"Meanwhile"

The last thing that the captain saw before the world dissolved in the transporter beam were a few phaser blasts. Quintus distantly realized that the angle of those particular blasts was certainly about to take out the viewscreen, or at least put a very large hole into the center of the screen. The next thing she knew, she was in the far more dimly-lit transporter room of the Vor'cha.

The phaser she was still holding was, unsurprisingly, wrested out of her grip, and she blinked as her eyes became adjusted to the gloom. Two Klingon guards were flanking her, and three more were either manning the transporter controls or lingering, generally there to look menacing, she supposed. The HoD was nowhere to be found, of course, too busy lording over the command deck to be bothered to “welcome” her personally.

A jab between her shoulders brought her out of her observations, and she cast a glare over her shoulder at the one behind her, nudged off the transporter platform nonetheless. The unfortunate truth was that she would not have been able to make much headway in a fight in these circumstances; perhaps solo against two warriors – assuming, as she suspected, they were under orders not to kill her – she might have had a fighting chance, but one against five were odds too steep for her. She toyed briefly with a symbolic fight, but then again, if one of them overreacted in spite of the HoD’s orders, the fact that whoever fired a disruptor at her would likely be swiftly executed would be a very, very small comfort while she disintegrated. No, not worth the risk.

The corridors outside were no brighter, if even narrower than the transporter room. Not for the first time was Quintus struck by the utilitarian, even spartan appearance of Klingon ships. For the showiness of their exteriors – steely raptors with disruptor cannons for talons – the Klingons seemed to pride themselves on their lack of interior ornamentation almost as much as their honor.

She was just about to make some comment to this effect when they rounded a corner, the lift in sight. Only one of her guards peeled off, however; aside from the end it put to any further escape plans, being crammed into a lift with three overly-armored Klingon warriors was far from her expectations of a pleasant afternoon. They were chatting, quietly, in a rough Klingon dialect that she couldn’t quite make out: thena gain, roughly five out of the ten Klingon words she even knew were profanity, and none of those were being used at the moment. She did make out HoD, but whether they were referring to her or their own commander she had no idea.

Emerging grudgingly after another jab in the back, Quintus looked around the Bridge. The general, Vort, was not difficult to identify, almost hunched forward in the captain’s chair. He turned with a spryness belying his age when the junior officers deposited her, grasping their weapons ostentatiously.

“You should apologize,” he began, standing and stalking over to her.

Quintus raised an eyebrow, allowing a touch of amusement into her eyes. “Apologize? For destroying so many of your birds of prey?”

“For providing so little defense of your force’s flagship. There,” he said, pointing towards the small viewscreen beyond the captain’s chair. “That is your ship. I could destroy it now. Pathetic pataQ,” he added, almost spitting the words.

Her eyes followed his finger towards the view of the Aquarius. It was listing dangerously to one side, clear voids where hull plating should have been. A few points of light in the hull were flickering feebly, while the rest were dark. It was worse than she had been envisioning, even while the damage reports poured in. “If you could have destroyed it, you would have,” she started, knowing it was an empty provocation. On the other hand, the ship – and her life – were clearly subject to the same impulses of wanting a glorious triumph back on Qo’noS – an impulse Quintus understood rather well. “Unfortunately,” she added, making full eye contact with all of the apathy she could muster, “it seems that your Qovpatlh disruptor cannons are not powerful enough to finish my ship.”

Apparently her recollection of the slur was correct; his eyes darkened. “The reason that ship is still mostly, intact,” he unknowingly confirmed, “is so that the people of the Klingon Empire can see what a defeated Federation looks like.”

