Welcome to the Jungle - Part 1

“USS Harken, Captain’s Log, Stardate 2320.48, Captain Audea Mistry, Recording: We are stationed at the Galgalim Array, a subspace telescope in the Zed Lapis Sector, performing routine upgrades and security inspections.

We’re also taking the opportunity for the crew to update their various appropriate certifications: EVA, First Aid, Hazardous Materials Handling, Shuttle Flight and Phaser Marksmanship. Some are grousing about the completion of these mundane but necessary tasks, but personally I’ll enjoy the break from the usual duties...”

*

Mistry cursed when she missed the drone. Again.

Saying that Cargo Bay 1 was the largest interior space on her ship wasn’t saying much. But with a judicious arrangement of crates and barrels into a labyrinth, and the application of lights, shadows and noises, it made an effective tactical target range.

Not to mention infuriating. Mistry wasn’t doing that well. In fact at this rate, she would fail, which would set the tongues wagging, both onboard... and back at Starfleet Command. Yes, she had risen through the ranks via Communications rather than the usual tracks of Security and Engineering, but that didn’t mean she’d be excused from something as vital as knowing how to hit a moving target.

She paused in the near total darkness, held her breath… and listened. It was her strength, and there was no reason why she couldn’t use it now, to listen to the flow of air currents around the crates, and anticipate the hovering drones, their antigrav motors- there! One, maybe two of them, two metres overhead, approaching from six and eight o’clock, to use the ancient terminologies… she tightened her grip on her phaser, turned-

And flinched as a blinding flash and thunderously sharp clap made her drop into an instinctive crouch… and allow the target drones to sail past her. Her ears rang and spots danced before her eyes as she rose, turned and fired at them petulantly, futilely, before letting out a particularly ancient and vulgar Anglo-Saxon curse that echoed around her.

Overhead, a familiar voice chided, “In nine years’ service, I have never heard any Starfleet Captain use that word.”

Mistry lowered her firing arm. “Clearly you haven’t served with the right Captains. I’m done with this, Lt Wixtar.”

“I agree, Ma’am.” The lights returned to the Cargo Bay, and seconds later, a large Bolian male entered and approached, his bald blue head darkening with chagrin. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I can’t certify you. I’ll have to reschedule you to try at a later date; that will give you time to practice.”

She scowled at him.

“That doesn’t work for my son when I refuse to let him have extra cake,” Wixtar informed her. “And it’s not going to work for you… Ma’am.”

“This isn’t the standard Starfleet specifications for marksmanship certification,” she reminded him. “I know that much.”

“Then you’ll also know that the officer in charge of certification has the discretion to alter those specifications depending upon the specific assignment. And given the nature of some of our missions, it’s the opinion of your Chief of Security, for whom you have the utmost of respect, that firing at a stationary target down a ten-metre tunnel without any distractions is not realistic. We rarely get to take down the enemy at close range while they’re just standing there.”

“No?” She raised her phaser and fired at his chest.

The beam, a harmless soft light for qualification purposes, struck the Bolian’s brick-red wraparound uniform jacket and dissipated harmlessly into a mist of graviton-jacketed photons.

He folded his hands behind his back and replied, deadpan, “Ouch.”

Suddenly the bosun’s whistle overhead caught their attention, and Commander Gallop’s voice followed. “Captain, there’s a Klingon Bird of Prey coming in at high warp on an intercept course, ETA three minutes!”

“Red Alert!” she called back, slapping the phaser into her Security Chief’s hand as they both raced out of the Cargo Bay, the klaxon filling the air.

Moments later they were on the Bridge, each taking their expected positions. Mistry’s pulse raced; there had been comparative peace with the Klingons, give or take the odd renegade or aged warrior looking for an honourable path to Sto-Vo-Kor, but as her old mentor Admiral Uhura used to say, ‘Klingon behaviour can be as complex as their dialects, and a mistake with either can cost you...’ “Prepare to beam our people back from the Array. Identification of the Klingon vessel?”

From the Operations station, Commander Henry Gallop looked over at her. “The IKS D’Ghora, commanded by Captain-”

“Khassev,” she finished, settling down. Him again… “Downgrade to Yellow Alert, inform our off-ship people they can stay and continue their work.”

