The Red King - Michael A. Martin [31]
Animals, Donatra thought as she eyed the Klingons, feeling the profound, visceral revulsion she always experienced when in the presence of these people. Unlike thraiin, Klingons lacked even the single redeeming characteristic of being edible—or so she had been told. How could we have allowed the likes of these to establish a beachhead in Romulan space?
The male Klingon puffed up his chest in an apparent effort to compensate for the shabby condition of his uniform. “I am Captain Tchev, master of the I.K.S. Dugh,” he said, gesturing toward the female beside him. “My second officer, Lieutenant Dekri.” Coldly eyeing the armed guards who now flanked him and his third in command, Tchev added, “And we would appear to be your prisoners.”
Donatra smiled mirthlessly. “I thought our respective empires were allies now, Captain. You are our guests.”
“That was during the war,” Tchev sniffed. “How many of the rest of my crew now number among your ‘guests’?”
“Besides yourself and your second officer,” Donatra said with studied calmness, “we have identified thirty-four other surviving personnel on your vessel, which we have taken in tow.” At considerable cost, she added silently, regretting the huge drain the salvage operation was placing on the Valdore’s power resources. “We are in the process of bringing your people aboard this vessel, for their own safety.”
“And what, exactly, do you intend to do with them?”
“All of your personnel will be well accommodated,” Donatra said, nodding. It had been relatively easy to convert one of the Valdore’s empty cargo bays into an impromptu detention area nearly as secure as the ship’s brig.
“And I will ensure that they will receive whatever medical care they need,” Dr. Venora told the Klingon captain, prompting Donatra to raise an eyebrow slightly in the physician’s direction. Venora, who had been practicing medicine aboard Imperial military vessels for nearly a century, frequently did not see fit to seek her considerably younger commander’s leave before speaking her mind. It was a trait that Donatra found both invaluable and annoying.
Dekri hawked and spat a noxious, yellowish mass onto the transporter stage. “None of our crew will ever allow a Romulan bachHa’ to lay hands upon them. They would take their own lives before accepting such a soiling.”
“Good,” Suran said, staring with evident disgust at the spittle-dabbed transporter. “That would greatly simplify matters for us. Would they prefer to commit suicide here, or back aboard your wreck of a ship?”
Venora scowled at him. “Is that any way to talk to our wartime allies, Commander?”
“A great deal has happened since the Dominion War, Doctor, just as our esteemed Captain Tchev has suggested,” Suran said, evidently disgusted by the good doctor’s naïveté.
“Why did you follow us to the energy cloud?” Donatra asked Tchev, cutting off the exchange between her colleagues.
“We will tell you nothing, Romulan taHqeq,” Tchev growled, displaying his brown, uneven teeth.
“Perhaps not willingly,” Suran said. “However, we could always acquaint you with our mind probes.”
“I have been trained to withstand the highest settings on a Klingon mind-sifter,” Tchev replied, raising his chin contemptuously. “Your interrogations hold no fear for me.”
Glaring at Suran, Dekri bared a phalanx of sharp, crooked teeth that looked every bit as unattractive as Tchev’s. “I doubt you would dare to try it. Not with a Reman-Klingon alliance poised in the skies above your Empire’s capital city.”
Suran appeared unruffled by