"I've never seen anything like that. What the hell happened out there?" the first mate asked. 

"I don't know," said Stokes. "But I think our guests have some explaining to do." 

Gordon checked everyone out once they were safely on board. Strickland ended up with a cracked rib. McGovern had a nasty cut over his left eyebrow. Harper had scrapes on her hands and bruises on her arms. Gordon himself had bruises on his legs from getting trampled at one point. He treated their wounds and sent everyone to their cabins for some rest. 

Harper locked the door to her cabin behind her. She stripped out of her dirty, wet clothes and put them in the laundry unit. They were cleaned and dry in moments. She put them away, then took a long, hot shower. The bruises reminded her of Gordon as he treated her. His voice was comforting and reassuring. His warm, dark eyes and gentle hands made her feel safe. His every touch felt like an electric current running through her skin. She skipped across the cabin to her luggage. Harper was thinking about him as she put on some comfortable sweats and slippers. She fussed over the sleeves, whether she should roll them up or leave them down. Which looked better? 

As she dried her hair, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror... and a crushing depression swept through her. Her silver hair was thinning around the temples. The overhead light cast uncomplimentary shadows across her face. The laugh lines were not at all funny. What the hell am I doing? she thought. Acting like some stupid teenager. I'm old enough to be his grandmother!  She felt like throwing the towel across the room... but, it merely fell limply from her hand. Harper curled up on the cot, and stared at the wall for a long time. 

Strickland cleaned up and put on some clean clothes. He tried to relax on his cot. It ached him to get up, but he was hungry. He was in the saloon looking for a snack when Stokes entered. 

"Captain Strickland," Stokes said. "What the hell happened back there?" 

"Just a ...difference of opinion, is all," Strickland said, wincing at the pain. He found the ship's store of bagels. "Are we in trouble?" 

Stokes raised his hands. "I don't know. We haven't heard anything from Tellar Prime, and I'm sure not gonna make any waves about it. But if that's gonna happen again every place we stop–" 

"It won't, Captain. It won't. I promise." I hope, he thought. 

Stokes sighed. "All right. The saloon is open for passengers to make their own meals. Just clean up after yourselves." 

Strickland nodded. "Thank you, captain. When do we arrive on Gerata?" 

"Four days. But you'll be getting some company in about six hours when we rendezvous with the Credofilius: About a half dozen Klingons headed for the homeworld." 

"Klingons?" 

"Yeah," said Stokes, walking away. "Maybe you guys can start a riot together..." 

McGovern woke to the sound of metal connecting with metal. He had been dreaming of a sandy beach on Maui. It didn't sound like anything bad; there were no alarms going off, so he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. 

His eyes would not stay closed. So, he got up, showered, and dressed in slacks and a grey t-shirt. He thought he would try to catch some news in the saloon. He opened the door to his cabin, and came face to face with one of the largest beings he'd ever seen. 

The Klingon was a head taller than most human males. Dressed in the black and chrome of a warrior's uniform, he stood in the middle of the hallway. Several black pouches and an angry black blade hung from his belt. His face was a maze of scars and old wounds. His bottom lip seemed to be deformed. He turned to face McGovern. 

"Is this B Deck?" the Klingon growled. 

"No," McGovern heard himself saying. "This is C Deck. B Deck is one flight up. The steps are over there," he pointed. 

The Klingon grunted, and nodded his head in thanks. He started walking down the hallway. "One flight up," he repeated. McGovern looked, and there were five other Klingons at the end of the corridor. The ascended in single file up the metal steps. 

Well, thought McGovern, I'm awake --now. He put on his boots and headed for the saloon. That was where he found Strickland, reclined in an easy chair staring out one of the windows. 

"I thought the doc told you to relax," McGovern said. 

"I am relaxed," he replied. "I've been watching the docking maneuvers." 

"And I'm right here," came a voice. It was Gordon, standing in the kitchen area. "He'll be fine... if he stays off his feet for a couple of days," Gordon said, looking sternly at Strickland. 

"I'm off, I'm off," Strickland said, pointing to his feet, which were propped up on cushion. "No heavy lifting, no operating heavy machinery– I got it." 

McGovern hooked a thumb off behind him. "I notice we got some more guests on board." 

"Oh, yeah," Strickland said. "They came through here looking for the passenger section. Nice guys." 

"Nice?" asked Gordon. "They're huge! Did you see all the knives they were carrying? They scared the heck out of me when they came on board." 

"Oh, they're not so bad, once you get to know them." Strickland said. Out the window, the hull of the Credofilius took up most of the view. 

Gordon mixed up a pot of hot coffee. The smell reminded him of Admiral Harper. Frannie. She wanted him to call her Frannie. He liked the sound of her name. From the bow end of the saloon, Captain Stokes entered. 

"I'm making some fresh coffee, captain," Gordon said. "Want some?" 

"Not now," he said, his face grave. "I think you're gonna want to see this." He went to the communications console and changed some settings. The little screen lit up with different colors, some text, and finally a picture. It showed the skyline of a city, tall towers and large buildings. Columns of smoke rose from several points. 

"...calm for the moment," came the voice-over from the console. A mark in one corner of the screen identified the broadcast as coming from the Federation News Service. "The Tellarite government has sent in troops to bring order to the city. A curfew is set to begin at sunset. For the time being, Baroosh is under martial law." 

