Loire Valley, France

Friday 11th February 1994

As a result of their disagreement, both Krang and Chrissie had been a little stiff and awkward when they retired for the night. Krang kicked off his boots, leaving them to lie however they fell, but the rest of his uniform was removed with care. Each weapon was taken from its hiding place, checked to ensure it was in good condition and fit for purpose, and placed, just so, on the dresser, ready for the morning.

Turning, he found her sitting on the bed watching him, all her clothing gone, except the delicate whisps of fabric she called underwear. It was a clear message of what she wanted and expected from him, and he responded accordingly.

Afterwards, they lay in bed together and Krang found he was content to simply hold her close, until she eventually fell asleep, cuddled up to him with her head pillowed on his shoulder and her arm across his body. Cuddling – it was an odd word and an even odder concept but one he'd discovered that he liked. Did other Klingons cuddle? He supposed that they must, even if it was never spoken of.

With their naked bodies pressed together, the two-degree difference in their body temperatures was very apparent. Chrissie told him more than once that hugging him was like embracing a furnace. She, in contrast, was like fresh water, calming his spirit and tempering his fire. Water was life-giving – and at that thought, he allowed his hand to stray to her abdomen where his child nestled. But water could also be dangerous, could kill when taken for granted or underestimated. Yes, she was water.

It was not like him to be so poetic, he thought wryly, momentarily thankful that she did not expect him to write the romantic poetry that was a traditional part of Klingon mating rituals. Other races thought of his people as warriors, and it was true; they were. But Klingons were passionate about everything they did, and the dramatic arts – music, storytelling, poetry etc – were much valued. Krang enjoyed going to the opera, or even reading a book if he had the time, and he'd discovered that not only did he enjoy the nightly ritual of the bedtime story, but that he was actually good at it… Writing, though… no; that was not an area in which he excelled or in which he even had any interest.

Chrissie shifted slightly in her sleep, and he winced as her feet came into contact with his shin. Water could freeze, he remembered, and right now, those feet felt like ice! Yes, he decided, pleased with himself for having thought of it, the analogy was a good one.

She shifted again, making a little mewing sound – she was restless tonight, he noted with some concern – and thankfully, her feet shifted away from him. Instead, he found himself in contact with the soft curves of her breast. Water, he thought again; welcoming him and cushioning him as he sank beneath the surface, into those cool, refreshing depths… The unintentional eroticism of the image escaped neither his mind nor his body and he shifted slightly, stifling a groan.

Inevitably, his mind went back to the discussion… argument, rather, even though voices had not been raised… that they'd had earlier that evening. Her words had been shocking. Leave without saying goodbye?

Just like that, any desire he felt was gone, replaced by tense anger. He understood her position, he really did. It was Chrissie who would have to deal with the children when he was gone, soothe their pain and wipe away their tears. She was hurt, confused, angry, maybe even afraid, and she had good reason to feel that way. He too felt all those emotions, but in his case, the anger was directed at the High Council, at his boss, and at fate itself. Damnit, was it really so much to ask… a life with the woman he loved? The chance to meet his baby and bring up his children? He wanted years with them, not the pathetic few days that remained.

Just for a moment, he wished he had simply carried out the executions as he'd been ordered, but immediately dismissed the thought as dishonourable and selfish.

She shifted yet again, and this time that little mewing sound took on a slightly distressed tone. She was picking up on his tension, he realised. He turned his head to look at the old-fashioned alarm clock she'd placed on the bedside table. 05:10 hours. Suppressing a growl, he decided that since he was obviously not going to get any sleep, he might as well just get up, go to work and take his temper out on someone else. Silently, and with great care, he extricated himself from her embrace, and slid out of the bed. Padding across the room in the darkness, he cursed as he tripped over one of his own boots, and then paused, holding his breath in case he'd woken her. She didn't stir, and relieved that she seemed to be sleeping properly now, he retrieved his clothes and got dressed.

Aware that by leaving early and missing breakfast, he was squandering precious time that he could have spent with his little family, but his mood too dark and volatile for him to care, he made his way down the stairs before calling for beam up, disappearing a moment later in a column of sparkling lights.

