life.
—K LINGON PROVERB
Four: Spaces
“We’ve got the ship on tractors, Captain.”
“Pull it in. Zan Kafter, keep the guns hot: one through the command pod if her energy readings change.”
“Affirm, Captain.” The crew of Imperial Klingon Cruiser Fencer went to work, towing in the depowered but intact Willall starship: it was their twelfth such prize, and they knew the drill.
Captain Krenn vestai-Rustazh sat back in the Command Chair, folded his hands and rested his chin on them. The Willall vessel showed up magnified in the forward display: a boxy thing, without a hint of Warp physics in the design. Willall ships all looked like outdoor toilets with warpdrive nacelles wired on. But those ridiculous-looking ships had made a very serious dent in Imperial space.
They didn’t have any strategy, beyond just raiding the next planet they stumbled across. They didn’t know any tactics, either, other than shooting and swooping. Willall was shorthand klingonaase for their name for themselves, which fully translated said in much more grandiose fashion that they were the race which would command all the possible realities.
But they fought like—“like drunken Romulans” was a popular expression, here on the other side of Empire from Romulan claims. And their junk ships could absorb a lot of fire, and put out a respectable volume.
Still, even determined shooting and swooping only did so much. “Tactics are real, ” Krenn told his crew. Fencer had proven it, destroying Willall until Krenn was bored with that.
He and his Engineer had put on environment suits and gone probing through one of the Willall wrecks. They found a couple of weak structural points, where low-intensity disruptor shots would break the main superconducting lines to the warp engines, sever the Agaan Tubes. So now they didn’t destroy Willall; they wrapped them up and sent them to the Emperor.
“Got her readings, Captain,” Akhil said from the Sciences board. “Life, armed, all small weapons. No ship’s systems above emergency levels.”
“Transporter clear?”
“No spikes, no transients. Safe enough for the Emperor.”
Krenn nodded. “Communications, open to the prize’s Bridge.”
The image was fuzzy, made up of scan lines: Willall vision technology was no superior to the rest of it. Half-a-dozen aliens were looking up at the monitor. They always reminded Krenn of unbaked dough, or putty sculptures; soft and colorless. Kuve.
“I am Krenn of the Fencer, ” he said, slowly enough for the translation program to keep up. “I have destroyed your ability to resist the Empire. If you attempt any further hostility, I will destroy you. Is this understood?”
The Willall spoke, a sound like bubbles in stew. Several of them were talking at once; they had some kind of group command structure, and the Security analysts had not decided which of them did what. The cube was worthless: agonizers made Willall nerves fall literally to pieces.
“It is understood,” the translator finally said. “The group is in isolation. It ceases.” The aliens put their hand weapons in a pile on the deck.
Kuve, Krenn thought again. Yet they were correct, of course; had they not disarmed…well. There were several things he had done, in the course of a dozen captures.
This game was beginning to bore him as well, he knew.
“I will put Klingons aboard your ship. Some of these will repair the damage to your engines. When this is done, your ship will proceed to a world of the Empire, and there surrender.
“You may, as you choose, pilot the ship yourselves. However, there will be Klingons aboard to prevent errors in navigation, and others to protect the navigators and engineers. You will interfere with none of these, and aid them as you can.”
The Willall crew flooped agreement. Krenn broke the link.
He went aft to the transporter room, for a last word with the prize crew. They were in a high enough mood: it would be easy duty, with a good welcome
—K LINGON PROVERB
Four: Spaces
“We’ve got the ship on tractors, Captain.”
“Pull it in. Zan Kafter, keep the guns hot: one through the command pod if her energy readings change.”
“Affirm, Captain.” The crew of Imperial Klingon Cruiser Fencer went to work, towing in the depowered but intact Willall starship: it was their twelfth such prize, and they knew the drill.
Captain Krenn vestai-Rustazh sat back in the Command Chair, folded his hands and rested his chin on them. The Willall vessel showed up magnified in the forward display: a boxy thing, without a hint of Warp physics in the design. Willall ships all looked like outdoor toilets with warpdrive nacelles wired on. But those ridiculous-looking ships had made a very serious dent in Imperial space.
They didn’t have any strategy, beyond just raiding the next planet they stumbled across. They didn’t know any tactics, either, other than shooting and swooping. Willall was shorthand klingonaase for their name for themselves, which fully translated said in much more grandiose fashion that they were the race which would command all the possible realities.
But they fought like—“like drunken Romulans” was a popular expression, here on the other side of Empire from Romulan claims. And their junk ships could absorb a lot of fire, and put out a respectable volume.
Still, even determined shooting and swooping only did so much. “Tactics are real, ” Krenn told his crew. Fencer had proven it, destroying Willall until Krenn was bored with that.
He and his Engineer had put on environment suits and gone probing through one of the Willall wrecks. They found a couple of weak structural points, where low-intensity disruptor shots would break the main superconducting lines to the warp engines, sever the Agaan Tubes. So now they didn’t destroy Willall; they wrapped them up and sent them to the Emperor.
“Got her readings, Captain,” Akhil said from the Sciences board. “Life, armed, all small weapons. No ship’s systems above emergency levels.”
“Transporter clear?”
“No spikes, no transients. Safe enough for the Emperor.”
Krenn nodded. “Communications, open to the prize’s Bridge.”
The image was fuzzy, made up of scan lines: Willall vision technology was no superior to the rest of it. Half-a-dozen aliens were looking up at the monitor. They always reminded Krenn of unbaked dough, or putty sculptures; soft and colorless. Kuve.
“I am Krenn of the Fencer, ” he said, slowly enough for the translation program to keep up. “I have destroyed your ability to resist the Empire. If you attempt any further hostility, I will destroy you. Is this understood?”
The Willall spoke, a sound like bubbles in stew. Several of them were talking at once; they had some kind of group command structure, and the Security analysts had not decided which of them did what. The cube was worthless: agonizers made Willall nerves fall literally to pieces.
“It is understood,” the translator finally said. “The group is in isolation. It ceases.” The aliens put their hand weapons in a pile on the deck.
Kuve, Krenn thought again. Yet they were correct, of course; had they not disarmed…well. There were several things he had done, in the course of a dozen captures.
This game was beginning to bore him as well, he knew.
“I will put Klingons aboard your ship. Some of these will repair the damage to your engines. When this is done, your ship will proceed to a world of the Empire, and there surrender.
“You may, as you choose, pilot the ship yourselves. However, there will be Klingons aboard to prevent errors in navigation, and others to protect the navigators and engineers. You will interfere with none of these, and aid them as you can.”
The Willall crew flooped agreement. Krenn broke the link.
He went aft to the transporter room, for a last word with the prize crew. They were in a high enough mood: it would be easy duty, with a good welcome
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