Loire Valley, France
Wednesday 26th January 1994
"That's looking better," David said, putting down the auto-suture device and studying his patient with some satisfaction. The gaping wound was gone now, replaced by a faint pinkish-white scar that in time would be barely noticeable. "I could get to like some of these fancy tools of yours,"
"I thought you'd come round once you'd tried them," McCoy grinned. "A shot of antibiotics to finish off, I think." As he spoke, he loaded the required drug into the hypospray, checked the dosage and then applied it to his patient's neck. "There. All done now. I think we are ready to wake him."
David nodded. Go ahead. Under normal circumstances, I'd prefer to let him sleep it off, but…"
He didn't bother finishing the sentence, but McCoy understood. Better for the other Klingons to see him healthy and awake. Besides, it would make Chrissie feel better. It seemed very odd to McCoy but she did seem to be very much in love with the Klingon. Dismissing that as none of his business, he prepared another dose on the hypospray – a stimulant this time – and injected it. The drug worked quickly and in seconds, the Klingon was stirring.
The courtroom, Qo'noS, 2375
Trial Day 4
From her place in the witness stand, Chrissie listened carefully to the conversation between the judge and the operations master. By now she was getting used to their accents and the way they spoke and it was getting easier to follow the conversation. Even so, when the judge played the recording from Meth's journals, she found herself struggling. Lorgh's predecessor spoke using a clipped version of TlhIngan Hol that was familiar to everyone else in the courtroom but was very hard for her to understand. Even so, she got the gist of it, or at least she thought she had. She frowned in concentration as she tried to work it out. Had Meth meant his words in the way she thought? Follow my orders… act with honour at all times… unconditional support… and that last sentence… It sounded very much to her, like Meth had wanted Krang to disobey the orders of the High Council. Was that even possible? Had Krang been set up to fail in his mission? No, she was being paranoid, she told herself. There must be some subtext that was only evident to a native speaker or someone who was very fluent.
Turning her attention away from Krahl and Lorgh, Chrissie glanced at her husband. He was extremely good at controlling his body language - part of his training as an intelligence operative, Chrissie supposed - but she was his mate and knew him intimately. His face was expressionless, but she had learned to read those little signs and tells that indicated his mood and what she saw there scared her a little. Tension, anger, shock, the dawning realisation of something he had not previously considered. If she was being paranoid, then so, she thought, was he.
The judge was also turning his attention back to Krang, asking him a question that, caught up in her own thoughts and worries, Chrissie barely heard. From Krang's response though, she guessed that he'd been asking what happened next.
"I was understandably confused to find two Tera'ngan males standing looking at me," Krang was saying. "The face of one of them was vaguely familiar - it was Chrissie he reminded me of, of course, but at the time, I didn't realise that - and seeing that I was awake, that one introduced himself and his colleague."-
Loire Valley, France
Wednesday 26th January 1994
Len McCoy. Something about that name made Krang pause. Where had he heard it before? Shaking off the vague sense of unease, the Klingon addressed the other one. "So, you are the missing doctor?" No wonder the face was familiar. How interesting! Chrissie had mentioned that her brother was a doctor, but he had not realised it was the same one who had become the Klingon expert.
"Surgeon," David corrected automatically. At Krang's blank look, he added by way of explanation, "I'm a surgeon, not a doctor. And I was never missing, I just spent a few days recovering at Len's place after… after that butcher nearly killed me."
"He had a heart attack," McCoy added helpfully, reaching out to help the Klingon up into a seated position. "Your agoniser caused damage to the heart muscle, not to mention the neural… oof!" David's elbow shut him up very efficiently, preventing him from going on to say something that might get them both into trouble.
"I'd like to know what happened to my sister," David asked, steering the conversation safely away from medical details that might betray McCoy's more than twentieth century knowledge of the subject, and back towards something more important. "Your aide said it was not a sanctioned arrest. So how the hell did Karg…" and he fought back a shiver at the name, "… get hold of her?"
Krang heard the unspoken words loud and clear. Why did you not keep her safe? He was still asking himself the same thing. "I cannot answer that," he admitted uncomfortably.
"Can't?" David asked with sudden aggression, "or won't?"
"She went shopping with my housekeeper," Krang said, ignoring the belligerent tone and hanging onto his patience with some effort. Quite apart from the fact that the man had just healed him, this was Chrissie's brother and he had a right to question. Even so, he would only tolerate so much. "I left guards in the village to keep them safe. The first I knew of any problem was a frantic call from my aide to say that Karg had her. I do not yet know what actually happened, my priority as I am sure you can imagine, was to get to Chrissie, but you can be sure I will be investigating."
The answer was reasonable, David acknowledged. In fact, this Klingon was going out of his way to be polite and reasonable with him, probably more so than he deserved. It was becoming very obvious to him that whatever Chrissie felt for Krang, it was mutual. Up until now, he'd only heard Sarah's side of things and she had been bitter and angry in her condemnation of what she saw as her friend's betrayal. Nor had Sarah understood that he just wanted his sister to be happy. They'd had several fights on the subject and things were still not right between them. He shook himself, realising that Krang was asking him a question, wanting to know where Chrissie was.
"She's in the kitchen," David told him, "Your aide is looking after her - Kevin… no, Kay'vin," he corrected himself. "And a woman, I didn't get her name."
"That would be Marla," Krang growled. "You've treated her injuries, I hope? That butcher, as you so accurately called him, hurt her before she killed him."
David shook his head. "Your injuries were more severe and Chrissie rightly insisted that we treat you first." He stopped as the second part of the Klingon's sentence sunk in. "Wait… what? Chrissie killed Karg?"
"She did," Krang confirmed, and his pride in her achievement was unmistakeable. "She shoved a knife right into his throat."
