IKS Hegh'Ta

Saturday 8th February 2375

The flight to Earth would take the Hegh'Ta eight days at standard cruising speed. Eight days, that was, by Earth time. By the Klingon calendar it was a ten-day journey. A couple of hours after what passed for breakfast on the first day – although to Krang, all too used to Federation time, it still felt like the middle of the night – Captain Kay'vin and his guest found themselves sitting in the Captain's office, sharing a bottle of warnog as they talked. Located just off the bridge, the ready room was an idea that the Klingons would readily admit they'd stolen from their Federation allies, finding it convenient to have a place to deal with the inevitable admin that running a ship generated, and still be close to the centre of action.

"Damn Kovak for getting himself killed," Kay'vin swore, taking a mouthful of the potent ale as he spoke. "If he weren't already dead, I'd kill him for deserting me like that." Reaching the bottom of his mug, he put it down and grabbed the bottle, pouring himself a generous refill.

"He was a good officer," Krang acknowledged, "even if he did drink a bit too much." Carefully, he refrained from commenting on the fact that since he'd come onboard, Kay'vin too seemed to be drinking a bit more than was wise.

He himself was, as was his habit, actually drinking very little. In his line of work – his previous line of work he corrected himself with only the faintest trace of bitterness, although he supposed it was true of his current role as well – imbibing too much alcohol was dangerous, and he had mastered the art of appearing to be a little more drunk than he really was, a useful skill for an intelligence operative.

Besides, as his wife had discovered to his embarrassment and her amusement and occasional frustration, he was actually a bit of a lightweight, too much alcohol having the unfortunate effect of knocking him out cold. He still remembered with some horror the first time he'd woken up, almost smothered in the soft comfort of the sofa, disoriented and with his head pounding, and discovered his boots no longer on his feet and neatly placed out of the way, and his weapons placed equally neatly on the table. How in the name of Kahless and the Fek'lhr had she managed to disarm him without his waking up! Always retain your wits, his superiors had told him. Listen and learn. He was applying that lesson now.

"What in Kahless' name," he added curiously, "made you pick Ch'vok as his successor?"

"Pick Ch'vok?" Kay'vin said, staring at his friend incredulously. "Is that what you think? I didn't pick him, he got foisted on me by Imperial Command. I wanted to promote Kargan, but they said he was too young and ordered me to take Ch'vok instead."

"He is trouble," Krang said with a growl. "And I do not like the way he was watching Kehlan. Is that sort of harassment something you allow onboard your ship?

"No, it is not!" Kay'vin refuted sharply. I am aware of the situation and have been keeping careful watch. So far, she's handled it herself – put a knee in his groin or so I heard. Seems to have done the trick, but if it becomes necessary, you can be sure I'll step in and deal with it. Kehlan may be Houseless, but she is not friendless. The same is true," he added, "for any of the lower ranking females aboard this ship. If I see even the slightest sign that he is sexually harassing any of them, I will come down on him so hard he will wish he had never been born."

Krang nodded, accepting that. He'd become used to the Federation way of doing things, he realised with some discomfort. The ways of his own people were a little more direct and he should trust Kay'vin to deal with things in his own way.

"Do you think he's an I.I. agent?" Krang asked thoughtfully, his mind turning back to the problem of Ch'vok. Most Klingon ships did have an Imperial Intelligence spy on board and the captains rarely knew for definite who it was. The Klingon Empire ran on paranoia and unlike the Federation, kept its officers under routine surveillance. As a former security captain, however, Krang knew what to look for and had already found and disabled the monitoring device in Kay'vin's ready room as well as the one in his own quarters although those in public places such as the bridge and the mess hall, he had left intact.

"Ch'vok working for Imperial Intelligence?" Kay'vin replied, actually laughing at the idea. "I doubt it. I mean, when you were in charge, would you have employed him?"

"Not a chance," Krang said with an emphatic shake of the head, "But then, there's been a lot of changes since my time, and not all of them for the better."

"The man's useless," Kay'vin said with a frustrated growl.

"Then why do you put up with him?"

"What's that saying the tera'nganpu have?" Kay'vin asked morosely. "The one about giving someone enough rope and they'll eventually hang themselves. Well so far, he hasn't quite given me enough reason to kill him. He's still young and inexperienced. He will either learn or die."

