Karg say angrily to her uncle, "I will not tolerate such insolence when
we are wed.* I will beat that smugness out of her the first night!"
To her pleasure she heard Kamarag reply, "I do not
believe a warrior's heart is so easily conquered, Karg. You may have to
rethink your approach."
See, Peter told himself, you were right the first time. You should've
never woken up! He lay perfectly still on the unyielding surface where
he'd been tossed. The truth was, he was afraid to move. Every single
part of him hurt--not just a little, but with a bone-jarring,
muscle-deep, migraine-type pain the likes of which he'd never known.
Well, what did you expect, mister? You took on the whole damned Klingon
army.
Klingons! He'd been kidnapped by Klingons. Well, everything he'd ever
read about them was true. They could fight like mountain gorillas, and
they seemed about as strong. His aching body testified to that.
But why would Klingons want to kidnap him in the first place? Ever since
Jim Kirk and his crew had saved Chancellor Azetbur, his uncle had become
a favored person among the Klingon populace.
But not every Klingon, he knew, supported Azetbur's rule.
He tried to recall the two soldiers who'd come for him.
Their garb had been military--black and dark gray leather studded with
metal, spiked boots and gloves--but the official insignia of the Klingon
Empire was not pinned on their left sleeves. Instead, there'd been
another insignia stitched on the leather, intertwined with what must
have been the sigil of a high-ranking house.
He tried to gauge the gravity of this place by the weight of his body as
it lay still. It was hard to say without moving. He was heavier than he
was on Earth, just a fraction, perhaps, but there was a difference. Of
course, some of that could be due to swollen muscle tissue! He wondered
if he was on one of the Klingon worlds, or on Qo'nos itself. And he
wondered if he'd ever find a way out of this mess. Despair washed over
him like a bucket of ice water.
Klingons rarely kept prisoners, but when they did ... there was plenty
of speculation about what happened to those unfortunates. Would they
kill him? Torture him?
Tales of the infamous Klingon mind-sifter ran through his memory.
Determinedly, Peter took deep breat hs, in through his nose, out through
his mouth, until he felt calmer.
"I know you are awake, human," a highly accented feminine voice growled
at him.
He knew that voice. He'd heard it at least once before.
Yes. Before its owner whipped the tar out of him. He allowed one eyelid
to creep open.
There she was, all right, the woman of his nightmares. She loomed over
him, but carefully remained out of reach. As if he had enough energy
even to lift his head, never mind take her on again. What a punch she
had!
"You are dehydrated, human," she told him. "You need water and food. I
am prepared to force-feed you if you will not cooperate with me. The
choice is yours."
Her English was amazingly good, if oddly accented, Peter realized. He
opened the other eye.
She was small, barely tall enough to reach Peter's shoulder, and
slenderly built. Her long dark hair, braided into a rope as thick as
Peter's wrist, hung over her shoulder and fell to her thighs. The
Klingon woman's skin was the color of warm honey, her features delicate
and feminine. Even the ridges on her forehead were elegant--sharply
defined, but not as massive as those of the male Klingons. The effect
was almost charming. Like the lovely head of the cobra, Peter thought
wryly.
She wore the same military-like garb that the males had, with the same
insignia on it. As Peter's eyes met hers, she lifted her chin and stared
back at him levelly.
"You will sit up, or I will pull you into a sitting position," she
ordered him.
The last thing he wanted was for this Amazon to handle him again. He
rolled onto his side and struggled to sit up without groaning. Easing
his legs over the ledge of whatever he was lying on, he settled into the
ordered position, only to sag back against a wall.
"I know you now, human," the female Klingon informed him, "so do not
attempt to deceive me. I defeated you once and will happily do so
again."
Holding up his hands, Peter tried futilely to moisten his mouth and
speak. He craved water as he'd never craved anything before; he didn't
even care if it was drugged. In fact, he wished it was. It might
alleviate some of this pain.
"Here, drink this," she ordered him, holding a squeeze bottle out to
him.
He clutched at it, his hands covering hers, as the fluid streamed into
his mouth. It was clear, clean, pure water, and tasted more wonderful
than anything he'd ever consumed.
Cruelly, she pulled the bottle away before he'd had more than a few
swallows.
"Slowly!" she snapped. "You have been weakened by your battle. Too much
fluid too soon will only make you ill. Here, swallow these, and you may
have more water to wash them down."
He stared uncomprehendingly at some tiny pills in her palm.
