The Red King - Michael A. Martin [42]
Lavena’s peripheral vision was drawn to a light on Dakal’s ops panel, which had just started blinking rapidly. Before either Dakal or Lavena could say anything, Tuvok spoke up again from tactical.
“Captain, we’re receiving a hail. It’s from the Valdore.”
Jaza turned in his chair, looking over his shoulder toward the bridge’s center, where the two most senior officers present were now seated.
“She’s exiting the rift’s main zone of subspace interference, Captain. And long-range scans show that she’s not alone,” he said, his dark eyes suddenly widening.
“There’s a Klingon vessel with her.”
Chapter Eight
“It’s good to see you again, Commander Donatra,” Riker said, meaning every word. After everything he’d witnessed since being catapulted into this region of space, he was keenly aware that both he and his Romulan counterpart were lucky to be alive.
Donatra stepped down from the stage in Titan’s transporter room one, while the three others who had materialized alongside her—two Klingons and a gray-skinned humanoid of a type Riker recognized immediately, but had never before encountered in the flesh—remained standing on the pads.
“Likewise, Captain,” Donatra said, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. She nodded curtly to him, a gesture of courtesy among Romulans, an acknowledgment between individuals of equal status, such as ship commanders. “We have a great deal to discuss.”
“Indeed we do, Commander,” said Deanna Troi, who was standing attentively at Riker’s side. “Welcome aboard.” Turning to face the trio that had yet to step down from the transporter stage, she added, “All of you.”
Riker recognized the two standoffish Klingons instantly. Shortly before fate had thrown them all into this remote region of space, he, Christine Vale, and Ranul Keru had shared a meal with both of them aboard General Khegh’s flagship, the I.K.S. Vaj.
“Captain Tchev. Lieutenant Dekri,” Riker said, taking a step toward the dais. “Welcome aboard Titan. It seems we’ll all be working together.”
The Klingons acknowledged his greeting with simultaneous salutes—right fists to left breasts—then stepped down onto the deck. “I look forward to it, Captain,” Tchev said, casting a momentary derisive glance in Donatra’s direction, as did Dekri.
The Romulan commander either failed to notice this or didn’t care.
Satisfied for now that Donatra and the Klingons were already well past the point where they might come to blows—and, even if they weren’t, the unobtrusive yet watchful presence of Commander Tuvok near the doorway would certainly act as a deterrant—Riker turned his attention toward the tall, robed, gray-skinned creature who had remained in place on the stage. The being’s scalp was nearly hairless, and looked as though it had been shaved in haste; it was beardless, adding to its overall impression of youth. But its flesh seemed somehow hardened, bringing to mind both leather and tree bark. Its dark, thick-lidded eyes were taking in the room attentively but apprehensively. The restless tail whipping back and forth behind it underscored the being’s obvious uncertainty.
Now thoroughly familiar with Excelsior’s eighty-year-old reports, Riker had immediately recognized this individual as a Neyel. A male, probably an adult, though definitely on the younger side. The same young Neyel who had numbered among the few survivors of an apparent attack by Donatra’s missing fleet, according to the Romulan commander’s earlier communication.
“Welcome aboard,” Riker said, extending his right hand toward the extremely alien-looking creature. He had to remind himself that this person—whose bare feet were essentially a second set of hands, and whose spade-tipped tail moved in a way that suggested it was capable of reaching and grabbing as either of Riker’s own arms—was more like himself than any of the more familiar aliens in the room.
The Neyel regarded him in silence for a seeming eternity, prompting