St Bart's Hospital, London

Friday 11th February 1994

"I know you said you had a challenge for me, Dave, but this is ridiculous." Martin Hemingway was one of the most distinguished plastic surgeons in the country. He was also someone who David considered to be a very good friend. The two had gone to the same medical school and had got drunk together, partied, nursed hangovers, and on occasion, even studied together, although ultimately, they had specialised in totally different areas. They worked at different hospitals now; David remaining within the framework of the NHS whereas Martin had quickly moved into private practice, and as a result, they did not often see each other. But still, when his old friend had called, saying it was urgent, Martin had dropped everything and come.

"You never used to be one to back away from a challenge, Marty," David reminded his friend. "So… will you do it?"

Plastic surgery… it was an odd term, David mused as he waited for his friend to come to a decision, one that as a young child, he'd completely misunderstood. As an adult, he understood that the word came from the Greek, plastikos, meaning to mould or shape… and if Marty agreed to help, that was exactly what he intended to do.

Regardless of his friend's decision, the surgery had to be carried out. It was not public knowledge but unbelievably, inexplicably, the Klingons were packing all their things and going home, wherever that was. They were leaving… all except one, who had apparently fallen in love with a human and decided to stay. Inevitably his mind made the inevitable comparison to his sister's situation. She was in love with that Klingon, was pregnant by him, and he was leaving. He sighed, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand. Now was not the time for him to be falling apart with worry for his sister.

Somehow, the right of one Klingon chef to remain in peace had become a crucial clause in the withdrawal agreement. The resistance had given permission but had suggested that the chef should undergo cosmetic alterations to give him, on the surface at least, a human appearance, which would allow him to fit into society and remain unnoticed. It made sense; a lone Klingon would be a very visible target for revenge.

The development had worked out well for him, David thought privately. For all he had apparently settled in on Enterprise, his home was here in the twentieth century, and he had no desire to go into the future. The chef's decision to stay had given him a legitimate reason to refuse Kirk's 'invitation' to remain on board Enterprise. Invitation… he almost snorted at the thought. 'Thinly veiled order' would be a more appropriate term. He understood the reasons, of course. The risk of future knowledge contaminating the timeline was all too real, at least so they told him. But the future changed every day, every time someone made a decision. He was a doctor; what did he know… what could he do… that was so dangerous? They were letting an enemy alien from the future stay on the planet… what harm could one doctor do?

He'd pointed out to Kirk that as the only doctor with the training to deal with a Klingon patient, he would be needed here. Besides, history said that he'd written an important research paper… more than one, actually, and he had not yet done so. Wouldn't forcing him to leave cause a temporal anomaly or something?

"Are you actually serious about this?" The other surgeon finally got his thoughts together and shook his head incredulously. "My God! You are, aren't you! You really want me to operate on one of them and make him look human? What in the name of…?"

A low growl from the third doctor in the room stopped him from finishing his sentence. The Klingon medic had remained silent until now, but he was not about to allow this human to insult his people.

Thinking better of whatever he'd been about to say, Martin studied the Klingon medic with nervous interest, taking in the man's large size, prominent ridges and long, shaggy hair, not to mention the standard military uniform he wore, the knife in his belt and ray gun or whatever it was, strapped to his thigh. Anyone looking less like a doctor, he had yet to meet. "Why do you need me? Surely, you are better qualified than me to carry out surgery on a Klingon?

Swallowing his irritation, and reminding himself that this tera'ngan knew nothing of his culture and hence did not intend any insult, the Klingon medic shook his head. "No. I am a battle surgeon; I patch up wounds and repair broken bones. This type of work is outside my training and experience. What you call cosmetic surgery is not something that is routinely carried out amongst my people. To alter the shape of a nose, or remove a scar…" He shook his head again. "That is not done and hence, there is no reason for our surgeons to learn such procedures." Except for Imperial Intelligence doctors, of course, he thought, who no doubt had to carry out such operations on undercover operatives. That, however, was not something these human doctors needed to know and so he did not speak of it.

David nodded. Having worked with the Klingon doctor over the last two years, he'd learned a lot about their medical procedures and the answer was not unexpected. Scars were considered honourable; they told a story and stood as evidence of valour in battle.

