The ride back to the hostel was bumpy, dusty and sometimes terrifying. At several intersections, the minivan almost collided with trucks the size of houses, only to squeeze past at the last moment. Darkness fell as they were on the road. They were in a semi-rural area, so streetlights were few and far between. Above the racket of the minivan engine, the sounds of insects drifted in from the fields. The smells of fresh-cut grass mixed with the odd, ever-present scent of bacon. 

McGovern sat with his arms crossed, staring out the dirty windows. He'd look at Newton, then his eyes would wander out towards the darkening landscape. Another babysitter, he fumed. Newton and the driver got into a couple of protracted discussions about the fastest routes. The driver finally gave in and followed the major's directions. They seemed to have merit, for soon the ride smoothed out. The vehicle found itself on an even and much quieter highway. 

"I guess I should've known," said the driver, conceding the argument. "Legionnaires really do lead the way." 

"That's just remarkable," Gordon said. Since it was a better road, the minivan did not bounce as much. It was easier to speak. Newton looked over her shoulder at the doctor. 

"What is?" Gordon leaned over the seat and pointed at Newton's uniform. 

"Humans in service to the Klingon Empire. How did that come about?" 

"It's actually an old human tradition," Newton explained. "The British used to hire mercenaries out of countries they were at war with. If you can't beat ‘em, hire them." A loud truck rode up alongside the vehicle, it's wheels squealing in rusty protest. When it passed, Newton continued. 

"When the human terraformers came here to help rebuild the atmosphere, they brought their families with them. Like mine. My family has been here for three generations." 

"How many humans live on Q'onos?" Harper asked. 

"Across the whole planet, close to fifty thousand," Newton replied. "And there's only four hundred thirty Legionnaires to keep the peace. Fortunately, everybody's pretty peaceful." 

"Don't the Klingons resent the human presence on their homeworld?" 

Newton nodded her head. "Some do. I think a lot of Klingons think of us as a necessary evil. You almost never hear them talk about the human population to offworlders. And you almost never see humans on the surface, unless you look. In the metropolitan areas, they prefer humans keep out of sight until nighttime. They know how vital we are to the economy. They need us in order to survive. Still, we almost never get invited to dinner." 

"It's almost like the class structure back on Tellar," Gordon said. "Upper and lower classes, with humans at the bottom." 

"Doesn't that make for a tense situation?" Harper asked. 

"Not so much. The humans and the Klingons pretty much keep to themselves. And it's not so much a class structure," she said, looking at Gordon. "More like an employer-employee relationship. Humans aren't slaves here, if that's what you mean. We live here, we work here, and the Klingons pretty much leave us alone. It's not a perfect situation, but it works." 

McGovern had been listening, and became intrigued with the idea of humans serving the empire. "So how did the Human Legion get started?" McGovern asked. 

"The human population kept growing until it started to be a problem for the local law enforcement. That was when somebody got the idea of hiring human cops to police the human areas." Newton turned to look for landmarks as the vehicle approached an intersection. 

"There's that factory we passed," Strickland pointed. The huge structure was silhouetted against the glow of the distant city. The colored lights of a low-flying ship passed overhead, headed for one of the drydocks. 

Newton leaned over to look out the window. "I've got a cousin that works at that place," she said. 

McGovern shook his head. "It's hard to imagine armed humans on the Klingon homeworld." 

"Actually, the Klingons liked the idea," said Newton. "They never liked patrolling the human sectors, anyway, and it freed up Klingons for more imperial duties." 

"So, what is your jurisdiction?" Harper asked. 

"Just the human areas," Newton explained. "We enforce and uphold Klingon laws in the human districts. Every big town on the planet has a section set aside for humans to live in." 

Harper frowned. "A ghetto? A human ghetto?" 

Newton shook her head. "Not really. It's not a fancy life," he said. "...But then, nothing on Q'onos is too fancy. Q'onos isn't a bad place to live --Until somebody breaks the law," he added. "That's where we come in. And I think we're here." The minivan came to a jarring stop. Gordon opened the creaky door, and the travelers found themselves on the road in front of the hostel. 

McGovern grimaced as he climbed out of the minivan. The climb was the most workout he'd had in a long time, and his thighs were aching. Still, it was a good hurt. "I hope there's something to eat," Gordon said. 

Newton checked the time. "Roza should be picking me up here pretty soon." 

"Why don't you come inside with us?" Strickland asked. Newton shrugged her shoulders, then followed the group down the dim path to the hostel. 

"So," said Newton, "what are you folks doing on the homeworld? What made you decide to climb Gro'tara?" 