"They are human medication. They are for pain. Take them ... or no more
water."
He took them willingly and again clutched her hands as she allowed him
more water from the squeeze bottle. Her skin was so warm.
This time, when she took the bottle away, her face seemed to soften a
little. He released his grip on her reluctantly, wondering when she'd
offer the water again.
"There is warm broth in this bottle," she told him, showing it to him.
"It is Klingon, but it is specially made for injured warriors. It is
food and medicine all in one. I have consulted with the information we
have on human physiology and I assure you it will bring you no harm. You
will drink it ... or I will feed it to you like an infant."
Peter nodded at her. He'd drink it ... the water had awakened an echo
of hunger. He moistened his Flps again and asked, "Why do you care?" His
voice was little more than a croak.
She frowned, confused.
"Why should you care if I eat or not? Whether I drink too much water and
get sick? Why do you care?"
"My uncle has assigned me to see to your welfare," she explained, her
tone curt, but no longer fierce. She handed him the bottle of broth. "I
am to restore your health."
He nodded. Her job. That explained everything, and nothing. He sipped
the warm brew gingerly, no longer interested in the politics of
hunger-striking. Surprisingly, the liquid was savory and satisfying. As
its warmth traveled through him, he found his spirits improving. Peter
wondered how long it would be before the pills took effect. He was tired
of pain following every faint movement.
Taking another sip of the broth, he looked around his new environment.
All his great battle had done was earn him more scars and a new cell.
This one was not much larger than his prison aboard the ship, but he
knew ve
ry well that he was no longer in space.
The windowless walls were closely fitted blocks of stone that had been
cemented over, not altogether successfully, because patches of the
ancient brownish gray stonework showed through. He was perched on a
sleeping platform consisting of a slab of stone with some kind of woven
blanket thrown atop it.
On his left was a hole in the ground, what he now recognized as the
Klingon version of a no-frills head. This one didn't appear to have been
used within the last century.
The door was ancient wood reinforced with metal, but the locks holding
it closed were modern--incongruous against the old wood. Beside the door
was a clear observation panel with a speaker set beneath it. A
four-legged stool was placed near it.
The walls around him seemed as tough as neutronium. He thought of a book
his uncle had brought him once--The Count of Monte Cristo.
Sure, he thought. Give me a spoon, and I'll be out of here in a mere
fourteen years ...
This was definitely not the Klingon Hilton.
Peter took a deep breath, trying to take stock of his situation. What
would Jim Kirk do? he wondered; then,
glancing at the young Klingon woman's slender but attractive figure, he
repressed a grim smile. Yeah, right. I know just what Uncle Jim would
do! Even with a Klingon, if she was as nicely built as this one ... too
bad I don't have his luck.
Taking a few more healthy swallows of the broth, he savored the taste.
It was spicy, burning his tongue, but he'd always won the chili
cook-offs in school. He loved hot food.
He looked at the bottle, surprised to be feeling some of his aches
easing up already. "This is very good broth." She cocked her head at him
suspiciously. "I had always heard that humans were too weak to tolerate
our food." He shrugged cautiously. "I'll make you chili some day and we
can discuss it. I like this well enough. And I'm feeling better. Thank
you." She seemed wary, then uncomfortable, but finally said,
"I, too, thank you." He stared at her, at a loss. "What for?"
"For fighting me. For treating me as an honorable opponent.
It was a good battle! I believe ... that if you were well ... you
might have won!" Peter sat up straighter, forcing his brain into
alertness.
Klingons put a lot of store in honormr was everything to them. But women
didn't get much benefit from the heavily patriarchal system. He started
to introduce himself. "My She cut him off abruptly. "I know who you
are." He raised an eyebrow. Of course she knew who he was.
She'd helped kidnap him, hadn't she? "And ... my honorable opponent is
... ?" he prodded. The ploy was deliberate.
It would become harder to think of him as her victim if he started
becoming a person to her.
She hesitated, and he wondered if she knew that. Finally, she said
quietly, "I am Valdyr." He nodded. Interesting name. He wondered if it
meant anything. Yeah. She- who - mops - the -floor- with - Starfleet
-cadetst "Valdyr, have I earned the right to know why I'm here.*" He was
pushing it, he knew, but what could she do, besides refuse? And beat the
hell out of you again?
