Chapter Nine
There was nothing that could be done for Herminie. Drake sent his report to Starfleet Command and learnt that a transport was to be dispatched to take the bodies home. The Endeavour remained in orbit for a further solemn day, and after the sun had set over the colony Drake ordered the ship to resume course for In'jara'wa.
It was a changed ship that made its way into Klingon space, for although the crew remained united and committed to their work the Endeavour was no longer a happy ship. Too many people had seen the horrors of the colony, and there wasn't a soul aboard who hadn't heard the story at least second hand. The mood aboard was sombre, positively dark in some corners. The attack on Herminie was an atrocity and everyone aboard wanted to find the people responsible and serve out some justice.
Interestingly, there was little or no anger towards their Klingon guests. Kravft and Grownel were known aboard the ship, they were practically honorary Endeavours, and the hands felt sympathetically towards them. Everyone had heard Kravft's prayers for the dead, the real horror and misery there had been in the giant general, and they held nothing against him.
The third Klingon, under intense guard in the brig, they had entirely different feelings for. Indeed, the unprecedented security deployed around the detention facility was not to keep the prisoner in his cell, but to keep him from coming to harm at the hands of the vengeful crew.
So far, the prisoner had proved entirely uninformative. He had clapped his mouth closed as soon as he had been brought aboard the ship, and he hadn't opened it since. Kravft and Grownel had tried every interrogation technique that they knew, and that Drake would allow (he steadfastly refused to permit torture), but they had got nothing from him. Threats, warnings of what lay in store for him in the future, promises to restore some shred of his lost honour if he cooperated, all fell on deaf ears.
With Starfleet Command pressuring him for information, Drake decided that it was time for a new strategy. He, Wolf, and Kravft made their daily pilgrimage to the brig, went through the same routine of questions that they had asked every day, and met the same stony silence. He had expected that, and this time he was prepared for it.
"You are a prisoner of war," Drake informed the Klingon – he had debated the point with Kravft a few nights ago, and the general had agreed with his point of view. A state of war existed between the Federation and whatever body of Klingons was behind the massacre. "You have information that I want, and I will have it. You can either tell me what I want to know, or I will extract it from you involuntarily."
Silence.
"Very well. Drake to Commander Sarn."
"Sarn here, Captain."
"I need you to perform a mind meld with our prisoner."
She had long anticipated the order. "I will need an hour to prepare, Captain. It can be difficult to force a meld with an unwilling subject."
"Take whatever time you need, Commander. Inform me when you're ready."
The captain and his two partners left. A minute later, Alix stepped into the brig. Days had passed since Herminie, but no passion had returned to the young woman; she was still as barren and arctic as when she had thrown the Klingon commander to his death. The crew had given her a wide berth these last few days, afraid of what she might do if provoked; so when she walked into the brig and said to the security officers present, "Time for your break," they agreed and left.
The young woman stood outside the cell and observed the frightened Klingon for a long moment. She didn't smile, and her voice was ice. "You remember me, I see." If Wolf had been present then she would have smelt fear coming from the Klingon in great clouds. Alix did not possess the security officer's nose, but she sensed the terror.
A press of a button and the force field winked out. Desperately, the Klingon launched himself at the helmsman. She caught him and threw him back against the wall, the impact jarring his spine and knocking the air out of him. Silently she approached the incapacitated Klingon, cold and merciless.
By the time Sarn arrived to perform the mind meld, Alix was long gone, the security officers were back in their places, and there was no longer a need for the Vulcan's presence; the broken Klingon was only too willing to talk.
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In his private office on Qo'noS, he reviewed the latest revenue figures from his munitions plants. The cold war with the Federation was over, despite the best efforts of patriots to prevent the High Council from embarking on this ruinous alliance, but there were still needs for weapons; there would always be the need for weapons. Some of the border territories were getting rowdy now that the Neutral Zone was coming down and the humanitarian Federation was moving into the sector. They had been looking for some excuse to challenge Klingon rule for decades, and now it was presented. The Empire was badly weakened because of the destruction of Praxis, and the chancellor's new policies were weak. Subject races smelt the death of the Empire, and they were keen to stick their knives in before the blood cooled.