As her officers complied, her Second Officer Katheer al-Rad, sitting at the Ops station working alongside Gallop, turned and looked to her. “Ma’am?”

She looked to the younger man, nodding. “They’re not coming in to attack; for one thing, they’re not cloaked. For another, I know this sodbox.”

“But, Ma’am, they’re in Federation space, threatening a Starfleet vessel-”

He stopped when Gallop placed a hand on the junior officer’s shoulder. “The Captain’s well aware of all that, Lieutenant. Just alert our crew over on the Array to stay put. This will all be over shortly… one way or another.” The First Officer looked to Mistry expectantly.

She shrugged back, then faced forward, watching as the viewscreen changed from the nested wheel structure of the Galgalim Array, to a starfield quickly dominated by a winged starship in avocado green, its tips a fiery crimson.

“Their disruptors are online, Captain,” Wixtar reported from Tactical. “Shouldn’t we raise shields?”

“What for? Someone once told me we rarely get to take down the enemy at close range while they’re just standing there. Hail them.” A moment later, she leaned back, “This is Mistry. What do you want, Khassev?”

Seconds later, the viewscreen image changed from the exterior of the Bird of Prey to its interior, all crimson red and shadowy, like an ancient cave or a furnace, centred around the elevated Captain’s chair, and the armoured Klingon male perched on it, his swarthy studded head reflecting the surrounding lights as he leaned in closer, leering with crooked teeth framed by his goatee. “Mistry? No! I want to speak with the Mighty Captain Mistry! Not his wife!” He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

Mistry didn’t join in. “I’ll ask one more time, and then I’m going: what do you want, Khassev?”

The Klingon leaned back, snarling, “We have unfinished business, Captain. If you have any honour, you will face me once more in combat.”

She crossed her arms. “Really? Aren’t you getting tired of my handing your arse to you every time we meet?”

“Bah! You only survived the last time because I took pity on you!”

“Yes, you showed me so much pity, lying there on the floor with a broken arm and ankle, having puddled your pants.”

“QI'yaH!”

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Now Khassev leaned in again, his tone changing, becoming formal. “Captain Mistry, I have entered into my ship’s logs my intention to come here, to face you, on a matter of honour. And for the sake of your Federation, you will join me here. Immediately.”

She blinked, taking in his choice of words, having expected this anyway. “I’ll be right over. And I’ll be unarmed, because I don’t want you ruining another pair of pants. Mistry out.”

The transmission ended while Khassev was in mid-snarl at her insult. She rose to her feet. “Mr Gallop, you have the Conn. Tell the folks on the Array to finish up, and try not to fire on the Klingon ship. Especially while I’m over there.”

Then al-Rad rose to his feet, the young man’s face etched with concern. “Excuse me, Captain, but I must quote Starfleet Regulation 12, Paragraph 1: ‘No commanding officer shall beam into a potentially hazardous area without armed escort.’”

She stopped, nodded at that and replied, “You quoted it verbatim. Well done, Katheer.”

Then she left.

A perplexed al-Rad looked to Gallop, who was moving to the centre seat. “Commander?”

“It’s okay, Lieutenant. This is not the first time the Captain’s clashed with Khassev. She’s always come back alive. A little broken, a lot bruised, and very exhausted.” Gallop smiled. “But always alive.”

*

Mistry was met in their transporter by two hulking guards, who brusquely marched her out ahead of them into the corridor. One of them said, in a regional dialect of Klingonese not normally covered in Universal Translators, “This is the human who has fought Khassev to a standstill time and again? She is nothing!”

The other one snarled, “You were told to be silent in her presence! Are you an idiot?”

Without looking back at them, Mistry replied, in the same dialect, “Yes, he is.”

They escorted her to the Captain’s quarters, a stark, dark, cluttered enclosure, the air filled with a scent of burning incense. Khassev awaited her there: stripped of his outer uniform armour plating, wearing plain trousers and an open vest, and brandishing a mek’leth dagger in each hand. He grinned. “At last, you come to die, Captain!”

“Dying’s the last thing I’ll do, pal.”