Harper and Strickland exchanged an anxious glance, but Gordon spoke up. "We had kind of an experiment going," he said, "testing human endurance on alien planets. The experiment went well; everyone came back in good physical condition." 

Taking the cue, McGovern continued: "Yeah. Us old folks have different muscles and joints, you see. Variations in gravity affect us differently." 

"Fortunately," said Strickland, "even though humans might not be all that popular around here, Klingons do tend to respect..." He paused, searching for the appropriate word. 

"Maturity?" Newton offered. Strickland shrugged, as if to say that'll do. "So, are you guys all part of a tour group or something?" 

"We're all members of the Navigator's Club, out of San Francisco," Strickland answered. "All except Charlie here. He's kind of a member in training." Gordon looked at Strickland, as if to say I am?  

McGovern took the lead as they approached the hostel. "It takes perseverance and endurance to join the club." 

Newton gave Gordon a long look with her deep, dark eyes. "So, doctor, how's your endurance?" 

Harper's heart jumped a beat. "Um," said Gordon, a little embarrassed, "everything is within standard parameters..." 

"Good to know," Newton said. 

Harper gritted her teeth and adjusted the pack on her shoulder, forcing herself to keep her eyes down. What does that little tart think she's doing? She thought to herself. Is she flirting with him? 

It was a relief to get back to the hostel. Malachi smiled when the group, followed by Major Newton, entered into the front hall. "Greetings, my friends!" he said. "How was your climb?" 

McGovern started to answer, but Harper interjected, "Fine. It went fine." She turned to see Newton looking at Gordon. Harper's neck flushed, and her teeth ground together silently. 

"My son has already prepared some roast larvinch," Malachi said, waving back towards the dining room. "Help yourselves. The other guests have already started. Major Newton!" the innkeeper said suddenly. "Good to see you again!" 

"Hello, sir," Newton said. "Everything quiet?" 

"Oh, yes," Malachi said. "Just the way I like it. You're staying for supper, right?" 

"Um," said Newton, looking around, "sure. That is, if you folks don't mind the company." 

"The more the merrier," McGovern said, going on ahead down the hallway. "I'm gonna hit the head. I'll be right in." Harper walked on down the hallway, not speaking to anyone. 

Gordon leaned over to Strickland. "What's a larvinch?" 

"It's a Klingon bird. Well," Strickland corrected himself, "mostly a bird." The five had started walking down the hallway towards the dining room when Malichi called out. 

"Captain Strickland! There were some messages for you back at the computer desk." 

"Thanks, I'll get them," Strickland replied. He walked ahead of the others, straight through the dining room to the computer room. 

Gordon and Harper entered the room, with Newton close behind. The roast bird – it was at least shaped like a bird - smelled delicious. It sat on a platter in the middle of the first picnic table. The three picnic tables had been arranged in a row, so that they looked like one long table. At the far end of the room sat two Klingons they had met earlier. They were finishing their meal, and drinking from ceramic mugs. The major and the Klingons gave each other the eye, sizing the other up. Without looking at anyone, Harper snatched up a plate and began chopping away at the prepared meat, hacking off a chunk with the knife. Her plate clattered on the table when she sat down, across from the Klingons. 

Gordon watched Harper out of the corner of his eye. He could tell something was wrong, but he didn't know what. He figured Harper must just be tired and cranky from the long hike. He was pretty tired himself. He cut himself some meat and sat down at the table next to Harper. He set his medical bag on the floor next to his feet. Newton cut some meat for herself, and knew the Klingons were watching her carefully. She walked past Gordon and sat next to Harper, facing the Klingons. 

Harper was already chewing on some meat. As soon as Gordon sat down, she looked around. "Isn't there anything to drink around here?" she said. She looked at the Klingon's mugs. "What's that? What are you drinking?" 

"Booboo," said the male warrior. 

"Excuse me?" Harper said. "Booboo?" 

"Booboo," said Newton, smiling, "is Klingon beer. I like it a lot better than blood wine, myself. Blood wine makes me wake up in strange places." The major pointed to a jug on the far end of the table. "Is that for anybody?" The female waved her disinterest and took another drink. Newton seized the jug and began pouring some frothy liquid into mugs. 

Gordon felt introductions were in order. "Um, major," he said, looking past Harper, "This is Ru'Med, and this is T'Mal, of the Bird of Prey Vigilant." 

"I saw the Vigilant when it came in for a landing," Newton said. "Good ship." Ru'Med grunted in appreciation. 

"You are Human Legion," said T'mal, looking at Newton's gunbelt. 

"I am," Newton said simply. Still in her armor, Newton wore her distuptror pistol just over her right hip. Her badge was clipped next to the belt buckle. Over her left hip hung a knife in a leather scabbard. 

