Starbase 24, February 2375
The massive starbase floated in apparent serenity in high geosynchronous orbit above the main (and only) city on the planet known as Frontera, so named for its strategic location on the Federation/Klingon border. The station's Klingon security chief, however, was in a position to know that its air of peacefulness was little more than an illusion. Inside, Starbase 24 was a hive of activity. Thousands of crew went about their duties, not to mention the civilian population and the visitors. Ships came and went – Starfleet and Klingon military vessels, freighters and independent traders, even the occasional starliner – although with the war raging across half the quadrant, those were no longer frequent visitors.
The big cruise ship currently waiting for permission to dock was filled not with rich holidaymakers or businessmen on their way to important meetings that could not be held over subspace, but with refugees. Well out of the way of the fighting, Frontera was considered a safe haven, and some of the passengers would be disembarking here. The rest were on their way to Earth, which, despite its status as a major target, was at least well defended.
Listening with half an ear to the comm chatter between the cruise ship and the control room, Krang studied the schematics on the screen. 'Ournal' the Federation had named this class of starbase, although he'd more than once heard it irreverently referred to as the 'bionic mushroom'. He frowned a little. He knew what mushrooms were; they even had something similar on his own homeworld, although they were not as tasty as the ones originating on Earth. The nickname seemed just a little bit disrespectful, but in truth, he could not deny that in silhouette, the starbase did indeed bear an unfortunate resemblance to the Terran vegetable – although his wife would not approve of that sentiment. and his lips twitched at the thought. Chrissie was a botanist and would no doubt lecture him on the correct taxonomy.
His eyes strayed to the photo on his desk. It was a real photo, not the far more fashionable and modern hologram, printed on paper and framed in an old-fashioned wooden mount with gold edging. As he often did, he picked it up and studied it.
Taken on Earth, in the nation state of France, shortly after he and Chrissie had met, the two of them were standing together arm in arm on the doorstep of the house he had been renting. It had been the middle of winter and freezing cold, he remembered, and the ground had been covered with snow… not in his opinion, a good moment to stop and pose for photos, but Chrissie had insisted. It had been her idea, and of course, she'd got what she wanted.
Rosy cheeked and laughing up at him, she was all bundled up, only her face visible under the heavy coat, colourful scarf wrapped around her neck, and that ridiculous hat with the bobble on it. He in contrast had been wearing the black uniform of Imperial Intelligence that had been his usual attire back then, and even through the leather and fur, he had been cold.
He'd glared ungraciously at the camera, wishing it to the darkest depths of Gre'thor so that he could go inside and get warm in front of the fire, until Chrissie had poked him to get his attention and then whispered something outrageous to make him laugh.
He smiled at the photo. Those had been good times and it was a memory that he savoured. Putting it down again, he turned his attention back to his work. There was a lot to be done if he was to keep his promise to his wife and come home early that afternoon.
A fleet of Klingon warships was coming in for supplies and minor repairs. He would have to deploy extra security, he decided. It was not that they would be looking for trouble, but they'd been out in space for some time and after months cooped up in cramped quarters, the crews were likely to head straight for the bars – and once they started drinking, trouble would inevitably follow.
Added to that, too many on both sides remembered the breaking of the Khitomer accords and many in Starfleet still did not completely trust their Klingon allies. Krang scowled. In his view, the Klingon Empire and the Federation were at their best when they worked together, side by side and the treaty should never have been broken. Ironically, at that time, the Cardassian Union had been innocent of the charges against it, and when the Federation condemned the Klingons for their invasion of Cardassia, the chancellor had broken the Accords and attacked both the Cardassians and Starfleet. It was only later, when the Cardassians did finally join up with the Dominion, that the Accords had been re-signed. His scowl deepened. That memory was not a good one. For the handful of Klingons living and working in the Federation, those had been dark times.
Elsewhere, a Federation starship was about to depart having delivered a bunch of marines to the starbase. No doubt there would not be as many as requested, since resources were stretched thin across the Federation, but anything was better than nothing. Or maybe not! The Klingon groaned. "QI'yaH! You've got to be joking! Which khest'n idiot thought sending a battalion of the Marine Raider Division, as they were still called, to a joint Klingon starbase
Certainly, they had a reputation for being one of the best and toughest units ever, which was why they had been sent into combat against the Klingons during the schism. With a Defence Force fleet coming into port, there was definitely going to be trouble.
Krang swore again and his language was foul enough that it was fortunate that there was nobody present to hear it. His deputy was still inexperienced and could not handle this on his own. He had no choice but to remain on duty for the foreseeable future. Reluctantly, he commed his wife to cancel their plans for the afternoon and then got back to work.
Starfleet Command, San Francisco, Earth
"Well, it's about time someone opened their eyes and saw what was right in front of them," Isis Portway, the most senior admiral present, said acerbically. "With the skills he has, he's wasted as a security officer."
The atmosphere in the briefing room was tense, and Portway thought she could have cut it with a knife had she happened to have one available. The meeting had been going on far too long, the same tired arguments going round and round like the little plastic ballerina in one of those awful children's jewellery boxes, playing the same tinkly tune over and over. She could only hope that, like the ballerina, the argument would eventually run out of steam and grind to a halt. It was driving her mad!
The subject of the current argument was the Klingon currently serving as head of security at Starbase 24, and whether or not he should be invited to the upcoming security conference on Earth. As far as Portway was concerned the answer was a resounding yes. In the last seven years the Klingon had done everything asked of him. He'd been open, honest and accommodating, a model officer despite originally being placed in a position that was almost menial in comparison to what he had been before. He'd spent just over two years in that menial role before being offered something a little more suited to his skills and abilities.