"He's no younger than any of your other officers," Krang retorted. "Older, in fact. I'd get rid of him if I were you."

"I'm not like you, Krang," Kay'vin reminded his friend. "I'm not from one of the great Houses. Ch'vok comes from one of the most powerful families in the Empire. I can't afford to start a blood feud that could wipe out my House completely. Until he steps out of line, I'm stuck with him."

Krang nodded, sympathising with the Klingon captain's dilemma. It was a problem he had come across many times in his career although his own family had been powerful enough that it had never affected him personally. Many good officers had been held back through lack of family connections, while others, less competent, but from powerful families, were promoted to ranks they did not deserve. The younger son of a prominent member of the High Council, who had not attended the VeS DuSaQ, the Klingon military academy, for any more than the requisite three months before being assigned to a starship, Ch'vok was a perfect example of that. He would not have been pleased, Krang mused, to find himself serving under a captain like Kay'vin instead of someone from a more aristocratic, socially acceptable family. The thought occurred to him that his friend would be wise to be careful where Ch'vok was concerned, to watch his back and remain on his guard. "I think…" He started to speak but stopped, deciding a split second too late that to do so would be insulting. Kay'vin was an experienced captain; he knew the score and was more than capable of looking after himself.

Kay'vin was looking at him expectantly, and quickly he changed what he'd been about to say. "I was just thinking there must be something he's good at."

The captain reached under his desk and opening a drawer, he pulled out a padd and activated it before handing it to Krang. "Here, read this. You'll see what I mean."

Krang carefully studied the report Kay'vin had handed him. It had been written some time ago by the first officer and dealt with a minor incident between two lower ranking officers. "I do see what you mean," Krang said eventually. "It's adequate and no more."

"Exactly," Kay'vin said with a heavy sigh. "And that's the problem. He's adequate and no more. Sad thing is, I could work with that. He's got the potential to become a decent officer if only he'd change his attitude. Adequate isn't a bad starting point if he'd put in the effort." Seeing the almost empty tankard in the other man's hand, he indicated the bottle. "Have another drink."

Cargo Hold, SS Orinoco

"Hey, watch it!" Sitting on the bare deck, huddled under her thermal blanket, the Bajoran woman glared at the man who had just tripped over her. With a muttered apology, the man went on his way, and bringing her knees a little closer to her body and wrapping her arms round them, she turned her attention back to the view from the tiny window, although there was little to see other than the blackness of space and the occasional star streaking by.

To be fair, she thought with a sigh, there was not a lot of room. The cargo hold that was currently the only the only home she had, was crowded with fellow refugees. Almost a week it had been since she'd come aboard at Starbase, almost a week in this overcrowded, stinking hold – and since the bathroom facilities were wholly inadequate for the amount of people on board, it quite literally did stink. Another sigh escaped her. If she got safely to her destination and got the information she carried to someone who could make a difference, it would all be worth it. The sigh turned into a yawn. She was so tired. Pulling the shiny silver-coloured blanket closer round her, she tried to settle down and get some rest.

Captain's ready room, IKS Hegh'Ta

Inevitably, the two men's conversation turned to the mission. Krang was unsurprised to find that Kay'vin believed it was a waste of time. "We are Klingon warriors – we should be out fighting the Dominion!" Kay'vin said, his voice rising to a roar. "Not sitting around a desk, talking and doing nothing like some cowardly petaQ!"

"You'll get your chance," Krang said, "There's still plenty of fighting for us to do." That was something of which he was absolutely certain. They had a long way to go before this war was over and done with.

"You're an optimist," Kay'vin snorted. "We could be in glorious battle, but instead, what do we get? More useless meetings."

His friend had changed since he had attained the captaincy that had been his heart's desire for so many years, Krang thought with a little regret. He was no longer the young, idealistic warrior he had once been. Honourable yes, always honourable. Kay'vin could never be anything else. But cynicism had crept in. That was not completely a bad thing, of course; properly channelled, it would stand him in good stead.

"This meeting is important," Krang said, bringing his thoughts back on track. "The Federation Council must be made to understand the seriousness of the situation. There are some good warriors in Starfleet if only the Council would allow them to act appropriately."

