Peace, it seemed to Jim Kirk, was a dangerous business. Not the mundane, everyday type of dangerous associated with - in Leonard McCoy's words - being set adrift in a tin can where the best choices of death are having your blood boiled in a vacuum or being cooked alive by a solar flare. Peace was skulking around the mother of all dive bars at two in the morning hoping to run into a hostile twice one's size and ten times one's ferocity. Peace was risking assassination to keep the Federation one step ahead in the bloody tango politicians call diplomacy.

Peace, it turned out, was right up Jim Kirk's alley.

Ignoring the barfly laid out nearby in a drunken sprawl, he hopped up the two steps to The Blue Grotto's front porch. A cursed anthem wailed through the overhead speakers. As he opened the door, a cloud of ochre smoke rushed out to greet him. On its heels came the reek of charred hemp. Inside, a dozen patrons sat slumped under the glare of electric lamps, their features obscured in the low light. No sign of his quarry. Keeping his head down, he bucked his boots on the threshold and headed for the bar.

"Ktarian beer." He perched on a cracked stool, shifting the elbow of his leather jacket away from a puddle of liquor. "Hold the local spice. I'm allergic."

The Gadian bartender grabbed a glass and turned away. Kirk checked to make sure his communicator was on, then propped his elbows on the bar. "Quiet tonight," he offered as the bartender filled the glass to the brim. "What is this, a Monday?"

With an expert twist of bony fingers, the bartender lopped off the excess foam. "Our Monday," he confirmed. "Worst day of the week." He slid the beer over to Kirk, exposing a mouthful of broad teeth. "See? I learn."

"You sure do, Gart." Kirk took an experimental sip. Golden and mellow, just what he needed. He took another sip, then set the glass down.

"Drinking light tonight, Kirk." Gart spoke Standard with a low provincial slur. "Waiting for someone?"

"They're waiting for me." Kirk resisted the urge to check over his shoulder. If they came in, he would know it. "It's my last day of leave."

"Already ready for the next one, eh?"

The Enterprise's five-year mission was almost over. Seven months left. Next time he clocked out for more than a few hours, he would be home. "Not yet," he said, popping a nut from a nearby bowl into his mouth. His tongue seized under its bitter bite. "Next one's on Earth."

"Earth." Gart shook his head. "Never been there. I'm saving up to go."

"That so?" Kirk asked. He wasn't interested in Gart's aspirations, but it wasn't wise to snub one's contact.

"So," Gart agreed. "Never been off-planet. But they say Earth is paradise."

"I guess that depends on your point of view." Kirk tapped out a restless beat on the glass. He hated waiting. It was the worst part of the game. "For some, it's paradise. For me, it's home."

"Home." Gart motioned at the bar. "This is home. Three boards and a stake."

"Don't knock it, Gart. You've done well for yourself."

"You're a good man, Kirk." Gart snatched up a sponge and dabbed at the puddle of liquor near Kirk's elbow. "So tell me. What is Earth like?"

"Earth is nice. It's very green."

"And blue?" Gart asked, tilting forward. His eyes gleamed.

Kirk liked the colour blue as much as the next guy, but the Gadians stuck it up there with beer, God, and holy Moses. "And blue," he agreed. "Tell you what: if you ever make it to Earth, go to a place called the Maldives. The water is a colour we don't even have words for."

"It's blue?" Gart persisted.

Sometimes, less was more. "It's blue," Kirk confirmed. "The bluest blue you can find."

"Then I will go." Gart returned to mopping the counter. "But you - you do not want to go home?"

Kirk swallowed a mouthful of beer. "It's complicated," he said.

"Always complicated," Gart opined. "Why never simple?"

"Maybe it is for some people. Half my crew have families waiting for them. Plenty of reason to go home."

"No one waits for you?"

Kirk huffed a laugh. "They might if I waited for them," he said.

"Maybe you just never found - what is it you humans say? The right one?"

"I did find the right one." Kirk raised his glass. "Her name is the USS Enterprise."