Back then, Portway, thought, they had not understood exactly what a security captain was. Foolishly, they had taken the term literally – a captain who worked in security; that was obvious, surely? Apparently not! It had turned out to be one of those very deceptive terms which did not translate well and actually referred to a very senior rank.
Since the re-signing of the Khitomer Accords two years ago, the war against the Dominion had not gone well, and the various intelligence agencies had been forced to work closer together than any of them were comfortable with. The intel they had gained since then had shown the more forward thinking and open-minding members of Starfleet Command what a gem they had. His commanding officers all agreed that his fighting skills were impressive and that he had a gift for command which often had higher ranking officers instinctively following his orders. More importantly, his decades of experience in intelligence work were an asset that in the current circumstances, they could not afford to continue to waste. Unfortunately, not everyone agreed with that assessment.
"The man is a defector," Vice Admiral Paul Blackwell, current head of Starfleet Intelligence protested. "High up Imperial Intelligence officers don't just defect. We had no way of knowing if he was trustworthy – and we still don't!
A couple of the more junior admirals were nodding their agreement. "None of it adds up," one of them said. "He should have been left in a junior role, not promoted and put in a position of importance. At least while he was on the Ulysses, he was out of the way and couldn't do any damage."
Portway almost groaned. Just when she'd thought they were finally coming to an agreement! The arguments about what to do with the Klingon had been raging for years and she had heard both sides often enough that she probably knew them off by heart. Blackwell and those who followed him were convinced that the Klingon was a spy and that when he was ready, he would turn against them.
"Oh, don't tell me," Vice Admiral Shanter said testily and with barely concealed sarcasm, "you still think he's a sleeper agent!"
"Well there's no evidence he isn't," Blackwell snapped back. "He just turned up out of the blue with a pregnant human and two kids, told an outrageous and obviously fictitious story about time travel and a Klingon invasion of Earth, and asked for asylum… I mean, seriously? Is that the best they could come up with?"
Portway let out an exasperated sigh. In her not-so-humble opinion, Paul Blackwell was a dinosaur – old-fashioned, out of date, closed-minded and automatically distrustful of new ideas and innovations, and the sooner he retired the better. He'd been too old for the job even when he'd taken it. He'd been intended as an interim head of intelligence after the retirement of the previous incumbent, but then the war had come, and it had been all hands to the deck. "That's exactly my point," she said impatiently. "Imperial Intelligence is a force to be reckoned with. If they wanted to get a spy into our ranks – and I am sure they do, just as we have worked hard over the years to infiltrate them – they would come up with a far better cover story."
"Exactly," Shanter agreed. "It's precisely its outrageousness that makes me think it's genuine."
Blackwell scowled. "Klingon Intelligence is an oxymoron. They don't have any. Look at that puny idiot a century or so ago on K7… what was his name Arne Devin? Got caught by a tribble. Absolute laughingstock…"
"I'm sure they say the same about us," Portway interrupted him. "And it was Darvin, not Devin. And that is hardly relevant to our current problem." She did not bother to add that the surgically altered Klingon spy had come dangerously close to succeeding in his mission. He'd managed to get himself into a position of trust, poison a major grain consignment, and who knew how long he would have remained in that position and what further damage he might have done if an illegal trader hadn't brought a small animal that recognised Klingons onto the station. The man was hardly a laughingstock.
"Maybe not," Blackwell conceded. "But after the debacle with the Khitomer Accords, I am still not comfortable with bringing a Klingon onto our team. I maintain they cannot be trusted."
"I don't think we have a choice," Shanter said testily. "We are going round in circles here. Can we please stop wasting time and make a decision?"
"My decision is made," Blackwell said. "I am not having that Klingon working for Starfleet Intelligence!"
"May I remind you, Paul," Portway said in a gentle tone that nevertheless hinted at the steel underneath, "that I do have one more star on my collar than you. I am the senior admiral here, and the final decision on this issue is mine."
"Paul, we're not talking about having him work for Starfleet Intelligence," Shanter said. Known for her short temper, for once she was playing the peacemaker, probably wanting to get this meeting over with so she could get on with her day and do some real work. "At least not yet. All we need to commit to for now is bringing him to Earth to attend the security conference and see what he has to say. I know you think we shouldn't trust him but he's had seven years to betray us if he wanted to, and if he's as good as Isis says he is, then he already knows how bad things are.
Reluctantly, Blackwell nodded. "I still don't like it, but I accept that we may not have a choice. All right then, let's do it."
Both Portway and Shanter breathed a sigh of relief at that. Finally they were getting somewhere. "Very well," Portway said, rising to her feet and looking around the table. "Are we all in agreement?"
A flurry of nods and a chorus of yeses indicated that everyone present was indeed in agreement. Either that, Portway thought wryly, or they didn't care and just wanted to get out of here. Either way, there was no further dissent and she would take it. "Let the record show that the decision was unanimous. Lieutenant Command Krang is to be called to Earth to attend the security meeting. Any further action will be discussed at a later date. Meeting dismissed."
Just to make it clear to anyone who doesn't know... Star Trek is copyright to Paramount/CBS and I own nothing but my original characters. Canon characters, and a few borrowed from the official published novels, will turn up occasionally and they belong to their respective creators. I write for fun and hopefully to entertain others, and am making no profit from this story.
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