Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [32]
“Jitakh, son of Ukray’k.”
Batlh Daqawlu’taH.
In Gerda’s quarters, which were next to Idun’s, her sister would be reciting the same litany of names. But then, Gerda had been raised in the same strict Klingon household, provided with the same exhaustive Klingon education.
“Hojeen, son of Jitakh.”
Batlh Daqawlu’taH.
When she and Gerda were young and newly adopted, their family had spoken the names together, their father’s deep, resonant voice a counterpoint to their high-pitched, childish ones. Idun could almost hear him now, giving an edge and a life to their heritage that she could never quite manage.
“Qerresh, son of Hojeen.”
Batlh Daqawlu’taH.
She could feel her mother’s gaze on her, full of pride and approval. Idun and her sister were truer warriors than many who had been born Klingon.
“Royyebh, daughter of Qerresh.”
Batlh Daqawlu’taH.
“Dobrukh, son of Royyebh.”
Batlh Daqawlu’taH.
“Rejjakh, son of—”
It was then that Idun heard something.
A chime. It alerted the helm officer to the fact that someone was seeking entrance to her quarters—and spoiling the sanctity of her meditation.
Idun frowned and opened her eyes. Her crewmates knew that she wished to be left alone at this time of day. If they were interrupting her, it had to be an emergency of some kind.
Rising to her feet, she said, “Enter.”
The doors slid apart with an exhalation of air, revealing the small, wiry figure of Commander Wu. She was standing in the corridor with a data padd in her hand and a polite smile on her face.
Clearly, Idun thought, she had been wrong about the possibility of an emergency. It was just a matter of a new crewmate who was unaware of her meditation schedule.
“Commander Wu,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“May I come in?” Wu asked.
Idun shrugged. “Of course.”
The second officer entered Idun’s quarters and looked around for a moment—first at the wood-burning artifact and the smoke issuing from it, then at everything else. There were chairs available, a couple of them designed specifically for human comfort, but Wu declined to make use of any of them.
Perhaps she was simply waiting for an invitation, Idun thought. “Would you like to sit down?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” Wu replied. “This won’t take long.”
There was something in her tone that told Idun she wasn’t going to like what her guest had to say. As it turned out, her suspicion was an accurate one.
“According to ship’s records,” Wu said, “you’re nearly a week late in taking the requalification exam for helm duty.”
At first Idun thought the second officer was making a joke—paving the way for what she had really come to say. Then she realized that Wu was absolutely serious.
The helm officer conceded the point. “That is correct. I am a bit late in requalifying.”
It was something every officer was required to do in his or her area of specialization. But it wasn’t a regulation that was strictly enforced—at least, not in Idun’s experience.
She said so.
Wu seemed unimpressed. “Maybe that was true of your previous assignments. Maybe it was even true here on the Stargazer. But under my supervision, things will be different. Breaches of Starfleet regulations will not be tolerated.”
It was so ludicrous that Idun was tempted to laugh. “We are in the middle of a hunt for a dangerous adversary. I can requalify as soon as it’s over.”
It seemed like an eminently reasonable course of action. Apparently Wu thought otherwise.
“My officers don’t make their own rules,” she said. “They comply with regulations. You’ll either requalify immediately or you’ll be removed from your post.”
Idun couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt a spurt of anger jump into her throat.
Somehow she managed to suppress it. Then she said, “That decision may not be in the best interests of this mission or this crew,” pointing out what seemed to her to be the truth.
Again Wu appeared to see the matter in a different