"You can't make love to a ship, Kirk."

"Oh really?" Kirk smirked. "You've never seen my chief engineer buff her nacelles."

"You must have someone. Someone with this…" Gart tapped his chest. "And this." He tapped his forehead.

Kirk laughed. "Four hundred and thirty people on board," he said. "Sure, I know someone with a brain and a heart."

"Different species?" Gart prodded.

"Now how did you know that?"

Gart shot him a wry look. "You have that face," he said. "They come from the stars and then they go back - but what are the stars? Places like this, eh?" He wrung out the sponge into a bucket of slop water. "Will they give you back your ship?"

"That's a crapshoot. I can't say for sure."

"Why not?"

Kirk tilted his glass at the dusty screen behind Gart. It played the image of a blue-skinned Andorian reporter against a map of the Federation-Klingon border. "That's why not," he said.

Gart glanced at the screen. His oblong eyes narrowed. "Oh, that," he said, flicking the sponge contemptuously. Golden droplets spattered the reporter's chattering mouth. "Those Andorians. Always talking war."

"It's not just them. Tensions are higher than they've ever been."

Gart's teeth clicked anxiously. "You think the Klingons will invade?" he asked.

"You're asking the wrong guy. All I know is that the Federation has to prepare for the worst."

"By taking your ship away?"

The Enterprise was the most advanced starship they had. It made more sense to outfit her as a military craft than an exploratory vessel. But he couldn't say that. You never knew who you were talking to these days - or who they were talking to. "Who knows what Starfleet Command will do," he muttered into his beer, hoping that would end the conversation.

It didn't. "The galaxy is full of stupid people making stupid decisions," Gart said, waving a skeletal hand in front of his face. The mossy nails were cracked. "Take system taxes. I pay twice what sister planet Onya pays, and why? Because I live closer to the star and so I don't pay heat. No time to pour beer, I just sign sublight tax transfers. You don't have that on Earth. On Earth, you…"

He saw the fear in Gart's eyes a split second before he heard the heavy boots. "Kishkin," Gart hissed. He backed away. "Speak of them and they appear."

Kirk set down his glass and turned slightly to the right, widening his eyes to maximize his peripheral vision. When he was sure of the cause, he swivelled back to the bar. "Remember," he murmured to Gart, "my name is Greg Samuels."

Gart's hands fretted in his apron. As Kirk took another sip of beer, a massive body thumped onto the stool next to him. A musky stench surged into his nostrils, tempting his gorge. "Your strongest whiskey," the Klingon commanded as his two companions claimed the stools next to him. "For all of us. And be quick."

As the three Klingons descended into their own guttural dialect, Kirk casually scratched his chest. The tiny scanner stuck to his skin buzzed to life. "Round's on me," he said to Gart. Turning to the nearest Klingon, he threw on his best devil-may-care smile. "Hey," he said, sticking out his hand. "Greg Samuels. Nice to meet you."

The Klingons glowered at him. All three were heavily ridged with prominent forehead crests. The head of the nearest Klingon rose to a mammoth peak. "I don't care who you say you are," he said, ignoring Kirk's hand. "Who are you to me?"

"Nobody." Kirk kept his hand out and his smile in place. A bead of sweat trickled down his back. "I'm just a hitchhiker on my way to Portas. Meeting people is a hobby of mine."

The Klingon stared down at his hand for a moment. Then he turned back to the bar. Grabbing the whiskey glass, he drained it without flinching. "More," he said, thrusting it back at Gart.

"That's impressive," Kirk said as Gart shakily refilled all three glasses. "Me, I'm a lightweight. Can't get past beer." He held up his glass demonstratively. "I tried the local rotgut for the first time a couple of nights ago. Ended up spewing all over my date. I guess you could say the Grotto wasn't the only blue thing that night."

The Klingon grunted. The other two ignored him.

"You're merchants." Kirk nodded at the Klingon's tunic. "I recognize the insignia. Here on business?"

"What of it?" the Klingon barked.