Kay'vin scowled, suddenly serious. "I hope you can make a difference."

Krang exhaled heavily. "So do I."

Bridge, SS Orinoco

Monday 10th February 2375

"Captain, scans are picking up a Jem'Hadar ship out there." It was Jones, Orinoco's first mate who raised the alarm. Seated at what passed for a tactical console, he'd been carrying out the standard scans that had become part of their safety routine since the damned war had begun.

The scanners were newly installed, paid for out of the profits from their last voyage, and were as close to top of the range as he'd been able to afford. War was profitable, so they said. Whoever they were, Mansfield mused with justifiable bitterness, they'd obviously never lived through one. And that, in a nutshell, was the problem – living long enough to make that profit.

John Mansfield the third had been captain of this bucket for ten years now, taking over the family business when the grandfather who had raised him had finally retired – although how the old man could stomach living on a planet after a lifetime in space, Mansfield really didn't know. A short, stocky man, with the characteristic pale skin of someone born and bred on a ship, he was like many spacers, mildly agoraphobic and had never spent any more time planetside than was strictly necessary. Used to solid duranium walls around him, even the thought of those vast, open skies was enough to make him shudder.

In those ten years, and the forty-three previous, he'd seen it all, had come up against every hazard possible – or thought he had. This was something he had hoped never to have to deal with.

"Has it spotted us?"

"No, I don't think…" Jones muttered something rude under his breath. "Actually, make that a yes. It's changing course, heading straight for us." He sounded scared now, and with an enemy warship bearing down on them, he had good reason.

Mansfield sighed. Of course it had spotted them! He was packed to the rafters with refugees, and it wasn't like he was even earning any credits for this run. It had been too much to hope that the voyage might be a peaceful one and that they'd reach their destination safely and without incident. There had been a time when all a lone freighter had to worry about was an ion storm or the occasional Orion pirate who would rob them blind if they weren't fast enough to escape and then let them go in the hopes they'd come back in a few months to be robbed again… but those days were long gone.

Helpless anger surged, fear following close behind, causing his heart to pound and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Starfleet! Always acting so superior but what were they doing to keep the space lanes safe? Where were they when they were needed? He'd asked for an escort. He'd tried begging, bribery, threats; nothing had worked, and in the end, he'd had no choice but to write a strongly worded complaint and set sail without one. Sitting down with his crew – good, steady, reliable men (and one woman) who had worked for him for years and could be trusted, they'd plotted the safest possible route and then slipped quietly away. Up until now, their precautions had worked, and they had encountered nothing but a rogue asteroid that had been easily avoided.

There was absolutely no way they could outrun a Jem'Hadar attack ship, but they had to try… to run as fast and as far as they could. Their lives depended on it… his own life, that of his crew, the refugees packed like sardines in the hold…. even the handful of dogs and a couple of cats, and he was pretty sure there were hamsters in that basket he'd seen last time he'd gone down to check on his guests. He'd turned nothing and no one away. Every minute, every second they bought themselves was an extra minute or second for help to arrive… if there was any help out there!

Taking a deep breath, Mansfield began to implement the emergency plans they'd put into place for just such an occasion but had hoped never to have to use.

"Jones, take the helm. Get us as far away from that thing as you can. You know what to do."

The man named Jonas did know what to do. Sitting down at the helm, the first mate swiftly calculated a new course, bringing the aging freighter through a forty degree turn to starboard… heavy and ponderous, she was slow, oh so slow to turn… and then gunning the engines to maximum.

"Loxena…" He addressed the only other crew member currently present on the bridge, an attractive Bolian woman who looked after communications, engineering and anything else vaguely mechanical that needed doing – and on a freighter the age of this one, she was always busy.

"Channel open, captain." Loxena said, her hands flying over her console as she spoke. "All frequencies, all languages enabled. Ready to broadcast."

"Mayday, Mayday. This is the cargo ship SS Orinoco…" His voice surprisingly steady considering how frightened he was, Mansfield added the required details, registry number, current location, and course. "We are under attack by Jem'Hadar fighters. We have refugees onboard and need immediate assistance. Repeat, we are under attack..."