"You do not carry a Klingon knife," T'mal continued. "I want to see it." In one swift motion, Newton drew the knife with her right hand. It was a wide, shiny blade, and looked extremely sharp. She easily flipped it over and handed it handle first to T'mal. 

"It's called a Bowie knife," Newton explained. "Used originally on Earth. All Legionnaires carry one."  T'mal looked closely at the blade, and tested the tip with her finger. She handed it back to Newton. 

"It is not Klingon," she said, dismissing the blade. "Ru'Med carries a true Klingon knife. Show him, Ru'Med." His hand moving very fast, the tall warrior drew his blade– a long, black knife with a wicked, serrated edge. Newton leaned closer to examine it. 

"Nice," she decided, nodding in approval. 

T'mal coughed with disgust. "It is more than nice!" 

Ru'Med turned the blade over, gripping the handle tightly in his hand. Harper noticed his eyes waver and lose focus. "This knife was handed down to me by my father!" 

Newton looked Ru'Med straight in the eye. "And I'm sure you honor him by carrying it," she said in a serious voice. Both seemed ready to leap over the table at each other. 

Harper reached between the two and grabbed Ru'Med's glass. "Let my pour you some more... booboo, is it?" The tension broke, and both Newton and the Klingon relaxed. Ru'Med turned his blade over and laid it down on the table next to his empty plate. 

"Um," said Gordon, "Ru'Med here is the new tactical officer on his ship. That's an important position." 

"It's up there with executive officer," Newton said. "In times of battle, a tac officer can sometimes override command decisions. On a Klingon ship, everyone wants to be tactical officer. It's considered the quickest route to command." 

"Starfleet is like that," Harper replied. Gordon was pleased to hear no more angry tones in her voice. "For some reason, helmsmen seem to get promoted quicker than other positions." 

"Ru'Med was promoted because he deserved it!" T'Mal said. "He wears his uniform with honor... unlike some people." She looked straight at Newton when she spoke. 

"And what are your duties on board the Vigilant?" Newton asked. 

"She is environmental officer," Ru'Med replied, his voice loud, his head weaving from side to side. Harper stopped eating and watched the big Klingon closely. 

"That's good," Newton said. 

T'Mal coughed. "Typical human response," she said. "All humans are spineless and weak. Look how this human wears the armor, Ru'Med– look how she tries to wear the armor of a warrior!" 

Ru'Med frowned at Newton. "Are you being disrespectful to my mate? Are you disrespecting the Klingon Empire?" Newton started to speak, but just then Ru'Med scooped up his blade and stood, lunging for Newton. In one fluid motion, Newton drew her Bowie knife, deflecting the blade and slashing across the big Klingon's chest. 

Ru'Med's knife dropped to the table with a heavy thump. He clutched at his throat, which was now squirting dark, pink blood across the front of his armor. 

Bowie knife at ready, Newton swept Ru'Med's knife off the table and onto the floor. Ru'Med fell backwards, but was caught by T'Mal. Gordon was on his feet and hurrying around to the other side of the table. He got behind Ru'Med, and with T'Mal's assistance helped him down onto the floor. 

"He fell in battle," T'Mal said quietly, crouched on her heels next to her mate. "It is an honorable death." 

"He's not dead yet!" Gordon said. His hands were on Ru'Med's neck, blood squiring between his fingers. "Frannie, my bag!" 

Harper snatched Gordon's bag off the floor and tossed it to him over the table. With one hand on Ru'Med's bloody neck, he opened his bag with the other and began rummaging through the contents. 

T'Mal shook her head in astonishment. "You... you are a doctor?" Harper hurried around the table and stood behind T'Mal. Dark, pink blood was pooling around Ru'Med's head. Gordon had to stop the bleeding– only then, could he start to repair the damage. He found a vascular clamp and applied it to the side of Ru'Med's neck. The blood flow did not stop, but it immediately slowed down. T'Mal stood. The big Klingon began to squirm, his legs kicking and thumping against the table legs. 

"Frannie, hold his legs down," Gordon said. Harper kneeled down on the floor and pressed down on the big Klingon's knees. Gordon was reaching for a suturing wand when something hard struck him across the face. Dazed, his vision blurred, he was trying to collect his thoughts when T'Mal's boot came back up and crashed into the side of his head. Gordon rolled back on his knees and fell to the cold stone floor. 

"Leave him alone!" cried the female Klingon. "You do not understand Klingon ways!" she cried. Harper, holding down Ru'Med's twitching legs, could only look on helplessly at the prone Gordon. T'Mal stood over Gordon, ready to strike again when the pweeee of a disruptor charging up caught her attention. 