"What the hell?" McGovern said. 

"It's some kind of mess back there," Stokes said. "The whole city is shut down. I got word the spaceport is closed– they're not letting anyone land or take off. Looks like we left just in time." 

"Um, yeah," Strickland said. The picture on the screen changed, and the program switched to a different report. 

"Anybody hurt?" Gordon asked. 

"There were some injuries," said Stokes. "Nobody killed, if that's what you mean." 

"Would they report it if Downam were killed?" Strickland asked quietly. McGovern just shrugged his shoulders. 

"Anyway," said Stokes, "we'll be detaching from the Credofilius here in a few minutes, and be on our way again." 

"If those Klingons are headed for the homeworld," McGovern asked, "why are they going to Gerata?" 

"We are, but they aren't," Stokes replied. "We'll be docking with a Klingon supply ship tomorrow. That's where they'll be getting off." 

Stokes turned off the sound to the console, and left the saloon. Gordon leaned heavily over the counter. "My God," he said. "We caused a riot." 

"We buried a hero," pointed out McGovern. "That's what we did. If anybody had a problem with that, it's not our fault. It was those troublemakers that caused a riot. The ‘ruling class' Dow folks. The ones that were throwing rocks at us. They would've killed us if the Downam hadn't stepped in." 

"What's gonna happen next?" Strickland asked. "The Tellarite government is surely going to investigate what happened at the cemetery. What will happen then?" 

"They'll see what a bunch of hypocrites they are, that's what," McGovern said. "You can't step on people forever and think they're never gonna mind getting stepped on." 

"The problem with hypocrites is that they like to pin the blame on other people," Gordon pointed out. He looked at Strickland. "Didn't you say there was a big Tellarite population on Gerata? They'd all be ruling class there, wouldn't they?" 

A sudden silence fell on the saloon. "The doc's right," said McGovern. "If word does get out what happened, they'll be looking for us. They'll be waiting for us on Gerata." 

"Do I smell coffee?" It was Harper, standing in the stern doorway to the saloon. 

"Right here, Frannie," Gordon said, pushing a steaming cup across the counter towards her. She came forward and accepted the ceramic cup with both hands. Gordon felt glad to see her... but she avoided his gaze, keeping her head down, for some reason, and quietly walked away with the cup. He wondered if he had said something wrong. 

"Maybe things will calm down once we get to Gerata," offered McGovern. 

"Maybe what will calm down?" Harper asked as she sat down. They filled her in on the situation. 

"It's a four day trip to Gerata," Gordon said when they were done. "A lot can happen between now and then." 

"Yeah," said McGovern. "The Tellarites can get even more PO'ed. They'll have time to get creative about how to kill us." 

"We can't go to Gerata," concluded Strickland. "Not now. We need to change our plans." 

*** 

Strickland spent the rest of the day exploring their options. They met again over a late supper. Strickland, under observation from Gordon, cooked omelettes for everyone using some Mosan eggs he found in the pantry. Combined with peppers from his private store, they were delicious. 

"Well, crap!" said McGovern, when they were finished. "How much does not going through Gerata set us back?" 

"No telling," Strickland said. He wanted to clean off the table, but Harper insisted on picking up the plates. Gordon watched her carefully. She had not spoken five words to him since they came on board the Corsair. "We'll have to start all over again planning our route to Concordia." 

McGovern leaned forward. "One thing's for sure: we can't be on this ship when it gets to Gerata." He tapped the table top for emphasis. 

Gordon wiped his chin with his napkin. "How many stops do we have before that?" 

"Three," said Strickland. "We'll arrive at Kitsunechan tomorrow. We won't be landing on the surface. The ship is gonna dock in orbit with a freighter to transfer those Klingons heading for the homeworld. We'll be making another stop at Mining Station Duslin for a few hours, and then one more stop at Philquah the day before arrival at Gerata." 

"Any other ships passing through Duslin?" 

"Just ore ships making the run between there and Rigel." 

"That'll take us in the opposite direction! It'll take us forever to get to Toren II." 

Strickland sighed. "I... I don't think we'll be making it to Toren II at all." 

"Not–!" McGovern spat. He started to say something, but Strickland cut him off. 

"Look," he said, "whatever route we take will still get us where we want to go. Toren II isn't that important. We knew we'd have to wing it a little when we left, right?" 

"Yeah, yeah," McGovern grumbled, squirming in his chair. 

Gordon took the stacked plates to the kitchen section and began to clean them. Harper sat in her chair, feeling a little ashamed. He had not done anything wrong. He had in fact treated her with complete respect since their whole journey had begun. Her actions were unfair. She decided to do something about it. 

Harper brought the cup she'd been using to the kitchen nook. Gordon had pushed up the sleeves of his uniform and was running some water in a sink. "Want some help?" she asked. 

His smile was shy and reserved. "Sure," he said, jumping for joy inside. 

Distant laughter caught everyone's attention. Four Klingons entered the saloon from the aft entrance. They stopped when they saw it was already occupied. McGovern looked up. "What are you afraid of? Come on in!" With his foot, he kicked one of the chairs away from the table; it scooted a half meter towards the Klingons. 

One large Klingon with a gnarled nose stepped forwards. "You are the warrior McGovern!" 

