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Poker Interrupted

By: Fuinimel



Author's Note: This story is set after "Bad Day for Shore Leave", and makes reference to some characters from that. However, it is stand-alone, and you don't need to have read that to follow events in this one.

*****

"Sh'ree did say she was coming tonight, didn't she?"

Edrilli shrugged, "I haven't spoken to her this afternoon. But, the last I checked, she didn't say she wasn't." 

The Tellarite woman tutted in reply. "We can leave it a bit longer, I guess," said Lugmilla, "I'll call her if she's not here soon, though."

It was unlike Sh'ree not to leave any kind of message, thought Edrilli, so most likely she had just been delayed somewhere along the route. The Bolian shuffled the deck absently, having nothing better to do as they waited. The four of them met up every now and then for a game, taking turns between entertainments native to each of their worlds - one of the advantages of such a multi-racial starship as the Endeavour.

Tonight was the turn of an Earth game, in honour of the human member of the group. This time, Sumati had picked poker, a game she had apparently come across at the Academy, since it wasn't native to her part of the planet. Ironically, it was Sh'ree who was the best of the four women at playing the game, although sometimes the Andorian's betting became too aggressive, giving one of the others a chance to wipe her out.

At last the door swished open. "About time," said Lugmilla, grumpily, "I was about to..."

The she trailed off, as she registered what the other two women had already seen: it wasn't Sh'ree.

"I apologise if I was not sufficiently prompt in my arrival," said the newcomer, calmly.

The Tellarite crossed her arms, and frowned, adopting the pugnacious stance that everyone who was familiar with her race grew to expect at the slightest provocation. Edrilli shrank back a little in her seat; this wasn't likely to end well.

"What are you doing here, Varok?" said Lugmilla, frowning.

The Vulcan looked back at her impassively, entirely unfazed by her apparent hostility. "I understand that you had an assignation with Lieutenant Sh'ree," he said, "which she has had to cancel due to an unforeseen development in an ongoing xeno-acarological research project."

Lugmilla looked across at Edrilli in puzzlement. The Bolian was the only other scientist among the group.

"Ticks," offered Edrilli, "she's studying alien ticks."

"Why?"

It was Varok who answered, "Lieutenant Sh'ree is a zoologist."

"Thank you for that insight, Ensign Varok," muttered the Tellarite - Edrilli couldn't help noticing how she had stressed the newcomer's junior rank, "I think you can interpret my question as having been a little more specific."

The sarcasm was evidently lost on the young Vulcan man, "I am afraid that I am unable to offer further insight into her motivations or the precise nature of her circumstances. They were, as I said, unforeseen in nature."

Lugmilla glanced across at Edrilli again, a questioning look on her rounded face. The Bolian woman shrugged. "Beats me. I haven't been over to the biology labs recently."

Apparently as satisfied with that as she was ever likely to be, Lugmilla turned back to Varok. "And you are telling us this why? I mean," she added quickly, before he could come up with some overly literal response, "why send you? She's got a communicator."

"Lieutenant Sh'ree did not wish to disrupt your intended leisure activities for the evening. She asked me to take her place."

Edrilli was about to object. This was supposed to be a gathering of friends. She hardly knew Varok, and he was hardly likely to be entertaining company. In fact, from the little she did know, he was fairly stuck up even for a Vulcan. Not that any of his species were exactly a bundle of laughs, but they didn't all have to be quite so smug about their supposed intellectual and cultural superiority.

The other two probably didn't even know Varok as well as she did. Indeed, Edrilli had been a little impressed when Lugmilla had actually remembered his name. But it seemed they were just as uneasy about this arrangement as they were. And, if it came to it, it was at least possible to play poker with only three players.

It was, unsurprisingly, Lugmilla who again chose to act as the group's spokesperson. "It's a women's get-together," she pointed out, heavy eyebrows frowning.

"She did make reference to that arrangement," conceded the Vulcan. "However, my research suggests that poker is not game in which the gender of the participants is relevant."

"Your research?" asked Edrilli, puzzled.

"Indeed. My team leader intimated that I might benefit from a greater appreciation of and interaction with, the cultures of more emotional species. To this end I formulated a plan whereby I would study the various forms of 'entertainment'," he said the word with what might almost be called disdain, "employed by such species. I believe that I understand the mathematical formulae underlying the game of poker, and that I would therefore make a superior player."