“And the crew, and captain? What possible use could you have for us? Decorations for your to have some sort of sham of a trial before shuttling us off to a penal colony, I suppose. Really original. I’m sure the citizens of the empire will clear all of their own plans for glory to waste time at your spectacle. You know… I do not even believe many of them to care much for a minor victory over a Starfleet taskforce. There are so many better enemies to fight than changing political sentiment, after all.” She added the last point thoughtfully, as if gently critiquing his plans for an artistic exhibition. Apparently, however, he decided not to take the constructive criticism in the spirit in which it was (not) intended, and the next thing she was really conscious of was the familiar, cloying taste of her own blood in her mouth. It took all of her effort not to wince or cry out at the pain, which finally turned up, and she gave him a mutinous, if triumphant look while she waited to make sure her jaw still was functioning.

“It’s not honorable to be so angry at someone who is correct,” she pointed out. It sounded thick and labored, but not sullen, which the captain was pleased to hear.

Vort stared down at her stonily before turning abruptly, planting himself impassively to face the viewscreen. “Put her in the Brig,” he ordered. “We have a planet to take.”

* * *

The next few hours had passed in relative silence. The silence, broken only by the occasional thud of boots in the Brig, boots outside in the halls, and the low hum of the Klingon ventilation systems, was welcome. As it happened, offended Klingons put a fair bit of force into their punches, and her head and neck ached almost as much as did her split lip. She did, however, have ample time to mull over her situation and that of her ship, testing the unassailable power field at the front of the cell – painful, and electric – and the ventilation shafts – large enough, perhaps, for a tribble to navigate. The command crew left on the ship had by this point, no doubt, established a secondary command center on the ship, and the inevitable boarding parties were likely in what was essentially guerilla warfare through the Aquarius decks.

The only interesting thing that had happened, as a matter of fact, was the arrival of a “companion” for the captain in the next cell over. The young bekk was hauled in, moody and spattering, after a loud and drawling conversation between two of his betters, perhaps lieutenant-equivalents by her appraisal of the insignias they all wore. Something about logistics seemed to be in disarray, and the young warrior was to blame. She didn’t address him; running through escape procedures, arguing with herself about diversions and plans, and generally getting the hell out of the brig and back to the Aquarius seemed more compelling. If nothing else, she was fairly certain that the ship was mostly in one piece and had not been blasted out of the sky; the bekk had nothing to even attempt to provoke her with, and she had a feeling that a disenchanted young Klingon would have wasted no time at all in swaggering over the destruction of her ship.

When the door to the Brig slid open again, she was surprised to her her name badly pronounced by the Klingon HoD, and she deigned to open her eyes, if not to rise from her seat on the flat surface poorly named a “bunk.”

“General,” she responded, inclining her head with over-polite courtesy. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Information,” he stated simply, not bothering to return the manners. “Your ship is abandoned; we hold it with impunity. The majority of your crew is dead, smashed into the planet below, and we are taking the settlement on the planet as you and I speak.”

Quintus highly doubted most of that. If they were near to breaking through Gault’s defenses, after all, Vort would not be here. If anything, she suspected he was bored with the protracted, unglorious combat that was taking quite a while to unfold. “I see,” she answered, painstakingly neutral. “My condolences on your victory parties, then. I suppose you will not have so many ensigns to roast on pikes in front of the High Hall of Heroes or whatever you call it,” she rebuffed, a dismissive hand gesture punctuating her disinterest.

“No matter what Starfleet teaches its officers, we do not need to dine on the livers of our enemies to know when they are beaten,” he answered her, though there was just a hint of amusement in his voice. She smirked at that, if inwardly. Banter, she knew, was as much a part of Klingon sparring as was bloodwine and a d’ktahg. “No, it will not take quite that much to light the hearts of the Klingon people. They are quite eager to find a reason to align themselves with us once again. The years that they have spent, slowly letting their anger chill, has done nothing for the Empire. Nothing,” he repeated, slamming his fist on the side of the security door.