"Guilty as charged," said the general. "Who are you?" 

"I am Captain Bo'Tak of the Imperial Guard!" Bo'Tak turned to his fellow Klingons. "This is the warrior McGovern. He and his Starfleet Marines fought the Kru at Clarinda." The other Klingons seemed impressed. 

"Welcome, Captain," said McGovern. "It's always good to meet a fellow warrior." 

Bo'Tak pointed to McGovern. "This human single-handedly killed a dozen Kru when they broke through the lines. He has probably already figured out five different ways to kill me where I stand!" 

McGovern silently calculated the situation. "Seven." 

A younger Klingon smiled and said, "Only seven?" 

"Well," said McGovern, rubbing one eye, "I just woke up..." The Klingons laughed, a fearsome sound, and seemed to relax. 

Bo'Tak held up a red, long-necked bottle. "Will you join us for a drink?" McGovern winked. 

"Is that what I think it is?" 

"The best blood wine in the quadrant!" The Klingons all pulled up chairs to the table. Introductions were made, and cups of blood wine were passed around. 

Gordon eyed his cup of blood wine suspiciously. "There's really no blood in it," Harper whispered. "It's named for the color." 

The brew was a dark, ruddy red in color. Gordon took a drink– and had to stifle a cough. "Good God!" he said, clearing his throat. "That's strong." 

"About 170 proof alcohol, I figure," Harper said. She raised her cup. "I always thought it was like really strong sangria. Cheers." Gordon brought up his cup, and they touched with a ceramic clunk. 

When the first bottle of blood wine was emptied, two more were produced from the Klingon's cabins. Another junior officer brought back the frozen carcass of some large rat-like animal; it was hard to tell without the head. He commandeered the kitchen and began cooking it in the oven. 

"You have never had brazed whomper?" Bo'Tak asked Gordon when the cooked beast was brought to the table. The Klingons, Strickland and McGovern sat at the table. Gordon and Harper sat in chairs opposite each other nearby, and ate off a coffee table. The blood wine was starting to make her feel a little giddy. 

"Can't say I have, no," he politely replied. The Klingon captain pulled out a wicked blade and began carving chunks for everyone. More blood wine was poured. The meat was unexpectedly delicious, like roast beef but somehow sweeter. 

"Oh, my, this is wonderful," Harper said. "My compliments to the chef." The junior officer, named Ison, bowed in respect. All the Klingons were impressed a female like Harper could rise to the rank of admiral. 

"We should have some ding juice," said Ison. "For dipping. That would make it better." 

"I might have something," Strickland said. His satchel of condiments was still open in the kitchen. "You boys ever eat much human food?" 

"I did not know humans had food worth eating," one Klingon said honestly. Strickland pulled out a small bottle of ketchup and poured out a dollop on a plate. 

"Some folks like this on their meat," he said. 

"Good color," Bo'Tak commented. He cut a bite of meat and dipped it in the ketchup. He frowned when he tasted it, but then nodded his head. "Mmmmm. We have something like this, called ta. This is very diluted." 

"Okay, let's try something else," Strickland said. He dug out a jar of hot mustard and spooned out a portion. "Give that a try." Bo'Tak dipped another bite in the mustard and popped it in his mouth. The Klingon made an ugly face, which for him was redundant. 

"Bland." 

"Bland, eh?" said Strickland, taking the challenge. He searched his satchel for a particular item. "Something with a little more kick to it, eh? Alllll right... Here– try some of this." Strickland pulled out a clear plastic jar, slightly larger that a fist, and placed it on the table. Inside, the jar was full of bulbous, green jalapeno peppers. "Lots of people on Earth like this in their food," he explained, unscrewing the lid. They cut them up–" Before he could say another word, Bo'Tak dove his fingers into the jar, pulled out an entire jalapeno pepper, and popped it in his mouth. 

"–because they can be pretty strong!" Strickland said quickly. The Klingon captain chewed once, twice... and then his eyes got wide with surprise, his body stiffened, and his mouth opened in a silent whistle. Strickland looked around for a cup of water, blood wine, anything. "You might need something to drink–" 

"Dungtit!" Bo'Tak exclaimed. "Dungtit!" He looked at the other Klingons. "Dungtit!" He pointed to the jar, and then back and forth to his mouth. 

"Dungtit?" Ison asked. He pointed to the jar. "Dungtit?" 

"Dungtit!" insisted Bo'Tak. The Klingons looked at each other in amazement. One by one, they stuck their fingers in the jar, pulled out a pepper, and popped them in their mouths. In moments, all six Klingons were chewing away, their faces blissfully enraptured. 

"The hell...?" McGovern said. 

"Did he say... dungtit?" Gordon said, carefully sounding out the word. Harper coughed, and covered her mouth with her hand. 

Bo'Tak swallowed. "Where did you get this?" he demanded. 

"It's from Earth," explained Strickland. "It's a pepper that grows on Earth..." 

"What the hell is dungtit?" Wondered McGovern. Harper coughed again. 

"Dungtit is part of Klingon society," said Bo'Tak. "An important part of our culture– of Klingon family." 

"Dungtit is what Klingons give their children as a reward for honorable service. Every Klingon warrior has grown up with the taste of dungtit." 

"So," said Gordon, suddenly understanding, "dungtit is... Klingon candy? That," he pointed, "tastes like Klingon candy?" Bo'Tak nodded furiously. 