"Back away now!" ordered Newton, her pistol leveled straight at T'Mal. "Hands where I can see them!" The female froze, then quietly stepped backwards. 

"What the hell's going on here?" The voice was Strickland, who had just entered the dining hall from the computer room. 

"Warren!" cried Harper. "Get over here!" Strickland hurried to the scene, climbing over the table and swinging his legs to the other side. "Hold his legs down!" Harper ordered. 

"I always miss all the parties," Strickland muttered to himself as he held down the twitching Ru'Med. T'Mal edged herself back to the wall. 

Her eyes watching T'Mal, and careful not to get in Newton's line of fire, Harper crawled around the unconscious Klingon to Gordon's side.  "Charlie! Charlie, talk to me!" 

Gordon's eyes opened wide, and rolled around in their sockets. He gasped, his breath quick and harsh. "What– what happened?" His whole head throbbed in pain. He tried to push himself up to a sitting position. Harper reached around his shoulders to help. 

"Charlie, Ru'Med's still bleeding to death," Harper said. "You've got to do something." Gordon squinted his eyes, and forced himself to focus. Falling forward onto his hands, he crawled over to the still-bleeding Ru'Med. The big Klingon's eyes were wide and frantic as he looked from side to side, his breathing labored. 

Hoving over Ru'Med, Gordon looked into his bag for the suturing wand, didn't see it, then remembered he'd already removed it. Sitting up on his knees, he looked around him, and found it had rolled under Ru'Med's shoulder. He grasped it in his hand and leaned forward. "Hold his head," Gordon said in a very weak voice. 

Newton's eyes were trained on T'Mal as she stood next to the far wall. The disruptor pistol was leveled at the Klingon's chest. "Do not touch him!" the female yelled. "Let him die an honorable death!" 

"You said that before," Harper realized as she held the wounded Klingon's head. Gordon blinked as he worked. "About the two crewmen on the Vigilant that died in that accident. The two that were in line for promotion ahead of Ru'Med." For some reason, Harper's mind went back to the mountain, to Gro'tara, to the robed Klingon tossing ashes over the side of the cliff. "Hey," she said out loud, "what happens to Klingons when they die?" 

"They go to Sto-vo-kor, where Kahless awaits all great warriors!" T'Mal said. "Everyone knows that!" 

Harper shook her head. "No, I mean, what happens to the bodies?" 

"They're empty shells, discarded," said Newton. "There's no cemeteries on Q'onos. The bodies are usually cremated, their ashes scattered to the wind." So, Harper decided, it was a funeral they saw on the mountain. 

"Almost there," whispered Gordon. 

"What happens on a ship when they die?" 

"The bodies are purged into space," Newton replied. "Funeral at sea, and all that." Harper looked up over the top of the table at the major. 

"Without an autopsy?" Harper asked. Newton eyes widened in understanding. 

"If they died honorably in battle," she said, "...no." 

"What are you two humans babbling about?" T'Mal demanded. 

Without looking back, Harper answered: "Ru'Med here seemed like a level-headed guy. If we did a scan of Ru'Med's blood, would we find anything unusual? Like, maybe, mood-altering drugs? Something that would make him likely to get into a fight, and maybe get him killed?" 

"That's insane!" spat T'Mal. "Why would I want Ru'Med killed?" 

"Tell me something," Harper said. "Those other two on the ship were first and second in line for promotion. Ru'Med here was third in line." Harper turned her head, and looked straight at T'Mal. "Who's fourth?" 

A furious roar crawled out of T'Mal's mouth. From behind her back, she threw something small and black at Newton. The major fired her disruptor, and the tiny globe exploded in a blinding flash, filling the room with a dense cloud of smoke. 

Harper and Gordon both leaned over the Klingon to protect him from the blast. Visibility disappeared. Strickland was thrown back, but rose to his elbows coughing. 

"How is he?" Harper asked. 

"He'll be fine now!" Gordon replied, coughing. "Go see about Major Newton!" Harper crawled under the table to Newton, who lied on her back, her left arm thrown across her face. 

"Major Newton!" called Harper. Newton's face was covered in soot, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Are you all right?" 

Newton coughed. "Flash bomb," she said. "I'll be fine in an hour." She pushed her disruptor into Harper's hand. "Here. She has to kill us all now. Protect yourself." 

Through the smoke, Harper heard a crash. She stood, leveling the pistol in front of her. Carefully, she stepped towards the sound. The smoke quickly cleared, and ahead she saw an open door, the outside breeze clearing the air. Harper flattened against the wall, then cautiously peeked around the corner into the alien night beyond. Something loud and bright smashed into the door frame– a disruptor shot. Harper crouched and rushed through the doorway into the darkness. There was another shot, but Harper saw the flash of the shot. She ducked behind a mesquite tree and fired in that direction. There was a small explosion, and Harper saw the female silhouetted against the hull of a rusting craft. 