The perfect poker face couldn't hurt, either, thought Edrilli, who wasn't liking the sound of this.

"Therefore, when I learned that Lieutenant Sh'ree was unable to attend this event, I nominated myself as a replacement. She appeared somewhat engrossed in her work at the time, but she made a reply that I interpreted in the affirmative. I am therefore ready to engage in socialisation."

Edrilli was unclear whether Varok was simply oblivious, or was just pretending not to notice, but it was hard to imagine that anyone else could have failed to interpret Lugmilla's expression. Her eyes were narrowed, and her lips pursed, one booted foot tapping the ground in irritation. And there wasn't an Ensign in Starfleet who wouldn't end up regretting being on the Tellarite's wrong side.

Edrilli waited for the inevitable explosion, but suddenly Lugmilla's face brightened, and she leaned back in her chair, looking relaxed. This, in the Bolian's opinion, was likely even worse. She liked Lugmilla, who was, for all the traits of her race, a good friend, and quite a fun person to be around. More than once, she had bent the rules to help out a colleague. But if she was looking relaxed when somebody had just annoyed her... she had thought of a plan. And, whatever it was, Varok was unlikely to appreciate it.

"I'll just have a quick word with the others," the Tellarite said, smiling in a way that ought to unnerve anyone who could actually read emotions, "make sure we're okay with it. Could you wait outside for a second... Ensign?"

As soon as he was out of the door, Sumati turned on her. "You can't seriously be considering this? He's hardly going to be the most amusing company, not to mention the fact that he'll probably beat us."

And then Lugmilla explained.

"That's... that's a bit cruel, isn't it?" asked Sumati when she had finished.

"I like it," said Edrilli. Varok had evidently thought he would get the better of them. By the sounds of things, his last performance review had identified the need to get on better with the other crew - and all he was using it for was another attempt to demonstrate his superiority over them.

"Oh, I didn't say I didn't like it..." giggled the human woman, apparently having the same thought, "I just said it was a bit cruel."

"Be good to see his reaction," agreed the Bolian, grinning despite herself, "or if he can hide it."

"Besides," said Lugmilla, "it's not exactly unfair. He's still got as much chance of winning as any of us. It just evens up the odds."

"I'm in, then," agreed Sumati, "let's go for it."

A short while later, the four were sitting round the table, and the Tellarite was dealing out the cards. Varok sat across from her, apparently unaware that the eyes of the three women were on him, waiting to see how he responded to the coming revelation. They didn't have to wait long.

"Do we not require poker chips?" asked the Vulcan, after examining his cards, "it was my understanding that this is a vital part of the game, even in the present post-monetary economy."

"You must have missed the variant of poker we are playing tonight in your research," Lugmilla informed him.

"I believe you said 'five card draw'. It is my recollection from my research that, while this is an unusually basic form of the game, it is still one that requires the use of betting tokens."

"Normally, yes," conceded the Tellarite woman, "but tonight we're playing strip poker."

"You are correct that my research did not uncover this particular variant of the game," said Varok, clearly still oblivious, "could you explain the exact nature of the game play?"

Edrilli managed to suppress a snigger, although Sumati was a little less successful, and had to pretend to be smothering a cough. Lugmilla's face was perfectly straight though, and Varok looked no more than mildly curious. She wondered how long he'd be able to keep up that detachment when the game got underway. Yes, he was a Vulcan, but, as everyone knew, Vulcans had emotions; they just didn't like showing them. And, from her experience of him, Varok was one of the ones who struggled with that.

"Instead of rounds of betting, and chips, and all of that," explained the Tellarite, "whoever has the lowest hand after the draw removes an item of clothing. Which remains off for the duration of the game."

There were, Edrilli was sure, other variations of 'strip poker' beyond this one, not that she knew of the game by anything more than rumour. But this was the one that Lugmilla had suggested, and the Vulcan was, surely, about to put his finger on the reason why.

To his credit, however, Varok's only reaction was a raised eyebrow. "With no potential variation in the bet offered, I can see that this would lead to a speedier resolution of the game, although it seems a most unusual procedure."

"That's okay," said Sumati, "we don't mind."

"And the fact that we are all in uniform would lead to parity," agreed Varok. "However, I see a flaw in the logic." Here it comes, thought Edrilli. "A fold would be mathematically equivalent to a win, since the winner of the hand merely fails to make a forfeit, rather than acquiring a specific profit. Therefore, the logical tactic is always to fold regardless of one's hand."