"It has been years since I had dungtit," Isom said, licking his lips. Harper made a choking sound. She had both hands up covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide, and her shoulders quivered. Gordon looked closely, and saw she was furiously trying to not laugh out loud. The sight made him want to laugh, too. 

"How come?" Strickland asked. 

"Dungtit only came from one planet: Basrak," Bo'Tak clarified. McGovern nodded in understanding. 

"Basrak was heavily hit during the Dominion War," he explained to Strickland. 

"The dungtit fields were wiped out," Isom said. "No more dungtit." The Klingons all bowed their heads in silent gloom. Behind the Klingons, Gordon was biting his tongue to keep from laughing. Harper's face was turning red. 

"So, all this time," Strickland said, "ever since the war, Klingons have been without dungtit? You've been dungtit-less?" 

McGovern leaned forward. With a completely straight face, he said, "You've been sans dungtit?" 

Harper could take it no longer. She stood up, and pointed back towards the passenger section. "Excuse me," she managed to choke out, "I have to ...do a... thing..." She hurried off. Gordon stood up, too. 

"I should go... check on ...something..." He dashed off down the corridor right behind Harper. 

One of the other Klingons smacked his lips and inhaled through his mouth. "By the gods!" he exclaimed. "They have the same after-taste, too!" He smacked his lips again. The others smacked their lips. Strickland and McGovern exchanged glances at the bizarre sight. The Klingons smacked away, sounding like a chorus of heavily-armed crickets. 

"We must have more!" Bo'Tak said. He pounded a fist on the table. "There must be more!" 

"Sure, sure thing," Strickland was saying. "I can get you all you want–" 

McGovern waved his hands for Strickland to stop. "So, lemmie get this straight. You guys love these things, right? They bring back happy childhood memories, don't they?" The Klingons all nodded. McGovern pursed his lips. He pointed to the open jar. "So, pretty much any Klingon in the empire would want to get his hands on these, huh...?" 

Bo'Tak straightened up, understanding. "What do you want?" 

"Not much, not much at all," McGovern said. "My friends and I are looking for a ride to the homeworld, is all. Just transportation to Q'onos." 

"And for that, we get to keep the rest of the jar?" 

"Heck," said McGovern, "we'll get you as many jars as you want!" 

Strickland leaned back in his chair. "In fact, we'll do even better," he said. He thought of his gardens back home on Earth. "I can get you rooted plants that will grow these peppers for you. You can grow as many as you want. Everyone in the empire will be coming to you –you!– for dungtit." 

"You'll corner the dungtit market!" McGovern added. Klingons on either side of Bo'Tak began whispering frantically in his ear. He slapped the palm of his hand on the table. 

"Agreed!" he declared. "Ison, contact the Namaah! Inform them we will be bringing extra passengers!" 

"Yes, sir!" Ison said, standing. He hurried out the bow entrance to the saloon. 

"Let us seal the deal with blood wine!" Bo'Tak announced, filling everyone's cup to the brim. He raised his cup in salute. "To dungtit!" 

"Dungtit!" the Klingons chanted. 

"Dungtit for everyone!" joined McGovern. 

Down the corridor, Harper hurried as fast as her wobbly feet could carry her. The blood wine had gone to her head, and the corridor swayed in front of her. She turned a corner. Gordon was right behind her. As soon as they were both around the corner, Harper erupted in laughter. Gordon leaned against the wall, laughing just as hard. Harper held her stomach and bent over. Tears were falling down Gordon's face. Both staggered in mirth back and forth in the narrow corridor. Bumping into each other, they leaned on each other for support, shoulders rocking in hysterics. Panting, gasping for breath, they looked into each other's eyes... and immediately locked in a passionate kiss. Harper's fingers ran through his thick hair, while Gordon's strong arms pulled her tight against him. Their tongues met, and it was like the whole corridor was on fire, their tiny corner of the universe, burning red hot– 

"Frannie!" came a voice. "Hey Frannie!" They opened their eyes, and stepped back apart from each other. McGovern appeared from around the corner, staggering slightly, an open bottle of blood wine in his hand. 

"David," Harper said breathlessly. "Um... Hi." 

"We got us a ride to the homeworld," McGovern smiled. "We'll be docking with the Klingon freighter in about 12 hours. I'm gonna see if I can make some blood whiskey. C'mon, join the party!" 

Harper nodded. "Be right there," Gordon interjected. McGovern toddled off back towards the saloon. 

Harper took a deep breath. "Wow." 

"Yeah," Gordon said. He wiped a hand across his face. "Wow. That was–" 

"Yeah," admitted Harper. Her face was flushed, and a lock of silver hair hung down across her forehead. "I guess..." 

"Admiral Harper!" boomed Bo'Tak, appearing from around the corner. Another drunk Klingon staggered behind him. "Come, join us! Tell us tales of wonder and adventure!" He hooked Harper's arm, and led her back down the corridor. She followed, helplessly. Harper looked back over her shoulder, and saw Gordon framed in the corridor junction, his handsome face illuminated by the overhead light, his uniform stretched tight across his broad chest... 

*** 

Something in his mouth tasted like paper. Old, dried-up paper that had been stepped on by water buffalo. Strickland opened his eyes when he realized the terrible taste in his mouth was his tongue. 

