Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Star Trek: The Next Generation belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and Gene Roddenberry.
Haragga materialized in the transporter room of the H'Grot
just as the ship tremored from a direct hit. “HoD!”
chief physician, was already waiting. “Has there—QI'yaH
The transporter operator, a female named Marag, looked up, and her mouth fell open.
Haragga himself stepped forward, and something wet and spongy squelched under his boots.
Kahmar and D'romok dragged Magh off of the transport pads and toward Goroth. They moved awkwardly, pulling Magh sideways rather than turn their backs on the pads, and green ichor stained the floor where the security chief's boots scraped the deck. Their eyes were wide.
When Haragga turned to look at the human, she had never moved.
She stood on the rightmost transporter pad, looking at no one. Nothing about her had changed from how she had been standing in the compartment of her own vessel. She had reacted to nothing, not the transport, not the H'Grot
's materializing around her, not the appearance of Goroth or Marag. The Daqtagh
was still in her hand, but she held it slack, no threat in that downward, drooling blade.
The girl's left arm was slack at her side. The disruptor blast had struck high, nearer the shoulder, and the burn was a ragged tear in her flesh that seeped blood, black in the low light of the transporter room.
That arm had been still at her side the entire time.
Her hair was dripping.
Haragga snarled at Marag. “Bring something to cover her!”
Marag started, looking away from the human, and rushed out of the room, leaving only Goroth. “Captain, this human—”
“See to Magh!”
D'romok was lowering Magh to the floor in front of Goroth, but Kahmar came toward Haragga. “Captain, the ship—”
quaked under their feet again, and Krang's voice came over the com. “Captain! Shields are at thirty-five percent!”
“Cloak and assume a defensive position!”
Marag came running back into the transporter room, a long yIvbeH
in one hand. “HoD
, I have this—”
Haragga took the shirt, and then he turned to the girl.
Her head turned when he stepped toward her, and while her eyes did not seem to focus, he was keenly aware that she was alert to him, to his proximity to her. “be'Hom,”
Haragga growled, “I will put this on you.”
“Captain,” said Kahmar, “I do not think—” “bIjatlh 'e' yImev!”
The human did not move as he came nearer, a stillness to her that made Haragga want to bare his teeth. The Daqtagh
stayed in place, and her eyes remained empty, yet a feeling of watchful menace made the skin of Haragga's neck grow hot with rushing blood. The smell of copper filled his nostrils. “be'Hom,”
he said again.
The girl turned. The relative darkness of the H'Grot
and the red beams of his suit made her eyes into stars.
The gory glare, the fetor of blood and torn flesh—that blade, slick and gleaming. And that fearless look on her face, as she'd charged a line of disruptors.
Without hesitating, Haragga stepped into arm's length of her and raised the shirt, dropping it over her head.
The sleeveless shirt, heavy enough to wear as padding under armor, slid down over her shoulders. It was too big, stained with oil, and she did not lift her arms to fit through the armholes, but it did cover her from neck to ankle. The Daqtagh
was an angular shape under the cloth.
The shirt began to stain green. Over the disruptor burn, the cloth began to go black.
The girl turned her head and she was looking at him.
“Kahmar,” said Haragga, “assist Goroth in removing her to the infirmary and then report to the bridge. D'romok, take Magh with them.”
“Captain,” began Kahmar.
Haragga turned and walked out of the transporter room.
He passed several other Klingons on his way to the bridge, and they all stopped to stare before a growl sent them on their way. Haragga did not look to see if they stared after him, at his hair stiff with clots and the spray of battle. He could almost hear them making their assumptions.
When he came onto the bridge, Krang turned. “Captain, the Warbird—”
The words were cut off, a hush coming over the bridge as each crew member saw Haragga. He gave it no attention.
On screen, the human ship was exploding.
A white flash, and then large sections of ancient metal were collapsing in. Haragga could not see the Warbird onscreen or the point of impact, but he had seen the effects of plasma torpedoes many times before.
“The Warbird ceased fire and cloaked shortly before you ordered transport,” said Krang, finally. He had resumed his post as weapons officer. “We detected them attempting to raise their boarding party. Then they decloaked and began firing torpedoes, but at the human ship.”
The plasma torpedoes were thorough. The human vessel vanished in a flare of light, the remaining dust scattering on the shock wave. All indicators vanished from the H'Grot
's sensors, leaving only the remnants of a plasma implosion.
“The Warbird has cloaked. No sign of approach.”
Haragga found himself staring into open space, with nothing but scattering particles to show that an ancient human artifact had been there. “Were you able to identify the ship?”
Romulans, in an unmarked ship, carrying officers and commandos who wore no insignias, invading Klingon space in order to board and then destroy an ancient human vessel. “Alert the Defense Force. Report that we have been attacked by a Romulan Warbird and there is at least one Romulan ship in Klingon space.”
Krang seemed to think. “And the human ship?”
“Say nothing for now. I will contact Sa'
Krang began to turn away, to go about his orders, but then he stopped again. “Captain...we observed the Warbird transporting onto the human ship, but the sensors did not detect any other signatures.”
The entire bridge was listening. Haragga kept his eyes on the screen. “They did not die well.”
The weapons officer looked down at the deck, where Haragga had left bootprints of green blood and scraps of flesh as he came in, and then he turned away. The others followed his lead.
Haragga's eyes were on the screen, but he did not see it.
He was seeing the death of the Romulan officer.
The fear in that man's eyes, as he watched the human coming toward them, and then the desperation, the determination of a man who knew he was dead. He had lifted his disruptor, taking aim—
—not at her
, but at Haragga
They had been too close. Haragga had had no room or even time to try and evade the blast. That disruptor had been aimed at his head, a nearly point-blank shot, and he had seen his death there, an ignominious death in a minor skirmish that had no purpose or glory. The end of his House.
Then the girl, the Daqtagh
in her hand glinting as it came. “Sogh,”
said Haragga, son of Hij'Qa, “set a course for Qo'noS.”GlossaryQI'yaH
| general invectiveyIvbeH
| sleeveless shirtbIjatlh 'e' yImev
| shut up [singular]Sa'