She did her best to hide that the sound startled her and feigned only mild interest. “Is that so?” she prodded. “Most of the Klingons I have met, especially those that have been aiding us in finding and apprehending you,” she laid mild emphasis on the word, letting it hang for just an instant longer than needed, “have been downright cordial. Honorable allies, not petty foes railing against centuries-old slights.” She noted that the neighboring bekk and the guards in the cell were paying a fair bit of interest to the conversation, and she did not entirely get the sense that they were unanimously in support of their leader. Still, Vort was in that prime moment of a Klingon’s life between having a glorious legacy of the likes of Koloth or Kor and the point where senility would garnish his glorious luster, and Quintus suspected that his men’s loyalties lay more with the man than the aims of his little war.

Vort considered her for a moment before continuing. “The simple fact is that the efforts of K'mpec in rallying the Empire behind a pro-Federation stance have been meagerly received. The old targ is losing support faster than he can pay off new allies to stand with him, and there’s no wonder why: the Klingon Empire was not made for restraint, for negotiation.” He had started to pace in front of her cell now, doubling back every time he reached the edge of her cage. “Besides,” he added, giving her a nasty, toothy bit of a smile, “not even all of the Klingons that have been ‘helping’ you have been forthright with you. We have known every step of your operation from a source about the Aquarius.” He said it definitively, as if hoping to surprise her. He did, but she looked on blandly.

“I am sure that you have managed to pay off someone on the governor’s staff,” she allowed. “The Klingon heart, as perhaps you judge correctly, is not what it was a century ago. But I do not think highly of a cause that must resort to appealing to a Klingon’s greed to sway his spirit.” Quintus was glad for the forcefield then; she expected there would have been a black eye to complement her bloodied lip had there not been.

“I do not need to pay warriors of the Klingon Empire to hear my rallying call,” he said, lowly, nearly muttering it. “I suppose that would be easier for a Starfleeter to understand, however.”

“Be that as it may,” she continued, “if you are planning on taking Gault so easily and making it your crowning jewel, I would move quickly.” She was blustering, and suspected they both knew it. “My crew is not likely to stand back idly while you capture a major Federation colony.”

* * *

A few more verbal parries had ensued before the general was summoned back to his Bridge, and Quintus was left back in silence, measuring time by the occasional progression of Klingons on patrol in and out of the Brig. The bekk was, by now, getting antsy; she understood his need to get out there, to do something, more than she would have preferred. She looked through the semi-transparent energy fields at him, curious how much his loyalties really belonged to the HoD. He really was quite young, after all. And perhaps a frustrated Klingon was a tool she could use--

Then – there was a thick tension in the air. The Klingons manning the Brig were in rapid conversations she couldn’t hear; a few more were pouring in with weapons. She wondered, briefly, if there were more prisoners; if the attack on the surface was yielding some more of the POWs that Vort clearly sought. But no colonists or any crew from the Aquarius – or any other ship, for that matter – came in under guard and disruptor, and she sat back again, poising her back against the wall from which the cot extended.

Minutes passed, and she still watched the guards, who seemed wary and on edge. There was more happening outside of the security center as well; she could hear them, fast footfall thudding on the deck beyond. Finally, a large group of Klingons, bloodied and glazed in sweat from recent battle, appeared in the Brig, and one pointed to her. She started to stand, curious about their sudden anxiety.

“Get the human captain. Now.”

“What’s going on--“

“HoD’s orders. Some of the Starfleet crew… in the transporter room. Disruptor fire.”

The Brig’s warden’s eyes widened a little and he nodded. The group apparently appointed to guard her encircled circled her cell as the forcefield lowered. “Out.”

Julia was a mixture of surprised and slightly annoyed but complied. There still was little use in resistance, and she thought with a pang of the ruminations she had been nursing for recruiting the bekk to her aid. No such luck, apparently. But who was on the Vor’cha? She had an inkling of a guess, hoped she was wrong, and silently followed them out.

“Where does the general want her? The airlock?” one of them guessed, with a touch of hopefulness.

“No. Bring her back to the Bridge. But do it quickly.” He grinned, ignoring Quintus’ lack of enthusiasm for either suggestion. “It wouldn’t make for a good tap for her friends if they saw her being moved, would it?”