Blood wine, he thought. It'll do it every time. He made himself sit up, his brain rattling around in his head like a soggy sponge. He shivered as a wave of nausea swept over him. It passed. He ran his fingers across his scalp... but the room kept moving. Forty years of captaining space ships told him something was going on. He put his hand on the bulkhead wall; there was a definite vibration going on. 

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Went the cabin door. The sound echoed in Strickland's head. "Hey Warren!" It was McGovern's voice coming from the corridor. "Our ride's here! Shake a leg!" That was what the vibration was, he decided: they were docking with the Klingon freighter. He could hear McGovern banking on the others' doors, waking them up. Strickland splashed some water on his face and walked barefoot out to the saloon. 

The saloon was empty, and showed the results of the previous night's party. Cups, dishes and empty bottles lay strewn all over the place. The first mate was picking up a chair that had been turned over. "Klingons..!" he muttered to himself. 

Strickland looked out one of the port windows, but all he could see was an immense black hull– no features at all. They must be too close for him to get a good look, he decided. From down the corridor came a humming noise. Gordon and the storage trunk came gliding into the saloon. His hair was mussed, and his eyes were red. 

"Morning," Gordon said in a cracked voice. 

"Is it?" Strickland said. He started back towards his cabin. "Don't let them leave without me." Gordon guided the trunk along. He wished he could just lie down on top of it and go back to sleep. 

In the corridor, Strickland passed Harper coming out of her cabin. She was dressed and had her backpack slung over one shoulder. "How are you doing, Frannie?" he asked. 

Harper recoiled at the sound of his voice. She seemed to be moving slowly. "Fine," she said, "except my teeth feel fuzzy." 

"My brain feels fuzzy," Strickland said without looking back. One by one everyone made their way to the airlock. McGovern even had to go back and look for one of the Klingon officers that had gone missing. He found the huge warrior passed out in a storage closet. 

"C'mon, big guy," McGovern said, pulling the warrior to his feet, "Got wars to fight, bad guys to punch. C'mon now..." The Klingon woke up enough to stumble along down the corridor. 

In the airlock, Gordon leaned over to Harper. "You okay?" She was rubbing her forehead. Through the airlock, they could see a very sober, very stern Klingon standing guard in the docked ship. 

"I've been better," she muttered. Bo'Tak was leaning against a bulkhead, half asleep. Isom sat on a barrel with his head down, looking queasy. McGovern and the last Klingon stumbled into view. 

"All right," McGovern said to the guard, "This should be everybody." They bumped into one of the Klingon officers, who almost fell over. 

The guard stepped up to the airlock hatch. "Listen up!" he said in a deep, booming voice. "On board this ship, you obey our rules! No exceptions! Understood?" 

The passengers nodded in agreement. Strickland mumbled. One Klingon shrugged his shoulders and said something that sounded like an alien version of yeah, whatever. The guard stepped over to one side. "You board now!" The hungover Klingons and humans stumbled and shuffled through the airlock. The airlock hatch closed, and they heard clanking noise from outside as the Blue Corsair disconnected. Strickland felt like a poor guest; they had neglected to say goodbye. The guard led the way down a dark hallway to a junction. He stood before them, his hands pointing in opposite directions. 

"Humans that way, Klingons that way!" he pointed. He had to repeat his instructions two more times. The humans were directed down the left-handed corridor. It was a dead end. They started inspecting the doors along the way, and figured out they were the assigned cabins. 

Accommodations on board the Naamah Elonka were not just Spartan, they were non-existent. Each cabin was a tiny bare room, with only a wide, metal shelf welded into one wall. Even that looks good right now Gordon thought wearily as he drove the trunk into his cabin. 

Strickland found the light switch on the wall inside his cabin. The overhead flickered to life, casting a flourescent pall over the room. A single air vent clattered in the far wall. Harper's and McGovern's cabins were all the same way. Strickland stumbled to Gordon's room and began opening the trunk. "We've got some emergency bedrolls in here somewhere. They would be on the bottom.." 

"The Klingons don't use things like that," McGovern reminded him. "They see mattresses and blankets as a sign of weakness." 

"Bugger that," said Strickland, throwing clothes and gear across Gordon's room. "I want my blankie." 

By the time he found the bedrolls, the trunk looked like a clothing volcano. The others grabbed their bedrolls and silently went to their rooms. Gordon felt like cleaning up, but not enough to actually do it. He unrolled his bedroll on the metal shelf and promptly went to sleep. 

In humans, Klingon blood wine can have a variety of reactions besides intoxication, including dehydration, psychosis, and coma. It was a ten hour trip to the Klingon homeworld, and most of them slept the whole way. It was probably a good thing they missed supper. 

McGovern was up first. He passed Klingon crewmen in the corridor. They were mostly dressed in coveralls, but a couple had on their warrior's uniforms. In an officer's lounge, he found Bo'Tak. He was dressed in warrior armor, and leaning over a table, his head in his arms. 

"How are you feeling?" McGovern asked. 

Bo'Tak looked up suddenly. "Good! Good!" he said. "Ready for duty!" 

"At ease, captain," McGovern said. "Anything to eat around here?" 

"There you are," came a female voice. It was Harper, dressed in grey. "Is there anything resembling coffee on this ship, by any chance?" 

