• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Worf followed Spock aft to find him opening the runabout’s weapons locker. Taking a tiny palm-sized phaser out of a small pocket inside his jacket, Worf said, “Move away from there, now.”

Moving with surprising speed for someone of his age and encumbered by so large a cloak, Spock whirled and fired a hand phaser at Worf, who ducked out of the way and fired his own phaser. It glanced off the ambassador’s shoulder, but he barely seemed to notice. The hit should have stunned him—or at least slowed him down.

It did neither. Spock dove for Worf, his free hand reaching for Worf’s shoulder. The Klingon tried to twist out of the way, knowing full well what Spock intended, but the crowded confines of the runabout gave him little room to maneuver, and Spock was able to grasp at the nerve cluster in Worf’s shoulder even through the thick leather of his jacket.

Worf’s thumb spasmed on his phaser as he passed out.

“You call this a bed?”

Dr. B’Oraq smiled at the wizened old human who stared incredulously at the metal slab in the rear compartment of the shuttlecraft.

“Actually,” she said, “I call it a QongDaq, and it’s good for your back.”

“Good for your back, maybe. Me, I’ll take a feather bed any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

“Most humans with spinal difficulties have them because they sleep on surfaces that are too conforming. It encourages misalignment of the vertebrae.”

“Look, little lady, you rationalize your Klingon excuses for hurting yourselves in the name of honor all you want, but what it comes down to is you folks just like pain too damn much. When you get to be my age, you start to appreciate comfort.”

“Most Klingons don’t get to be your age.” B’Oraq tugged on the braid that extended down past her right shoulder. The hairs in that braid, which was secured at the end with a pin in the shape of her House’s emblem, were the only ones of that length. The rest of her auburn tresses were kept at neck level.

“Good point.” The human actually let out a smile at that one, which B’Oraq took as an encouraging sign. “Still, that’d go a long way toward explainin’ why the state of your medicine’s still so blasted appalling.”

Smiling, B’Oraq said, “That’s what I’m hoping to change, Admiral.”

Leonard H. McCoy let out a noise that sounded like a bursting pipe. “Don’t you start with that ‘admiral’ nonsense. I’m just an old country doctor tryin’ to find reasons to keep on goin’. The name’s Leonard.”

Again tugging on her braid, B’Oraq said, “I could not be so—so familiar, sir.”

“Poppycock. We’re colleagues.”

B’Oraq’s eyes widened. “Hardly. You are—the same as a Dahar master, only in medicine. I am just a humble physician attempting to live up to your ideals. To call us colleagues would be like saying a third son of a lowlevel House is the same as a member of the High Council.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, B’Oraq,” McCoy said, taking a seat in a metal chair next to the bunk. “You’re doing some damn fine work.”

The shuttle was the captain’s personal transport from the I.K.S. Gorkon, B’Oraq’s posting. Captain Klag had generously allowed his ship’s physician to make use of it to escort McCoy to his speaking engagement on Qo’noS. The shuttle’s aft compartment would normally serve as the captain’s cabin, with the pilot, copilot, and up to four passengers using bunks lining the walls of the hallway between the cockpit and the rear.

Sitting on the edge of the QongDaq, B’Oraq said, “Perhaps. And perhaps one day, I will be able to call myself a ‘colleague’of Leonard McCoy.” She smiled. “After all, even the third son of a lowlevel House may get a seat on the Council—one day. But that day is not today.”

He chuckled, a papery sound. B’Oraq was glad the elderly human was able to travel. He seemed fragile physically, even by the low standards of humans, but his mental acuity hadn’t dimmed with age. When she had asked him to give a talk on improving medical practices within the Empire to the High Council, he had happily accepted.

“May I offer you