Harper winced as she brushed against a thorny bush. The yard seemed completely quiet. Her eyes scanned the rows of scrap metal, looking for some movement. Leaves from the mesquite trees fluttered in the wind. Suddenly, the trunk of the tree in front of her exploded in a bright flash. With a loud crack, the tree came down on top of her. She cried out in surprise as the gnarled, black branches came down on her, pinning her to the ground. 

The branches of the tree twisted and coiled above her. Harper looked up through the branches. From the darkness, a figure came forward into the dim glow from the hostel windows. T'Mal stood over the trapped Harper, and pointed her disruptor pistol straight at her head. 

"Worthless human," she muttered. Her finger started to squeeze the trigger when the sky opened up behind her. Harper saw the Klingon female outlined in a ball of light for a split second, and then she fell to the mossy ground. The smell of burned flesh filled the air. Harper craned her neck to see who fired the shot. Between the branches, off to the side, stood Ru'Med, his armor stained with blood, his disruptor pistol in front of him. 

Voices and footsteps came forward. Hands appeared, and they lifted the tree, pulling it off Harper. "Are you okay, Frannie?" asked Strickland, helping her up. Something touched her arm, and she realized it was beginning to rain. 

"Yes, I'm all right," she replied. Malachi and his son stood around Harper, who stepped forward to Ru'Med. The big Klingon stood silently, staring at his former mate dead on the ground. 

"She killed them, didn't she?" he asked.  "Van'til and Magster. She killed them, and made it look like an accident." 

Harper nodded yes, and taking his hand in hers gently helped Ru'Med return his pistol to its holster. "If their murder was discovered, you would be blamed, since you were next in line for promotion." 

"I would have been arrested," Ru'Med said. 

"And with you out of the way, she'd get the position." More raindrops began to fall. Harper took the big Klingon's arm and guided him back into the hostel. The windows had all been opened, and the smoke had dissipated. 

"She didn't count on a doctor being on hand," Gordon said. He sat on one of the benches, a bag of ice pressed against his head. The right side of his face was red and swollen. 

"Charlie!" said Harper, putting her hands on his shoulders. "How do you feel?" 

"Possible concussion," he sighed, "but still got all my teeth." Looking at Ru'Med, he held up his tricorder. "I scanned your blood. You had high levels of Adlancasin– an illegal amphetamine that keeps people awake, and makes them easily enraged. I found it in your cup, too."  Newton had a wet towel; she sat on the bench next to Gordon, wiping at her eyes. 

"T'mal wanted you to get into a fight," Harper reasoned. "Everything she said was to provoke you, or to provoke someone else. If you were killed in a fight, she'd win. If you killed the major, there'd be an investigation, and the drugs she put in you would be discovered. You'd be dishonored, and she'd win." 

"Now T'mal is the one dishonored," Newton said, squinting and blinking at the light. "Now that her plans have been exposed, her whole family is dishonored." 

"No!" said Ru'Med, his hand beside his repaired neck, his voice rough but still commanding. "Her family is innocent. They should not suffer her shame. We shall say she died in battle– nothing more." 

"Well," said Harper, "it would be the truth..." 

"And justice has been served," said Newton. "The guilty has been punished. That's the important thing. Very well," she said, standing on wobbly legs. "My report will say a fight broke out, and she died in battle." 

"An honorable death?" asked Strickland. 

"She was my mate," said Ru'Med, his voice cracking. "I must do something for her. Perhaps an honorable death... cancels out a dishonorable life..." The big Klingon looked woozy, and seemed to stagger slightly. Major Newton stepped forward, pulled one arm over her shoulder, and started to walk Ru'Med back to his room. Malachi picked walked out with a handful of broken plates. Gordon, Strickland and Harper were left alone in the dining room. Through the open windows, the clean smell of rain drifted into the hostel. 

"Well, this day turned out exciting," Strickland said as he sat down on a bench. He spotted a plate of uneaten larvinch, 
pulled it close and began to eat with his fingers. "I didn't realize how hungry I was," he said. 

Harper poured herself a mug of booboo and sat down next to Gordon. "At least we get a chance to recover before we take off again," she said, offering the mug to Gordon. 

"Oh, hell," said Strickland, his mouth full of food. He swallowed quickly. "That's what I was coming back to tell you. While we were on the mountain, Captain Garrett left a message. They've moved up their schedule. Instead of leaving the day after tomorrow, the ship leaves at sunrise." 