She seemed suddenly troubled, and glanced around the cell. He didn't
speak, just took a few more sips of broth and waited patiently. Finally,
she spoke. "My uncle has declared a blood feud against your uncle. The
government no longer wants vengeance against James Kirk, since he saved
the life of Chancellor Azetbur. So, to regain his honor, my uncle must
act on his own. James Kirk will be sent a message to come alone to a
certain place in space. There my uncle's guards will take him, and bring
him here. Once he is here," she paused, staring at him for a long
moment, then finally continued, "you will be released." Sheg lying,
Peter thought, but decided not to pursue it.
He didn't have the strength to face his possible future as a Klingon
prisoner. "What will happen to my uncle once Kamarag has him?" Peter
asked, even though he already knew.
Valdyr refused to meet his eyes. "My uncle has a debt of honor to settle
with him. If you know what that is, you know what will happen." Torture
and, eventually, execution, Peter thought grimly.
"Why the blood feud, Valdyr? I know my uncle has fought your people
throughout his career, but our peoples are working toward peace, now."
"Your uncle left a Klingon to perish on an exploding world," Valdyr said
quietly. "That warrior was my uncle's closest friend and prot6g."
"Kruge? I mean, Captain Kruge?" Peter was nonplussed.
"'Revenge, like a targ, rouses hungry after a sleep,'" she said,
obviously quoting an old proverb.
"Wait a minute. Captain Kruge ordered my cousin David's death," Peter
argued. "Kruge's men murdered him in cold blood. If anyone has an old
score to settle, it's us, not you." Valdyr frowned. "What is this, 'cold
blood'?"
"Uhhh ... that means that Kruge thought about David's murder, then
ordered it and was obeyed. He didn't kill him during a fight, or kill
him by striking out blindly during an argument."
"That is not true!" Valdyr defended hotly. "David Mar cus was a prisoner
of war, who was executed while attacking a guard."
Peter glared at her. "That's not the way I heard it."
"My uncle told me," she said, matching his intensity.
They glowered at each other for a moment; then Peter relaxed. This was
crazy, he decided. They were acting like the Hatfields and the McCoys.
"Neither one of us was there, so we'll never know for sure. It's been my
experience that the truth usually lies somewhere in the middle."
Valdyr gave him a surprised glance, then nodded slowly.
"That has been my experience, too, Peter Kirk." The way she said his
name made it sound like "Pityr."
She moved toward the heavy wooden door, but never turned her back. She
wasn't going to be as easy to outwit as the goons they'd sent into his
last cell, he realized. "I have brought you clean clothes." She nodded,
indicating a pile of fabric that sat perched on the end of the stone
bunk. "There are cloths in there ... you would say for washing, for
drying. There is soap. I will be bringing a basin for washing when you
are no longer so thirsty and are ready to bathe.
Your odor is too strong! If you do not willingly bathe, I will be forced
to wash you myselfi"
He couldn't help it. The mental image of this lovely but alien woman
forcibly stripping him and lathering his naked body forced a smile onto
Peter's bruised mouth. He winced even as he did it.
Her face darkened, and she advanced on him threatening-ly.
"What is funny?"
He held up his hands placatingly. "Come on, Valdyr!
Think about it. Don't Klingons have a sense of humor?
Have you ever given a grown man a forced bath out of a basin before?
What a ... fascinating ... image that idea presentsl"
She scowled, but slowly her expression thawed, as if against her will.
"Do not imagine that having me strip you
and bathe you would be a
pleasurable experience, Kirk, just because I am female!"
Peter widened his eyes innocently. "Why, Valdyr, such a
thought never crossed my mind. But apparently ... it crossed yours."
Her eyes narrowed as she digested this, then her skin visibly darkened.
She g blushing!
"Of course ... it is a potentially appealing scenario!" he continued,
giving her a sidelong glance. "I don't believe humans and Klingons have
ever had such ... an intimate interaction. Truly an interstellar
first!"
Valdyr's mouth dropped open, just slightly; then she whirled, opened the
door, and slammed it shut almost before he realized what she was doing.
Peter heard the locks on the other side activating in rhythmic
succession. His jailer appeared on the other side of the observation
port, glaring at him balefully.
Keep pushing your luck, mister. With a little more provocation, she just
might beat you to death! He leaned forward and said quietly, "No
disrespect intended to my most honorable opponent." He prayed his voice
would carry through the port.
She seemed to relax at that, and her fierce expression lightened. Then,
suddenly, a male Klingon appeared at her side, surprising both of them.