"Nothing." Kirk held up his hands. "I'm just not used to seeing Klingons in Federation space. I guess you have to get a special permit for that these days."

The Klingon drained his glass again and shoved it back. Gart refilled it silently. "You have a point, Human?" the Klingon growled, enclosing the glass in his massive fist. "Or are you just rude?"

"Actually, I was wondering if the same rule applies to Klingon territory. I'd like to go there someday."

The Klingon turned abruptly, clasping the collar of Kirk's jacket in his horned hand. "You trying to spy on my people?" he hissed.

"No, that's not it." Kirk gripped the barstool as the Klingon tilted into his space. As he did, the scanner vibrated rapidly. "I'm a traveller. I've always wanted to go to Qo'noS. I just thought you could help me out."

"Why would I help you, Human?"

"Because…" The scanner was starting to get hot. He would have to mention it to Chekov when he got back. "Because I can pay," Kirk rushed out as the Klingon began to turn away. "I'll pay whatever you want. And…" He lowered his voice as the fist tightened on his collar. "I might have more than Federation credits for you."

The Klingon stared at him, his eyebrows bristling over his aquiline nose. The other two had risen, their hands hidden in their tunics. If they pulled weapons on him, he was dead. Given the volatile political climate, he was under strict orders not to engage. The only weapons he had on him were his fists.

"You look familiar," the Klingon finally rumbled. "Do I know you?"

"I doubt it." Kirk reached for that same devil-may-care smile. It was an effort. "I've never been to the Gada system before."

The Klingon grabbed his chin with his free hand. His horned fingertips dug into his jaw. "Your face," he said at length. "I know it. What is your name again?"

"Greg Samuels." There was no point in pulling away from the taloned grip, not unless he wanted to part ways with his jaw. Klingons were strong. Vulcan-strong. And with their duplicate organs, it was hard to land a hit that would do any significant damage. "I can show you my ID if you want. It's in my jacket pocket."

The Klingon hesitated, then jerked his head. Kirk fished out the fake ID and held it up for inspection. After a moment, the Klingon grunted and released him. "You say you have something for me besides credits," he said, reaching for his glass. "What something?"

Gart coughed and moved away. "This," Kirk said, reaching into his pocket again. He withdrew a silver drive about the size of his thumbnail. "I took it off the body of a Starfleet intelligence agent."

"What is it?"

Kirk smiled toothily. "Something we shouldn't talk about in a bar," he said.

The Klingon eyed him. "What happened to the agent?" he asked.

"He was drunk. Vodka made him talkative. Once I knew what he had, I lured him out back and killed him."

Respect dawned in the Klingon's eyes. "It will help in the war?" he asked.

"I won't talk about it here. If you take me to your ship, I'll upload the data to your on-board computer. I guarantee it's worth your time."

"And if it isn't?"

"Then you'll kill me. It's a chance I'm willing to take to get on the winning side of this war. Here's the thing, though." Kirk leaned forward. "If you kill me, you get one drive. If you leave me alive, you get a lot more."

"You can find more agents?"

"I have intel on their movements. I can find them and I can kill them."

"Anyone can do that," the Klingon scoffed. "Can you make them talk?"

"My friend," Kirk said, drawing his lips back from his teeth, "I can make them sing."

The Klingon stared him down. Kirk held his gaze, enduring the slow burn of the scanner against his skin. Abruptly, the Klingon threw back the glass of whiskey. "We will talk," he said, standing. "But not here." He motioned brusquely to his mates. "To the ship."

"Let me settle up first." Kirk beckoned to Gart, who brought over a tiny screen. It was a relic from the days of plastic credit tabs, though the faded sign on the wall boasted a dual digital function. "What's the damage?"

"Seventy-nine credits." Gart slid the device over to him. "Follow the instructions on the screen."

Gart hadn't changed the name on the bill. Kirk saw it a split second too late to do anything but brace himself. "Credit bill for James T. Kirk," the device chirped. "Seventy-nine credits. Override tab use for James T. Kirk?"