McGovern looked in the tiny pantry. He found a small, green box. "Some Andorian tea?" 

"That will do," she said, taking the box. 

Strickland came through the doorway, his shirt tails hanging out of his pants. "I'm hungry," he said. Gordon was right behind him. 

"Hunger is a good sign," he commented. "A sign of life." 

"Life is a relative term right now," McGovern said. "Lord, but that blood wine had a kick to it!" 

Bo'Tak nodded his head. "It was just bottled last month. Blood wine is best when it is fresh." 

"How long before we land on the homeworld?" Strickland asked. Bo'Tak looked at the time. 

"An hour," the Klingon said. "Maybe more. Many ships visit Q'onos." 

A tall, dark Klingon walked into the lounge. "General McGovern!" he said. "We meet at last!" He went straight up to McGovern and slapped him hard on the shoulders. "I am Captain Breet! I welcome you and your friends aboard my ship!" 

"It's, um, it's our pleasure, captain-- a real honor," McGovern said. Breet put one arm around McGovern's shoulders. 

"Come, general!" He led McGovern out to the corridor. "Tell me some tales of wonder! I have a bottle of blood wine in my cabin!" 

"Oh," they heard him reply. "Great." 

The only windows on the Klingon freighter were on decks reserved for the crew. So, the humans sat waiting in the officer's lounge. Harper found a pot and was able to boil some water for tea, which she shared with Strickland, the Klingon and Gordon. She was careful not to spill Gordon's. In a small freezer, Bo'Tak found a box of what he called us'cha. They looked like hand-sized loaves of French bread. Strickland found a pan and heated up several in a small oven. "They're kind of like corn dogs, without the sticks," he explained as he served up a plate. The crust was golden brown and looked delicious. "Don't ask what's inside. In fact, that's pretty good advice for most Klingon food: Don't ask, don't smell." 

"Hey!" said Bo'Tak, not sure if he should be offended or not. 

It didn't matter what was inside the us'cha. They were all famished. As they were finishing their snack, the ship began to sway from bow to stern. Bo'Tak shook the tea in his cup as a little test. "The artificial gravity has been turned off. We are inside the atmosphere." 

"It won't be long now," Strickland said. The ship jerked suddenly, sending their cups flying. 

"That's what I'm afraid of!" Gordon said, holding on to the edge of the table. 

Strickland stood. "We'd better get packed." 

Harper looked at Gordon. "Need some help re-packing the trunk?" 

Gordon smiled. "Yeah. I'd appreciate that." He liked the way she arranged everything out logically, folding and rolling clothes together as they went. 

"So, how long have you been retired?" he asked, holding up a shirt. 

"Two years," Harper replied. "There was a big party at Fleet Headquarters. The C. in C. even showed up." She leaned closer in confidence. "Of course, he always shows up for cake." Gordon smiled. He liked the sound of her voice. 

They were almost finished packing the trunk when McGovern staggered back to the human quarters. He slumped against a doorway. 

"I found us a place to stay," he said, his speech slurring a bit. "On the planet... The planet we're landing on... The homeworld! That's it." 

"How was the blood wine?" Strickland asked cheerfully. 

"Shut up," he replied, rolling one shoulder over the doorframe. "I gotta get packed." 

The Naamah Elonka landed at the Opetta Spaceport, about 60 kilometers outside of First City. It was night when the four descended down the long cargo ramp, the trunk floating along behind them. The smell of petrochemicals was strong in the air. It was just chilly enough to wear long sleeves, but not coats. Strickland craned his neck looking up at his first real look at the Klingon freighter. Like many old-style cargo ships, it had a simple, basic shape, and was built like a big, rectangular box. Spotlights illuminated the sides of the ship. Klingons and a handful of humans in work clothes were scampering around the ship, casting disfigured shadows on the hull. Hatches were open, and land vehicles were busy collecting containers from inside. Above the ship, only a handful of stars were visible, due to the lights and burning torches across the vast concrete expanse. 

"So," said Gordon, as he stepped around a patch of oil on the concrete, "this is the Klingon homeworld." 

"Welcome to Q'onos, everybody," McGovern said. 

Strickland shouldered his bag. "Does it look better in the daylight?" 

"Well, no," said Harper. "Not really." Lights appeared to their left. A land vehicle with an open flatbed in the rear drove up to them and parked at the foot of the ramp, its brakes squealing. 

"Here's our ride," McGovern said. 

"Captain Strickland!" came a voice from inside the ship. It was Bo'Tak, hurrying down the ramp. He came close enough to whisper. "Do not forget, captain: the dungtit!" 

"I didn't forget," Strickland said. "Where can I find you?" 

"Imperial guard barracks number twelve," Bo'Tak said. 

"I'll start making arrangements right away." He shook hands with Bo'Tak, and cringed under the Klingon's grip. "Remind me sometime, and I'll introduce you to a human drink called tequila." 

As Strickland started to leave, Bo'Tak held up one hand. "General McGovern! You forgot this in your cabin." He held out a cracked, dirty cup. 

"Hey, my gagh!" McGovern smiled, taking the cup of squirming creatures. Harper rolled her eyes and walked away. "Thanks for saving them." 

"Yeah," said Strickland. "You wouldn't want to miss Jerry." 