Khassev laughed. “Well said!” He nodded to the guards. “Leave us! I am not to be disturbed while I am skinning this Federation dog!”

Mistry glared at him, unblinkingly, as the guards departed and the door slid shut and automatically locked.

He laughed again, tossed aside the blades and approached, reaching out and clasping her by the shoulders, before drawing closer-

-Until she raised a hand between them. “Excuse me? ‘Dog’?”

Khassev stepped back, laughing. “What do you expect me to say in front of my crew? ‘Come, my darling secret human lover, let us forget our warring sides and embrace!’ They would stab me!”

“If you said that to me, I’d stab you myself. We’re not exactly Romeo and Juliet, or Aktuh and Maylota.” She stepped away, moving to the shelf where she saw a bottle of bloodwine. She drank from it, her face screwing up in disgust. “Tastes like bollocks.” She read the label, mentally recalculating the date on it from Klingon to Federation Standard: bottled from bloodvines on Qo’nos when the irradiation from the Praxis Explosion had been at its peak, ruining the vintage. She set the bottle down. “Now, why are you here?”

He approached again, growling with amusement. “You know why...”

She stepped away, refusing to let herself be tempted. “I swear, if this is just a Bumper Call, I’m kicking your arse and going back to my ship.”

He still drew up behind her, drawing back her hair with an uncharacteristic gentleness, his hot breath on her skin above her white turtleneck collar. “You know it’s not just that, Audea.”

“Yes,” she admitted, reacting to his closeness, the strength in his hands as he held her again… and the naked honesty in his words. She knew that he was a horny bugger, but not horny enough to divert his ship from its assigned mission, travel scores of light years and confront a Starfleet officer just for that. “Then what’s happening?”

His mouth moved to her neck, nipping the skin under her sooth, shiny sable hair, as his hands moved around to unbuckle her jacket belt. “It can wait.”

Mistry breathed heavily, tilting her head back and to the side, her body reminding her of how long it had been since someone else had touched it… actually, Khassev himself had been the last one, when he had tracked her down to tell her about an Orion dilithium smuggling ring secretly operating out of Troyius.

Their singular relationship had developed several years ago, when they had met during a joint Federation-Klingon operation on Ganalda IV, when she had used her particular skills and resources to track down the Nausicaan pirates attacking the colony, based on intelligence he provided. After that, he would contact her intermittently, holding up the pretence of an ongoing feud of honour between them, and then provide information that would always prove vital to protect Starfleet or Federation interests… and they would usually end up having sex afterwards.

She had determined that he was obviously a member of the Qib’leth, the Klingon Imperial Intelligence Agency, though of course he never admitted it aloud, though he knew that she knew. It was the most logical conclusion to his knowledge and actions: the subterfuge of a supposed ongoing feud between the two commanding officers, the access to information far beyond the scope of a seemingly ordinary Klingon Captain.

Why the Qib’leth was passing on this intelligence to her was also obvious: that Mistry, and by extension Starfleet, was doing their dirty work for them, acting as indirect pawns in the ever-shifting internal politics of the Empire, though the direct benefits to the Federation by taking action on the intelligence were always obvious.

And she was hardly in a position to be taking the moral high ground with regards to secret missions and hidden motives.

As for the sex… she wasn’t ashamed to say that she enjoyed it. She had needs and desires like any other normal human, but her position on her ship restricted her from taking onboard partners. Of course, she kept it a secret from all save her ship’s doctor, and Professor S’Li (whose heightened Caitian senses would tell him from the start what she got up to).

And Khassev had some attractive qualities to him, he didn’t smell bad like he’d always heard about Klingons… and contrary to salacious rumours about the males of his race, they were anatomically compatible with human females.

Very.

She felt the tremors of pleasure race through her, but forced herself to protest hoarsely, “Come on, Khassev. What is it?”

“After.” His hand slipped under her jacket and up to her chest. “I promise I’ll be quick… minutes...”

She made a sound, drawing his hand from her breast up to her mouth. “You really don’t know what to say to get into a woman’s pants, do you?”

Then Mistry bit him. Hard. Drawing blood.

She felt him rise to the challenge.