That was not what David had expected to hear. His sister was a gentle soul, who had never harmed anyone. He needed to talk to her, he decided, and he wanted the Klingon out of the way while he did so. "I suggest you go and get yourself cleaned up a bit while I take a look at my sister," he advised after a moment's thought.
Feeling the need to protect his mate, Krang's first instinct was to refuse, but he stopped himself. Both doctors had shown good faith in their treatment of him and he had no reason to think that Chrissie would be anything but safe in their care. Besides, Krang thought, getting to his feet and moving to the door to open it, the doctor was right. The back of his uniform shirt was almost non-existent after being cut away from the wound by the doctors and what was left of it was clinging to his skin, feeling cold, wet, and clammy, not to mention covered in blood. It was damaged beyond repair and fit only to be burned. He nodded his acquiescence, saying simply, "Take care of her."
"We will," McCoy promised. He'd remained quiet during the conversation so far, understanding that David had questions that needed answering, but Chrissie would be his patient. While David was undeniably an expert on Klingon physiology, there would be little the twentieth century doctor could do for Chrissie other than clean up the wounds, put in some stitches and give her an analgesic. To heal her properly would take the specialist equipment that was currently hidden at the bottom of David's medical bag.
"Just one more thing," David said. "The wound is healed but I'd advise light duties for a few days. The skin will be tender for a while and you may still get some muscle pain. Don't overdo it."
The Klingon never had a chance to answer that. Hearing voices, Chrissie came running down the corridor and threw herself into Krang's arms. Closing his arms around her, he held her close against him, sensing her need for comfort and reassurance.
"Krang! You're alright?"
Her voice was muffled against his chest and realising how tightly he was holding her, he released his grip on her a little. "I am fine," he promised, looking down at her damaged face with concern. "But you are not. You should have let the doctors see to you first, Chrissie-oy. You will go with them now and let them heal you."
Reluctantly, Chrissie allowed him to detach himself from her embrace and give her a gentle shove towards her brother.
Satisfied that his mate was in good hands, Krang headed upstairs to find a clean tunic. Going into the bedroom, he let out an annoyed growl at the sight of Chrissie's discarded clothing on the floor. With the exception of his boots, which seemed to take on a life of their own and never seemed to be where he thought he'd left them, he was obsessive about keeping his sleeping quarters tidy – probably, he acknowledged ruefully, a holdover from growing up in a Defence Force family. Even for officers, there was very little space for personal belongings on board a Klingon ship. Guiltily, he remembered breaking his own rule and throwing his clothing in a heap on the floor in his hurry to get Chrissie into his bed. That didn't count, though, since he always picked them up afterwards.
Retrieving the errant items from the floor, he was shocked to see how badly damaged they were, torn and bloodstained. No, not torn; cut with a knife. His mood deteriorated as he remembered how he had found Karg, his body pressed intimately against hers and one hand fumbling with his trousers. That Ha'DibaH had been attempting to rape her! He'd realised that at the time of course but everything had happened so fast that there had been no opportunity to dwell on it. It was not that Krang expected his officers to be gentle when questioning a prisoner but rape was not, and never had been, an acceptable interrogation technique.
It was unfortunate, Krang thought savagely, that Karg was already dead, preventing him from taking his vengeance, even if it was oddly appropriate that Chrissie had been the one to end his miserable life. One thing was certain: as he had promised David, if Koreth had not already done so, he would be launching an investigation into what had happened.
Deciding that he would take the discarded clothing downstairs and put them in the bin, along with his own ruined shirt, Krang turned and caught sight of the wet towel lying on the bed. That was too much. "Fek'lhr's hooves and fangs!" he groaned, really annoyed now. "Not on the bed!" His quiet, orderly life was gone, he realised. This was what he had to look forward to now that Chrissie and the children were a part of his life. His anger faded at the thought; they were worth it and he would get used to the noise, disruption and mess that were part and parcel of family life. Feeling a little more relaxed, he reached out to grab the towel, intending to return it to its rightful place in the bathroom. It was soaking wet and with a faint resurgence of his earlier irritation, he realised that if he didn't want to sleep in a wet bed, he'd need to change the sheets. Wondering where Marie-Claire kept such supplies, he picked up the towel and stopped as his fingers encountered something hard underneath it. "What now?" he sighed. Half expecting to find one of the children's toys, he moved the towel out of the way, exposing a twenty-third century Starfleet communicator, the flip-up lid still open.
Allowing the towel and the damaged clothing to fall back to the floor, Krang stared at the communicator for a long time, his mind racing as he tried to understand and fit together the pieces of the puzzle that had been plaguing him since the prison raid…The traces of phaser fire, the background check he had never bothered to run - and just what would he have found, he wondered bitterly? What had Karg learned and what was on the recording of her interrogation? There had to be a Starfleet vessel hiding somewhere nearby and it could only be behind the moon, alongside the Vulcan ship. The name Len McCoy came back into his mind. McCoy… Dr Leonard McCoy. Chief Medical officer, USS Enterprise NCC-1701. No wonder the name had seemed familiar.
He could not believe it, did not want to believe it, but there was no other conclusion. Chrissie was the only one who could have left the communicator on the bed. Nobody else had access to this room. Bitter anger filled him along with a deep sense of betrayal.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he snapped the communicator shut and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. Crossing the room, he opened the wardrobe and pulled out the first thing his hand encountered – as it happened, one of the few non-uniform tunics he'd brought with him. From there, he wandered into the bathroom and after a quick rinse to get rid of the blood, he donned the tunic and went downstairs to find Chrissie.
Happy Christmas to all of you, especially my loyal reviewers, thank you for your continuing support. I always appreciate your comments, insights and suggestions.