Bo'Tak laughed. "Jerry the Gagh! General, you are something else!" He slapped McGovern on the back, knocking the wind out of the general. The Klingon walked off towards a waiting transport, still laughing. 

Strickland leaned over and looked into the cup. "So, which one's Jerry?" 

McGovern coughed. "Actually, they're all named Jerry." 

They walked over to the waiting lorry. There were no steps, and no ladder, but the males were able to haul themselves up. Gordon positioned the trunk so that Harper could use it to climb up to the back of the lorry. He then floated it up to the bed. Once on the truck, McGovern knocked twice on the cab, and the driver took off. 

The air got cleaner as they drove off into the darkness. There was barely a breath of wind. The lorry bounced along across broken and cracked concrete roadways. Strickland figured the port had not been constructed properly, and over the years the weight of the ships had damaged the structure. The clamor of machinery was everywhere. They passed two more freighters parked alongside the roadway, huge cranes ten stories high gracefully loading and unloading containers. Beyond the last ship, the lights of a distant city appeared on the horizon. Harper looked at Gordon and pointed at the lights. "First City," she called out. He nodded in understanding. 

"Where are we going, now?" Strickland called out above the noise. 

"Pinky's Place!" McGovern yelled back. "It's a hostel not too far from here. I called ahead for some rooms. Captain Breet recommended it." 

"Well,' Said Gordon humorlessly, "how bad could it be?" Harper smiled. They rode through a cloud of choking dust kicked up by a transport vehicle at least four stories tall. It roared right by the lorry with only centimeters to spare. The four travelers stared in astonishment as it passed and drove on into the night. 

There were no streetlights beyond the spaceport, so the lorry drove along guided only by its headlights. They could see lights off in the distance, but that just made the rest of the landscape darker. The road was boxed in by a wire fence that followed on both sides. After a few minutes, the vehicle came to a stop beside the road. The four stood and looked around– they could not see a thing. McGovern knocked on the top of the cab. "Anything wrong?" 

"No," came the reply. The Klingon driver leaned out the window and looked back at them. He pointed off into the darkness beside the road. "Hostel." In the glare from the headlights, they could see a break in the fence, and a path leading away from the road. 

"Oh," said McGovern. "Okay." Gordon and Strickland helped Harper down from the back of the lorry. With the trunk safely on the ground, McGovern hopped down and waved to the Klingon driver, who simply nodded and drove away. They went through the break in the fence and started walking. 

"Didn't I get some flashlights?" McGovern asked. 

"They're at the bottom of the trunk," Gordon replied. 

McGovern sighed. "All right, stay close." He still see a dim path ahead of him, and somewhere off in the distance a light. They started walking. It seemed like over a kilometer from the road to the building. By the time they arrived, they were all sweaty and out of breath. The hostel itself turned out to be not bad at all. It was a low-peaked one-story house on a plot of acreage adjacent to the spaceport. The house was surrounded by bushes and short trees, shaded in the darkness. A lone lantern shone on the porch. Off to the side, Harper could hear some wooden wind chimes clattering in the dark. Far behind them, noisy vehicles rumbled down the road like bugs in the night. The four walked up the short sidewalk, and McGovern rang the bell. 

A grey-haired human male in a white apron pulled open the thick, wooden door. "Yes? Ah!" he smiled. "You must be General McGovern and company. Come in!" the group filed in, with Gordon driving the trunk ahead of him. 

The front room was wide and lit with small domes of lights mounted in the walls. Thick wooden beams hung from the low ceiling, and the floor creaked as they walked across it. "I am Malichi," the old man said, closing the door behind them. "How long will you be staying?" 

"A few days, I think," McGovern said. Malachi puttered around a short counter and pulled out a thick book. He opened it and turned it around for McGovern to see. From a shelf he produced a pen. 

"If you will all sign in, please," he said. McGovern signed his name in the guest book, then Strickland. Harper recognized several names on the page as she signed. So did Gordon– he'd heard their names said with respect at Starfleet Academy. 

"And how will we be paying for your stay?" Malachi asked. 

"Um,..." Gordon started, but Harper stepped forward, pulling a yellow plastic card out of one pocket. 

"Federation credits?" she asked. 

Malachi smiled. "That will do nicely," he said. From under the counter, he pulled out a small device that scanned Harper's card. It beeped approvingly. 

At the far end of the front room, the sound of a bell caught their attention. It was connected to a side door that was opening. A Klingon in battle armor entered and stood in the doorway. Malachi leaned over to look around Gordon. "I'll be with you in a minute!" he called out cheerfully. Without a word, the Klingon closed the door and disappeared through a curtained archway. Malachi smiled and put the book away. 

"What was that all about?" Strickland asked, pointing back at the Klingon. 

"We offer services to Klingons, too," Malachi explained. "Naturally, they prefer their facilities to be separate. Now, if you come with me, I'll show you to your rooms." As he led the travelers through a square curtained arch, Strickland heard the far door ring again as it was opened. 

Malachi led them down a long hallway of doors. Woven scrolls decorated the walls. More little domes lit the way. Throw rugs of various colors cushioned the wooden floor. Dark windows lined up along the outside wall. 

"I'm putting you in rooms fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen," Malachi explained. He pointed to the far end of the hallway. "The toilet and showers will be on your right. The dining room will be on the left. The next human meal will be in two hours." 