"Sunrise?" barked Harper. Gordon choked on his cup of booboo, and coughed it out. They looked at the time. It was already close to midnight. 

"We'd better get ready," Gordon said. The three finished off their plates of food, then left for their rooms to pack. 

As he walked past McGovern's room, Strickland noticed the door was slightly ajar. He poked his head through the opening. One shoe was in the middle of the floor. Inside, McGovern was lying on the bed, still dressed, one leg still on the floor, snoring loudly. He had slept through the entire fight. 

*** 

The minivan stopped, and the four travelers began crawling out of the vehicle. Malachi, up late after cleaning up after the fight, was unable to get them a ride all the way to the landing pad. However, he managed to arrange a lift to the nearest Legion precinct house. From there, Major Newton had graciously offered to ferry the group to their destination. The Legion skiff was parked on a stretch of wet concrete, damp from the morning's rain. The early morning darkness was punctuated with the glare of spotlights mounted along the landing pads. The skiff was a short-range, strictly atmospheric craft. That must be all they let the Legion have, Harper thought. 

McGovern shouldered his bag, still fuming he'd missed all the excitement earlier in the evening. The muscles of his legs were a little sore, and his knees were a little stiff, but otherwise he felt good after their hike the previous day. The old bones are still workin', he thought to himself. 

The storage trunk floated ahead of Gordon as he walked along. The doctor had barely spoken two words since they all got up early that morning. He walked with his eyes down. Strickland looked off to the side, his attention drawn by what looked like an old Pompey Class scout parked alongside the road. He had not seen one of those in ages. Loud, rattling, unsafe buckets, this one looked like it should have been scrapped long ago. Faded blue lines highlighted chipped white paint under an assortment of grey metal plates patched across the hull. Strickland could see sparks flying from a welding torch. Two men in grimy clothes puttered away at some open access hatches. Good luck, Strickland thought as he shouldered his bag. 

The skiff beckoned ahead. The craft was small, barely big enough to carry a half dozen people. Cracked, painted letters on the side of the skiff identified it as Vinita. Landing lights reflected off its patched yet shiny black exterior. Major Newton poked her head out of the hatch. "Good morning," she said to the group. "Hop on in." 

"Good morning," Harper replied, pushing a lock of silver hair out of her eyes. "Nice little boat you've got here." 

"It gets me to work and back," Newton said. 

Under the nearby scout ship, two human men worked with oily tools. The taller of the two had long red hair, braided at the temples. The other had short, spiky black hair, and a row of scars stretching across his face like the marks of some great clawed animal. "The Klingons are worse than the Ferengi!" said the scarred one. "You know how much they wanted to rent a plasma converter? Not to buy, just to rent?" 

"Well, we're gonna need one if you ever want to see that port engine working again, Rokar," said the taller one as he worked on one of the ship's landing struts. "Besides, once we sell the you-know-what to the highest bidder, we'll be rolling in money. Did you check with the quartermaster about a new magnetic inducer?" No answer. The silence was curious. He stood up and turned around. "Rokar?" 

"Oh, my god," said the scarred one. He was standing off to one side, under the shadow of the ship, and seemed to be staring off into space. 

"What?" said the other. "What is it?" 

"Look there... there!" he pointed. "I don't believe it. It's that bitch Admiral Harper!" 

"It can't be!" the taller one breathed. Illuminated by the glare from the nearby spotlights, several figures were climbing into a short-range shuttle. He looked close, and his eyes got wide. The hair, the face, everything was right. "It's her. You're right, it's her, Rokar! What the hell is she doing this side of the galaxy?" 

"Who cares?" the one called Rokar said. "But this'll be the last trip she'll ever make!"  His hand slapped his hip, right where a sidearm was usually strapped to his waist. He growled in frustration-- he'd left his pistol inside the ship. He slapped his pockets, then looked around for a weapon, any weapon. Nothing presented itself. The two scruffy characters watched helplessly as Harper and the others boarded the shuttle. The hatches closed behind them, and the shuttle lifted off into the cloudy sky. 

"No!" shouted the frustrated Rokar. He kicked at a toolbox, scattering wrenches and tools everywhere. He looked up at the exposed engine high above him. "How long before we can get this toaster running again, Salpen? How long?" 

"Damn," said the one called Salpen, "Port engine's fried. It's gonna be a day or more. Even if we work all night." 

"Then we work all night!" Rokar shouted. "We skip sleep, skip food-- whatever it takes. I'll go rent the equipment we need-- I don't care how much it costs!" 

