Pathways - Jeri Taylor [87]
“Shocked? Disgusted? I thought Klingons were made of hardier stock.”
“I am only half Klingon. I am also human. And, yes, I am reviled at what you’re saying. It’s barbaric. Savage.”
“It was my understanding the people of the Federation are too open-minded to make judgments on the cultural predilections of other species. It would seem that you are a poor representative of both your genetic strains.”
Nausea was threatening to overcome B’Elanna, and she drew in more ragged gasps of air. It was as close and warm on the cargo deck as it had been in the engine room, and she felt the room begin to spin. “Sick . . .” she gasped, and sank to her knees, lowering her head to bring blood to it. She felt the Cardassian kneel beside her, felt the caress of his hand on her back. She looked up at him.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “If I could just sit here a minute . . .”
“It’s quite all right, my dear,” he said softly. “Gather your senses. In the meantime, I’ll inspect your cargo.” She nodded, still not looking up, trying not to think of poor Mesler, who was an annoying little man but essentially a decent one, and who did not deserve to die violently on the bridge of his hard-won vessel. Gradually, her head began to stop swimming and her stomach stopped roiling. She looked up.
The Cardassian stood over her, Starfleet weapons in his hands. It was such an unexpected sight that for a moment she didn’t realize the implications. Then, she gasped.
“I suppose you’re going to say you didn’t know this ship carried weapons,” he intoned.
“Of course I didn’t. Mesler said we were taking humanitarian supplies to the colonists in the demilitarized zone.”
“I suppose one might classify phaser rifles and photon torpedoes as ‘humanitarian,’” he said. “Depending on one’s political stance.”
“I have no political stance. And I didn’t know anything about those weapons.”
To her dismay, he approached her, knelt down beside her, and stroked her cheek with his corded hand. “Proud little Klingon,” he breathed. “Don’t be afraid . . . I am Gul Tancret, and I will put you under my protection.”
B’Elanna lifted her eyes to his. She felt clearheaded now, focused. She knew exactly what she had to do. “My name is B’Elanna,” she breathed. “You’re very gracious, Gul Tancret, and I appreciate your kindness. I’m alone now . . .”
His hand dropped to her neck, her shoulder, her back, stroking and caressing. She was aware that his breathing was deepening. She picked up his other hand in hers and began sniffing it, the instinctual Klingon prelude to mating. The gesture seemed to arouse him, and she heard a low moan escape his lips. She nipped gently at his hand with her small white teeth—thank goodness she hadn’t inherited her mother’s Klingon teeth—and heard him moan again.
Her legs tensed under her as she readied herself. She drew one long breath of air (knowing it would be interpreted as passion), and then suddenly drove upward like a shuttle being launched. Gul Tancret’s head snapped back and he tumbled off balance, sprawling in an ungainly heap on the deck. Caught completely off guard, he struggled to regain himself, but by then B’Elanna was on her feet and swinging a flying kick at his temple.
She felt her boot make contact, felt the bone in his forehead collapse, saw Tancret crumple. Then saw him shake himself, swing his head toward her, and focus on her with black eyes flaring. He erupted toward her, arm cracking her calf with such impact that she cried out. Her leg went numb and she stumbled backward, trying to regain her footing and ready herself for his next attack. But she had no purchase on the decking; his second blow caught her on the jaw, and she went reeling, pain streaking along the whole left side of her face.
She scrambled on the floor, seeking refuge behind the weapons crates.