"You should be aware," the Klingon continued, "that a full conversion will not be possible with the available medical technology. There are simply too many anatomical differences, not to mention the fact that we don't bleed red."

Despite his initial revulsion, he was becoming interested in the proceedings. He was a medic, after all, and this was a chance to learn something new. For such a primitive people, they had some surprisingly advanced medical knowledge, and while he did not understand their desperate desire to save life at all cost, he had learned a lot during his time on Earth and found that he would be sorry to leave. For the briefest moment, he considered the possibility of staying behind like Grapok. The idea of spending his life working in a proper hospital with doctors who thought like Day'vid, was surprisingly appealing. Still, the thought of having his own ridges removed – and with them, his Klingon identity and his honour, was enough to make him shudder, and he dismissed it as ridiculous.

Martin frowned, in concentration rather than disagreement. He'd been very wary when he'd first met the Klingon but was starting to relax. Alien or not, they were all doctors, discussing a patient, and that was something he did understand. "I know Dave has extensive experience, but I've never operated on one of your species. What advice can you give me?"

The Klingon thought for a moment. "As you can see, the crest begins here." He touched the base of his nose, running his finger up across his crest as he explained the nature and extent of his ridges and what would be required to remove them.

Martin winced as he listened. He hadn't realised that the ridges were solid bone, assuming, (wrongly as it turned out) that they were cartilage. The surgery involved was going to be massive. Mentally he reviewed his equipment, wondering whimsically if a trip to a DIY store to buy a power disk-grinder might be in order. "If I agree to this," he said slowly – and he knew in his own mind that he would, but was not yet willing to admit it, "will you be there to assist?"

David nodded. "Yes, of course I will, although you will be the surgeon in charge. I'd recommend using my theatre; it's geared up for Klingon patients. My anaesthetist and theatre nurse are already on standby, so you'll have an experienced support team.

"I will also assist," the Klingon medic said. The whole thing still made him feel vaguely nauseous, but his scientific curiosity and that Klingon sense of stubbornness would not allow him to refuse.

Slowly, Martin smiled, finding out that he was actually looking forward to doing this. It was Valentine's weekend, and he was supposed to be taking his wife on a shopping trip to Harrods followed by a 'romantic' dinner in some posh restaurant she'd chosen. Surgery was, he mused, definitely the lesser of two evils. And even better, the reason for it all… the knowledge that the Klingons were leaving, and they'd have their planet to themselves again. He'd been warned not to speak of it, of course, but still, it was good news. "Okay," he said. "I'm in. I'll do it."

David's grin was one of relief rather than amusement, although he'd known… suspected… hoped? that his friend would agree. "Good. I'll get it scheduled then and inform the patient. We'll operate tomorrow morning."

The Klingon also grinned, although in his case it was more a baring of sharp, slightly yellowing teeth. "I will be ready. Qapla'!"

Big thanks to the usual suspects - Solasnagreine, JDC0, and RobertBruceScott. JDC0, Ive read your latest story and will be back to read it again and review it, I promise - I enjoyed it too much to stop and review... Thanks also to my wonderful Beta Linny.

Quite exciting news there actually. Linny has just finished her own full length novel, which takes place in 2391, just after the events of "The Long, Dark Night" and guest stars Krang, Chrissie and family. If anyone fancies reading it, let me know via pm, as its only being made available for a very few people to buy.
I got good results on my first assignment by the way, thanks to those who wished me good luck. Now working on number 2.

In case anyone is confused, Captains' Honour is being split into 2 books. Book 1 is The Higher Duty, which recounts the events up to the captains arriving back on Qo'noS. Book 2 is the story of the trial and what happened on Earth. Once it's finished here, I'll move all the relevant chapters over to the correct story. The only conflict is, please assume that Mackenzie and Kehlan are now married. The wedding was supposed to be at the very end of the story, but with the split, it makes more sense for it to happen at the end of book 1. If youve been reading it here, there's some changes and improvements to the earlier chapters of the trial, but nothing that will affect your knowledge of the story. Book 1 will however be extensively rewritten once Ive finished the trial. If that doesn't make sense, please tell me.