"Rokar," said the other slowly, "we can't be chasin' people across the galaxy just for revenge. We got places to be–" 

"Screw all that!" Rokar shouted. "The buyers can wait! You go find out where the hell that shuttle's headed!" 

"Next stop, Klendar!" Strickland said as the shuttle came in for a landing. They had traveled just a few minutes to the far side of the spaceport, passing over a dozen parked ships and two wide landing strips. Newton banked and swerved around billowing clouds of smoke as they rose from the various plants and shops. The Legion skiff set down at a relatively well-kept landing pad next to a huge ship. 

Newton opened the hatch and shut down the engines. The whine of the turbines died down quickly. "So, you folks are headed for Klendar. What's on Klendar?" Newton asked. The travelers looked at each other. McGovern thought fast. 

"Irridon Gorge," McGovern answered. "Twice as deep as the Grand Canyon. It's quite a sight, I'm told." 

"That'll be a day hike, huh?" Strickland added. 

"Sounds exciting," Newton said as they all climbed out of the skiff. As Harper started to rise, Newton's eyes caught her attention. He reached under his seat and pulled out a package, wrapped in white paper. "Admiral, this is for you." 

"A present? For me?" she beamed, accepting the gift. It was long, flat and heavy. "Thank you! What is it?" 

"Just something that might come in handy," she said, joining the others outside. 

The four travelers and their chauffeur stood on the damp concrete and looked up at the transport ship Jonathon Jennings. It was big and purple and looked like a fish. "A big-mouthed bass," said McGovern. 

"Excuse me?" Harper replied, unsure of the context. 

"That's what this ship looks like," he explained. "A bass. It's a fish." Harper looked at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes and picked up her pack. 

Strickland was keeping an eye on Gordon as the doctor maneuvered the trunk out of the shuttle and towards the ship's access hatch. Gordon had been very quiet all morning. The bruise on the side of his face was hardly noticeable, but his left eye was still a little red. "Need some help with that, Charlie?" Strickland asked. 

"I got it," Gordon said without looking up, his voice low and quiet. Strickland walked alongside him, anyway. 

Newton looked at the big ship towering above them. "This is as far as I can go, folks," said Major Newton. McGovern walked up to her and held out his hand. 

"Thanks for everything," he said, shaking the major's hand. He noticed a faraway look in Newton's eyes. "What's the matter?" 

"Just looking," Newton said. The wide, open doors of the access hatch were very inviting. She noticed McGovern was still watching her. "It's... I've still got another twelve years in my contract," she explained. "I can't leave the planet until I'm done with the Legion. But then," she said, looking up at the ship's purple hull, "maybe I'll do a little traveling myself." 

"Travel broadens the mind," McGovern smiled. "You take care of yourself." Newton nodded her head in acknowledgment. Strickland and Gordon were already inside the hatch, securing their trunk. They waved goodbye, and Newton returned the wave. She still had her hand up when she noticed Harper was looking at her. Newton lowered her hand. 

"Admiral." 

"Major." 

The two women stood alone on the wet concrete for a moment, the cloudy eastern sky brightening with an alien sunrise. In the distance, a land vehicle's wheels screeched as it rounded a corner. The air smelled of morning dew and bacon. Without another word, Harper turned and marched to the ship. Newton watched her back for a moment, then started walking back to her shuttle. It was the beginning of another day. She had work to do. 

Inside the ship, there were still more crates to be loaded. A young man in a pale green uniform approached them. "You must be our passengers," he said. "I'm sorry we don't have private accommodations, but what we do have is clean. If you'll follow me," he said to the group, and they followed him into the bowels of the ship. The transport ship Jonathan Jennings was almost 200 meters long, with a crew of 25. 

The crewman led them up to the next deck, then down again, and finally to a long, windowless room deep inside the ship. The metal walls were painted a deep green, and flourescent lights were set in the ceiling every few meters. There were couches along the walls, and a small minibar in one corner. 

"If you'll stay here, please, the purser will be around to settle up your accounts," the crewman said. 

"Thanks," said McGovern. "Where's the bathroom?" 

The crewman pointed to a narrow door in the rear of the cabin. McGovern waved, and the young man left. Strickland and the others were examining the couches for comfort. Harper was unpacking something her backpack. 

"Irridon Gorge," she said, not looking up. "I forgot all about that being on Klendar. Good save." 

"I had to think of something," McGovern said. "Fortunately, there's not much else to see on Klandair. It's not much for tourists. You're looking sharp this morning," McGovern added, complimenting Harper on her outfit, a flowing beige suit. Harper thanked him with a smile, but then she noticed Gordon; he'd picked out a couch and was relaxing, taking off his boots. Her footsteps were light as they approached him. 