Bloody Hell, she was going to be aching everywhere for days after this...

*

On the Harken Bridge, Gallop watched with amusement as al-Rad kept glancing up at the viewscreen, unable to stay focused on the continuing maintenance work on the Array. “Lieutenant, do you need a Time Out?”

Al-Rad turned in his chair to him, frowning in confusion. “Sir?”

“You don’t seem able to continue your job. Is that the case?”

The younger man looked aghast at the suggestion. “No, Sir! Absolutely not!”

Gallop nodded at that. “Then hurry it up: I expect a complete report on my PADD in 10 minutes.”

“Aye, Sir!” He turned back to his station.

Gallop faced forward, ensuring his expression remained more confident than he actually felt, a trick every officer learned when they had his amount of service. He remembered when he was at the end of his previous assignment, First Officer of the survey ship Biscayne, and was expecting a promotion and command of his own.

Instead, Commodore Monnier offered him a post ‘babysitting one of the Bookworm Captains’ – a disparaging name for those commanding officers who had risen through the non-traditional career paths, like Science, Communications and Medical, and who were said to have been subsidised by the upper echelons in order to demonstrate to the public that Starfleet wasn’t a militaristic organisation.

“Her name’s Audea Mistry,” Monnier had explained, his voice laced with disdain. “Some sort of Communications expert who apparently played a major role in Starfleet’s response to Tomed five years ago. Some of the boys in Starfleet Command nicknamed her ‘Captain Mystery’… as in, how she managed to get to that rank.

She’s obviously got some pull somewhere, because they’ve given her command of the Harken. It’s a Stalwart-class maintenance and support vessel, not exactly a cruiser or a frigate. But still, a one-pip Squab fresh out of the Academy would be better qualified to command that ship, any ship, than her.”

Gallop wasn’t used to hearing such open contempt shown towards a fellow senior officer. “With respect, Commodore, how can you be certain of such an assessment?”

“Because I’ve met her, and she impressed me as being nothing more than some introverted intellectual who’d rather spend her time in a lab than sit on the Bridge. But if you’re her First Officer, that’ll work out in your favour; she’ll leave you running the ship, in essence being the Captain in all but name and rank, gaining valuable experience… and notice from the Top Brass.

I know you deserve to have the real thing, but that’s not viable at this time. But this assignment will put you in an ideal position to take over permanently, when the upper echelons realise their mistake and remove her. Give it six months, a year at most.”

Looking back, almost five years later, he recognised that Monnier had been right – at least, about Gallop wanting his own command. Everything else he’d said had been way off the mark.

Yes, when faced with a problem to challenge her obvious genius, Mistry would sequester herself in her office or down in the Radio Shack with her hand-picked collective of civilian experts, and leave him to manage the ship-based duties.

But when there was no problem, she demonstrated early on that she knew Starfleet protocols and regulations, understood the minutiae of command. She wasn’t afraid to take the centre seat, both literally and figuratively, for both the mundane and the extraordinary duties required. And she wasn’t afraid to fight, against ships or flesh and blood. For all these reasons, she had earned his respect.

And the scope of their missions often extended far beyond their normal objectives, even if many of them never made it into the official logs. Like this latest ‘clash’ with the Klingon Captain Khassev, which would be recorded, on both sides, as an ongoing deadly personal feud between the respective Captains… but would inevitably lead the Harken to take some action based on information obviously supplied by Khassev.

He just hoped that the steps they took to make the feud convincing for all concerned didn’t take too much out of her...

*

Mistry slowly sat up on the edge of the shelf Khassev called his bed, feeling the cracked ribs and pulled muscles – everywhere – as she began the delicate process of dressing. “Bloody Hell, Khassev...”

He was rising as well… and she noted his own struggles to dress himself. Still, he chuckled. “Too much for you, was I?”

“The opposite, actually. After you finished, I thought you were going to start hugging me and crying like a bloody ghu.”

“Y’nt yalagochukof!”

She debated trying to put on her bra, but gave up, struggling to get back into her white undershirt, knowing she would have to eventually discard it because of the bloodstains she’d be leaving on it. “You know, to quote an old Terran cliché: we can’t keep meeting like this. Your crew are going to get suspicious if I keep getting away. Either that, or you’ll lose their respect, and your First Officer will try to assassinate you.”