But that would change. It would all change soon enough. The chancellor would be forced to abandon her ludicrous notions of peace, and the century-old cold war would become very hot indeed.
Amongst all the notifications he had received in yesterday's mail was a report from one of his strike parties. It was heavily encrypted, disguised as a tally of crop yields from some unimportant harvest world, but the real message was glorious: mission accomplished.
He had grinned through rotten teeth when he had read it the first time. Details were scarce, of course, but the Federation colony had been utterly decimated. A starship was in the region, and would be diverted to investigate. In fact, he checked his watch, they had probably reached the planet by now.
War was guaranteed.
War and honour and glory.
His display beeped, a message flashing there. It was a pre-programmed reminder that he was to attend Council. A bill was to be debated – some unimportant nonsense about new trading regulations with the humans.
Not that it'll matter for much longer, he thought gleefully.
As he pulled on his thick coat against the freezing winds of the capital, he visualised the glory of the upcoming war. Of ships and planets burning, the Federation flag coming down on dozens of planets as the Empire's war fleets swept through human space. He would meet his death in the war, of that he was certain, and it would be an end fitting a Klingon warrior. He would go down with his teeth in the throat of his foe!
No man could ask for more.
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"Our prisoner has started to talk, sir."
"Excellent, Captain. What have you learned so far?"
Drake leant back in his ready room chair and sighed. "Very little, unfortunately. He's willing to tell us everything that he knows, but he knows very little. We have learnt that he is a foot soldier for House Han'tH, that he was assigned to the heavy cruiser Ik'ta, under the command of Captain Morsh. He has confirmed that the attack on Herminie was not sanctioned by the High Council, but he can't tell us who did order it. Not for certain, anyway; he's happy to speculate, though."
"Damn," muttered the admiral. "Cold comfort that the High Council didn't send that ship."
"Yes, sir."
"House Han'tH, did you say?"
"Aye."
He knew what Admiral McCaffrey was thinking. House Han'tH had been involved in the conspiracy to assassinate Chancellor Gorkon and derail the Federation-Klingon peace process. They were militantly opposed to any kind of peace treaty or alliance with the Federation, had raised all kinds of fuss when it was first suggested, but they had seemed to calm down in recent months.
"What have your Klingon guests got to say about all this?"
"They can't confirm anything, of course, but Kravft likes to keep a close eye on ship activity in his sectors, and he recalls seeing a heavy cruiser pass through the region."
"Does he believe what your prisoner has to say?"
"Yes. However, I don't know how much faith we can put in that. Houses Kravft and Han'tH are old rivals."
"So you're not sure he's not just happy to pin the blame on his enemies?"
"Exactly, sir."
McCaffrey mulled over the matter. Klingon politics, they gave him a headache. "We'll send out ships to patrol the region, of course, see if we can pick up that cruiser. I don't need to tell you that by now the chances of that are remote."
"No, sir."
"We're putting together a squadron – fourteen ships, under the command of Captain Fox, Thunderer. The squadron's duties will be to patrol our other outposts in the sector, in case whoever's responsible attacks again. Your orders are to continue with your voyage to In'jara'wa, deliver Mr. Harrow and General Grownel, and then join the squadron."
"Aye, aye, sir."
The admiral sighed heavily. He seemed about twenty years older than the last time Drake had spoken to him. "This is all a goddamn mess, Captain. I just hope we can get it cleared up before we have a war on our hands. McCaffrey out."
There was a long period of silence, during which the captain reflected on all that he had been told. A Starfleet squadron being assembled, and one of such force…the admiralty expected further attacks, that was obvious. He got a sense that there was even more than that, though. They expected war.
Drake looked across his desk to where his friend was sat, and where she had been all along, listening to a message that had been for the captain's ears only. "You heard the orders. Alix, accelerate to maximum warp. I want to join the squadron as soon as possible."
"So do I."
