger opponents, but in this case it was a merely a mechanism to keep herself from hurting him.
Seymour kept swinging wildly and repeatedly, displaying minimal skill but an almost rabid determination. Sara was able to block him with little difficulty, but was reviewing her options rapidly. She knew she couldn't stave him off indefinitely, and sweat was trickling down her cheeks, making her slightly nervous. If it got in her eyes, she would be at a serious disadvantage. She spotted a chance and lunged in; Seymour stumbled back. She tried to wipe her face on her sleeve while he recovered.
She wasn't quick enough. With a yell of triumph, Seymour darted forward. She stepped back a second too slowly, and was rewarded by a burning pain in her abdomen. Before she could strike, he had darted back, leaving Sara with a knife in her belly.
"meqlo boH qa mech," Seymour taunted. I smell the burning of your blood.
Leaning against a table for support, Sara repositioned her grip on the bat'leth without lowering her defense, then used her spare hand to staunch the blood flow. Her eyes, boring into Seymour, were merciless. "qoS toma 'epaq qaver," she said softly. The day is not yet over. "You attack me with this child's knife, and expect to take the victory. ChoyIv," she spat. You are contemptible.
As she slowly stepped forward, everyone could see that Sara was no longer in the mood to toy with this imbecile. Seymour noticed it as well, and after a flurry of strikes at her injured side were successfully blocked even as she continued to advance, he tried to break off and run. Whipping the bat'leth around, she sliced the tendon behind his knee, sending him toppling to the ground to land in an undignified heap. Completing the motion, the blunt end of her weapon connected solidly with his temple. He crumpled without a sound.
Breathing heavily, Sara addressed the crowd, most of whom viewed her with a mixture of fascination and awe. "Secure the prisoner," she ordered. There was a brief pause, then four men leaped to tie up the still-unconscious Seymour. Confident that was taken care of, Sara stumbled backwards a few steps until she could prop herself against a wall. Grissom was immediately at her side. A commotion at the front door drew his attention briefly.
"Greg, go get that officer over here now," he ordered. As Greg left, the woman who had come forward to greet her earlier approached slowly, hands out at her sides.
"tajwIj 'oHbe' chorlIj jeqbogh Dochvetlhe'e," she said. That is not my dagger protruding from your midsection."
"No," Sara replied. "qaleghnes." I am honored to see you. She chuckled, but then winced as the motion jarred her injury.
"petaD," the woman ordered curtly. Stay Still! She guided Sara carefully to the floor and placed rolls of bandages on either side of the protruding hilt, stanching some of the blood flow and immobilizing the knife so it wouldn't cause more damage. "My name is Bonnie," she explained. "I'm an ER nurse over at Desert Palms. Once the fight started, I called in an ambulance." At Grissom's startled look, she explained, "Fights like that rarely leave someone uninjured. It was just a precaution, but they should be here in a minute or two."
"Thank you," Grissom said sincerely. His attention turned back to Sara, who was watching him cautiously.
"You're mad at me, aren't you?" she asked with a sigh.
Grissom thought about it, eyes narrowing with drawn in brows, before drawling, "I'm not mad at you, Sara. I'm just disappointed…you shouldn't have been put in this position."
Sara blinked, taking a moment to process what he had said, then smiled wanly. "Are you going to ground me? Send me to my room?"
Grissom chuckled as Greg and the officer approached with the paramedics in tow. "We'll discuss that later."
Oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
As they loaded Sara into the ambulance, Bonnie joined them briefly. "You should come by sometime when you're not working, Sara Sidle. We can always use people like you in the Legion."
Sara smiled weakly. "I just might do that, Bonnie, thanks. ghIj qet jaghmeyjaj." May your enemies run with fear.
"Qapla', Sara!" Success!
Bonnie stood there watching until the ambulance drove out of sight, and then went back inside to help deal with the aftermath.