He grunted as he drew up his pants. “Your concern for me is touching, Captain, but I have already informed certain trusted officers the truth, who will unofficially filter it down to the rest of the crew.”

“Oh? And how much truth is in this truth?”

“All of it, of course: that you are a double agent, delivering valuable Starfleet intelligence to benefit the Empire, because you are intoxicated for my mighty tiqnaQ!” He guffawed.

She glanced at him again, deadpan. “For the record, mate, your tiqnaQ is nice… but it’s not that mighty.” She rose and forwent her socks to step into her boots. “Okay, Stud, what else do you want to give me besides a limp and a smile?”

He laughed and staggered to his desk, producing a universal hexagonal datarod. “Colonel Gentaq of the Logistics Council in the Klingon Defence Force is part of a team assigned to decommission and dismantle all weapons now banned under the three Khitomer Accords signed with the Federation.” He walked over to her. “His specific duties involve the disposition of 4,280 subspace isolytic warheads. The official reports confirmed they were all neutralised at our disposal facility on Ho’drak.

The reality is that 900 of those warheads are being secretly transported in an ore freighter to a rendezvous point at the Antares Maelstrom, as part of a private sale by Gentaq… to agents of the Kzinti Patriarchy.”

Mistry paused, ignoring the pains in her shoulder to stare at him. “The Kzinti? You’re kidding.” The felinoids were always a hostile presence, had been for centuries, but had never been a major one, due to their inferior numbers and technology (except for those raiders who had managed to obtain limited weapons illegally). There were more recent Starfleet Intelligence reports about moves against refugee camps for the Gaabrox and the Bajorans, and rumours of potential alliances with fellow felinoids like the Tzenkethi and the Lyrans.

She accepted and pocketed the datarod. Subspace weapons were notoriously unstable to begin with, hence one of the reasons for their being banned in the Accords. To let them fall into the hands of the Kzinti… suddenly her heart began racing, as she considered the information. “Bloody hell… nine hundred warheads? Are you sure? Does he know what would happen if 900 isolytic warheads accidentally detonated at once? Near some inhabited planet? What would drive him to do something so risky?”

“Far more money than he would get on a Colonel’s pension, presumably. There have regrettably been quite a few sales of decommissioned weapons to hostile parties in the last few years, from corrupt, dishonourable Klingons.”

“And why haven’t you arrested him?”

“He is a rogue, but his brother is an ally of ours on the High Council. Should Gentaq suffer the disgrace of an arrest and trial by his own people, his brother would lose honour, and subsequently his seat. An interception by Starfleet, however, would allow his brother to remain.”

Mistry crossed her arms. “So we do your dirty work again, huh?”

“No, you prevent dangerous unstable weapons from falling into Kzin hands. Who cares if Gentaq faces Justice from us, or you?”

She grunted back. “And when is this particular sale taking place?”

“Two weeks, according to my sources.”

She nodded. “Plenty of time to alert Starfleet Command. Thanks.” She reached for her wrist communicator. “Mistry to Harken, respond.”

Al-Rad’s concern-laden voice responded, “Captain! Are you wounded? Held hostage? Do you need assistance? A rescue team? An armed-”

Khassev chuckled. Mistry ignored him. “Lieutenant, I need you to shut up for a moment while I speak. Stand by to beam me back.” She put her communicator on Mute and looked to the Klingon. “Thanks for this, Captain. It’s appreciated.”

He bared his teeth. “Want another taste before you go?”

She winced, shaking her head. “Klingon stamina.” She raised her communicator again.

“Wait!” he said. “You can’t just go! You have to make it look like you defeated me to escape-” He turned to the collection of weapons on the wall. “A blade wound, or a broken bone-”

He didn’t finish, as Mistry picked up his chair, swung it out by two of its legs and connected with the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the floor. She grabbed the bloodwine bottle he had been reaching for, took another swig from it, grimaced and raised her wrist communicator again. “Mistry to Harkin: Beam me back.”

PART 2