"Charlie?" Harper asked. "Are you all right?" 

Gordon sighed, staring at the deck. "Yeah, I'm okay," he said. "I guess I feel a little stupid at getting kicked around last night." 

Harper sat down on the couch next to him. "Charlie, there's nothing to feel bad about. She, well, she took us all by surprise." Harper's hand found Gordon's hand and held it. "You were performing major surgery on a dining room floor. Not many people could've done that." 

"I know," said Gordon. "But I keep thinking I should've been more on my toes." His cheeks became slightly flushed. 

"Hey, anybody can get sucker-punched," said McGovern, walking past them towards the rear of the cabin. "If anybody needs me, I'll be in the can." 

"David's right," Harper said, looking into Gordon's eyes. "You know he is." 

Gordon sighed. "Yeah, I guess..." His voice trailed off as his eyes focused off to the side. Harper followed his gaze. At the open hatch, three faces peered curiously into the cabin. The color of their uniforms identified them as crew members. 

"What the-?" Harper said. Instantly, the faces disappeared as the crew members hurried out of sight. 

"I wonder what that was about?" Gordon mused. 

Strickland stood up from his couch, folding a pair of trousers. "They probably think we're on our way to the Wayfarer's Auction." 

Harper blinked. "I've heard of that. Oh, my gosh, it's on Klendar, isn't it?" 

Strickland nodded his head. "Dave was wrong when he said Irridon Gorge was the only thing on Klendar. He forgot about the Wayfarer's Auction. It's an annual event, Charlie," Strickland continued, seeing Gordon's curious face. "Kind of like the old Rendezvous held by the fur trappers on Earth back in the 18th century. Once a year, folks from all over the quadrant meet to trade and sell goods and merchandise." 

"That's how it started," Harper said. "Now, it's stolen goods and merchandise: pirated technology from across the galaxy. The greatest gathering of crooks and criminals in known space. Starfleet Command," she said, her voice lowered to a whisper, "thinks Wayfarer is where the Klingons got cloaking technology from the Romulans." 

"It was most likely stolen from the Romulans," corrected Strickland, "and the Klingons just happened to be the highest bidder. The Klandar government doesn't care what goes on, either, so long as it gets a piece of the action." 

"That's why the crew was looking at us," Gordon surmised. "They think we're going to a thieves convention." McGovern emerged from the restroom, drying his hands on a towel. 

"David," said Harper, "did you forget about the Wayfarer's Auction on Klendar?" 

"The what-?" the general said, then stopped in his tracks. "Oh, hell, what month is it? Oh, hell." 

"Is this bad?" Gordon asked. "Is this something we need to be worried about?" Stricklans opened his mouth to reply-- 

"Good morning!" came a voice behind them. A tall, young man in a clean uniform was stepping through the open hatch. "My name is Carlson. I'm the ship's purser. I understand you four are traveling with us to Klendar?" 

McGovern cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Right, that's right. Just the four of us, and some luggage." 

"And how will you be paying for your passage?" he asked with a smile. 

McGovern reached into a pocket and pulled out a small, yellow plastic card. "Federation credits?" Carlson's eyes gleamed. 

"Excellent!" he said. From his belt, the young man produced a small device and waved it over the yellow card. The device spoke in a reassuring beep. "Are you sure you don't want to travel with us all the way to Devoras? That's our final stop." 

"No, no, Klendar is fine," McGovern said, pocketing the card. The young man examined the readout on his device. 

"That will give us enough replicator credits for a new cooling unit," he smiled. 

The big, purple hulk that was the Jonathan Jennings cleared all moorings, locked down all hatches, and prepared to leave the Klingon homeworld. Strobe lights played across the hull even as the first rays of dawn peeked over the eastern horizon. From behind a concrete bunker, Rokar Meg watched the ship carefully, his fingertips gently stroking the grip of his blaster. 

Footsteps crunching on gravel made him turn. It was his brother, Salpen Meg, coming out of the shadows. "Well?" Rokar demanded. "What did you find out?" 

"You're not going to believe it," Salpen said. "Klendar. The ship's headed for Klendar. Same as us." 

Rokar Meg smiled. "Good. That's where we'll catch up with her. If we skip the cosmetic repairs we can leave right away and get to Klendar before they land." He turned and started walking back to their ship with a swift, determined pace. 

"Rokar," called Salpen, trying to keep up. "She's a Starfleet admiral! Even the Klendar goons would have to do something about that." 

"Not if they never find a body," Rokar said, smiling to himself. Behind them, the vast, purple hull of the Jonathan Jennings rose into the pink morning sky, turned north, and began a quick, spiraling ascent into orbit.