"Human meal?" asked Strickland. 

"Yes, the Klingons on the other side will be eating first," Malachi said. "Please do not disturb their supper." 

"Right. Thank you," said McGovern. He entered his room. It was narrow, but with a high ceiling. A single bed took up the far end, with a tiny window high on the wall. Woven pictures hung from the walls. Dome lights on the wall gave the room a warm, comfortable look. McGovern craned his neck to look out of the high window. He saw a row of similar windows lit up on the far side of a narrow courtyard. That must be the Klingon wing, he decided. He heard Harper inhale in the next room. 

"Oh, this is nice!" she said. The rooms must all look the same, McGovern concluded. At the end of the hallway was the unisex bathroom. There were four stalls of toilets, and four curtained shower stalls. Harper cleaned-up first, and then the others took their time in the wonderfully hot showers. 

"Be careful of the Klingon soap," Strickland warned the others. "Scrub too hard and it'll take your skin off." They managed to get clean enough without it. 

Gordon didn't realize how hungry he was until he was getting dressed. He hadn't had a decent meal since the whomper the Klingons cooked up. Just then, he caught a whiff of something tasty. In the hallway, Strickland was sniffing the air. "You smell that too?" Gordon asked. 

"Yeah," Strickland replied. "Smells like... bacon." 

"Is that what's for supper?" said Gordon. Malachi appeared at the far end of the hallway. 

"Dinner is served," he announced. There was a big, steaming pot of stew on a short, square stove. Malachi handed out bowls and gave out portions from a long, steel ladle. The tables were long, picnic-style tables with attached benches. Malachi had already put a plate of hot biscuits on the table. 

Harper picked up a biscuit. "It is like a scone," she observed. 

Gordon tried the stew suspiciously, but it turned out to be delicious– hearty and filling. The others liked it, too, and complimented Malachi on his cooking. He bowed humbly. "Actually, my son did the cooking, but thank you." 

Strickland found something hard in one spoonful. He spat it out into his hand. It turned out to be a tiny claw. Careful that no one was looking, he quietly wiped it off onto the floor. "Something wrong?" Harper said, tearing off some bread. 

Strickland shook his head. "I think I found a leftover from the Klingon meal..." Given a choice between blood wine or water, they chose to wash down their meal with water. 

Gordon watched the others carefully. Even though everyone had showered and cleaned-up, the three traveler's eyes looked tired, their body language expressing fatigue. The walk from the highway had taken a toll. Everyone had two helpings of the stew. Hold the claws, Strickland thought as he got his next bowl. 

Gordon wiped his mouth, and cleared his throat. "Look, I hate to bring this up," he started. "But I think you may need to reconsider this mountain-climbing idea." 

"Why is that?" Harper asked. 

Gordon took a deep breath. "When we walked in from the highway, you all saw how tired you were. If you got that tired just walking a klick or so, how... how are you gonna feel climbing a whole mountain?" 

Strickland's eyes flared. "Are you saying we're too old?" 

"No, no," defended Gordon. "I'm not saying that at all–!" 

"Charlie," said Harper calmly, "I really don't think the walk from the road can be considered a proper test. We were already tired, hungry, we were in a new environment–" 

"I'm not saying–" 

"Wait," said McGovern, holding up his hands. "I think I know where the doc is going here. He's not saying we're too old for this mission. I think he's saying we need to be prepared." 

"Yes!" said Gordon, very relieved. "Thank you." 

"And the doc makes sense," McGovern continued. "You don't go on any mission without preparing for it first. We've got the gear and the supplies, but we need to prepare ourselves, too." 

"Hey," defended Strickland, "I'm in good shape!" 

"Me, too," said Harper. 

"We all are," McGovern said. "But... the doc is right. This is gonna be a physically exhausting journey and, well, we should train for it." 

"Train how?" Harper asked. 

"It's the Klingon homeworld," McGovern pointed out. "They train all the time. They're always working out. Let's take a couple of days here to rest up, build up our strength, and follow some Klingons." 

Gordon nodded in agreement. "And I can follow along and monitor how everybody's doing." 

"And see what we need to work on," Strickland said. "Okay, I can see that." Harper was nodding her head. 

"That makes sense," she admitted. 

"We also need to think about planning our next stage," Strickland said. "I'm gonna try to find us passage to Nothera, or maybe Klendar. Both are close to Romulan space, so we won't be flying on any more Klingon ships." 

"Aw, that's too bad!" McGovern said, not feeling bad at all. 

"We probably have some more supplies we can get here, too," Harper commented. "But Charlie's right about us getting in shape. It would be a shame to go all that way and be too tired to finish." 

"All right," said Strickland, standing up. "Let's all get a good night's sleep. We'll start training in the morning." 

They cleaned up their dishes and put away the utensils before heading back to their rooms. Gordon was about to enter his room when Harper turned around. They were alone in the hallway. "Charlie?" she said quietly. He looked up. "You don't think I'm too... old... do you?" 

Gordon blinked in surprise. "No, not at all," he said honestly. The tension left Harper's face, and her cheeks slightly flushed. She averted her eyes. 

"Goodnight," she said, and went into her room. 

Gordon stared at the closed door for several moments, the air thick with the smell of fresh-cut wood. Goodnight, Frannie.