Shit on a shingle. Gart jabbed violently at the screen to silence it, instantly switching the display to visual. Kirk's name flashed aggressively on the screen in crimson letters. "That's a mistake," Kirk said, trying to laugh. He shot a death look at Gart, who stood frozen behind the bar. "The bill is for Greg Samuels."

"Captain Kirk," the Klingon growled. His broad nostrils flared as his companions pulled portable disruptors from their tunics. "I knew I recognized you."

He almost got away. Years of dodging enemies and sparring with Spock in the dojo had honed his reflexes to a razor's edge. Unfortunately, he was dealing with a Klingon. A single talon hooked in his jacket collar as he lunged away, arresting his forward momentum. As the talon jerked, he flew backward through the air, crashing down on top of the bar. The small of his back burst into song, accompanied by scattered laughter from the corners of the room.

The Klingon leaned over him, reaching into his tunic. Gart's shocked face hovered overhead. "Close my tab," Kirk rasped, careful to enunciate. The scanner buzzed fiercely in response, searing his skin. "No tip."

"Now, Kirk." The Klingon withdrew a d'k tahg*. The curved secondary blades gleamed crimson in the musty light. "I will teach you the diplomacy of my people."

As he tried to rally his limbs, the door burst inward. Phaser shots screamed in rapid succession, sending the bar patrons scrambling for cover. Kirk socked his foot into the Klingon's unprotected groin, doubling him up and driving himself back over the bar. He hit the floor on the other side, catching himself awkwardly with his shoulders and palms. Something twisted in his right hand, firing a bolt of pain through his forearm.

As he untwisted himself, the Klingon vaulted the bar with a roar. Most of the plummeting mass missed him, but one burly shoulder caught him in the ribs on the way down. As he rolled away, kicking the Klingon in the gut, the d'k tahg flashed an inch or two from his ear.

"Fight me, coward," the Klingon snarled, clawing his way to his hands and knees. "Or I will open you from your throat to your pitiful 'InSep*."

Gart had disappeared into the back, abandoning the bar to its fate. Kirk grabbed the counter with his good hand and flipped himself over, ignoring the flash of pain through his ribs. He caught a brief glimpse of the other two Klingons sprawled on the floor before his pursuer struck his back with the force of a collapsing brick wall.

They hit the floor together with a thud that raised a cloud of dust. Kirk lay there under the Klingon's crushing weight, waiting for the sear of the knife in his side. It never came. As he struggled to dead lift four hundred pounds of Klingon muscle, the weight suddenly lifted away.

Gasping reflexively, he rolled onto his back. An angular face peered down at him through a wreath of hemp smoke. "Trouble, Captain?" Spock inquired.

"That's what the T stands for," Kirk croaked, sticking out his left hand. Spock grasped it and pulled him easily to his feet. "You couldn't have cut it a little closer?"

"I would have arrived more quickly had you called for me in a timely fashion." Spock steadied him as he swayed. "I smell burning flesh."

"That's the scanner." Kirk grabbed Spock's shoulder for balance. "I thought I heard phaser shots. Given that I very specifically told you to leave your phaser on the ship, I assume that wasn't you."

Spock's gaze was unflinchingly placid. "Your orders, as always, are paramount, Captain," he deadpanned.

"Huh." Kirk carefully did not watch as Spock tucked something into his waistband. "In that case, we need to beam up. Now."

"What about the Klingons, Captain?"

"We'll call it in. We don't have the go-ahead to beam them up to the ship." A dozen ranged weapons had appeared around the room, lowered but ready. Unregulated planets like Cashar attracted a sturdy clientele, people who knew how to defend themselves and had no compunction about doing so. "First things first. Let's get out of shooting range."

A/N: I'll be posting regular weekly updates to this story. They'll go up by 9:00 pm Central Time each Thursday. The next update is scheduled for October 19th. See you then!

Definitions:

d'k tahg: a type of Klingon dagger with secondary blades

'InSep: Klingon for "penis"