"There's no folding," Lugmilla told him sternly.

"Then I fail to see the tactical element in the game. Beyond the simple calculation of odds inherent in the 'draw' process, the game essentially becomes one of luck alone."

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" said the Tellarite innocently, "Sumati, your draw?"

The coffee-skinned human looked at her cards, and discarded two. "Two, please."

"A most curious form," said Varok, "however, I believe I will take three cards."

You had to hand it to him for keeping his Vulcan cool, Edrilli thought to herself. She wondered how long that would continue... assuming, of course, he did not prove lucky.

They went round the table, and then revealed their cards. It was not a bad start for the Vulcan, beating Sumati's pair with three of a kind. Edrilli, of course, didn't have to actually win in order to retain her modesty, but she was none the less pleased to be able to place her own cards down, and reveal three jacks, beating Varok's three twos. On the other hand, the first loss, at least, was going to befall one of her friends.

Hopefully the night wouldn't continue like that. But, she had to reflect, it was a possibility. They had evened the odds up, yes, but that was all. It could be any one of the four who was the first to strip to their underwear, and concede the game.

"Ah, well," said Sumati with a slight grin, after Lugmilla had revealed her hand, "me first, then." She reached down, and pulled off her boots, placing them together at the side of the table.

"That would appear to be two items," pointed out Varok.

"Shoes and socks count as one item each," said Lugmilla, "when you think about it, it's only logical."

The Vulcan tilted his head to one side, and seemed about to say something, before apparently thinking better of it. Presumably, he couldn't see the supposed 'logic'. Serves him right, thought Edrilli, as Lugmilla passed the deck on to Sumati for the next deal.

This time, Lugmilla won with two pairs - queens and nines - with Sumati coming close with two pairs of her own. Indeed, Varok was the only one to fail to develop a hand... a high jack, and nothing more. He made no comment and showed no reaction as he removed his boots, although it was clear that he was becoming somewhat bemused at the game. 

He lost the next hand, too; the second in a row. He carefully removed his socks, and tucked them inside his boots, before sitting down again. Edrilli thought she detected a hint of irritation in his manner, but it was hard to tell, and it might just have been her imagination. Still, she knew, from past experience, that, while he would never make an emotional display, there were times when he could act in a way that betrayed the burning emotions underneath - usually involving frustration at the supposed irrationality of others. Perhaps tonight would be such a night, and they would have, at least, a moral victory.

Sumati's socks went next, and Edrilli met the eyes of her Tellarite friend as she passed the deck back to her. 

"It's between us at the moment," she said.

"The game has barely started," pointed out Lugmilla, as she shuffled the cards, "but, yes, we'll see."

"And if not," said Sumati, "it might just be a couple of hands before things start to get interesting. Right, Varok?"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Oh, yes, he was the life and soul of the party. 

Another hand, and Varok stood up, looking down at his pair of deuces. "I assume that my jacket is the next item to be forfeit?" he said, his voice still as even as ever.

"It's up to you," said Sumati, "but... yeah, that would make sense."

Edrilli smiled as the Vulcan stripped to his short-sleeved vest. It occurred to her that the game was already moving swiftly. Varok was losing; his skill at calculating odds and statistics useless here, and the Bolian herself was still fully dressed. Of course, she realised, if he did lose, the game would still continue. The smile dropped from her face as she realised she might have to strip to her underwear in front of him no matter how well the game went. Please let the cards fall in my, favour, she thought, angry with herself for not really having thought this through.

Sumati dealt out the cards. Edrilli had a pair of tens, which wasn't bad for a start. However, even after her draw, the hand hadn't improved. This might be it, she thought, as Varok turned over a pair of kings. And... yes... Lugmilla had won with three-of-a-kind.

Ah, well, she thought as she stood up, at least it's only my boots. Hardly worth worrying about, and Lugmilla's luck can't last forever, no matter how smug she looks right now. Most importantly, though, Varok was still losing... just two more defeats, and he'd be out.

Two hands later, though, and that was showing no sign of happening. Edrilli dug her bare toes into the carpet as Sumati threw her hands up in mock despair, the grin on her face showing that the human woman was actually quite enjoying this.

"Hey, Varok," she said, "let me show you how it's done."

Edrilli found herself grinning, caught up in the moment as Sumati shrugged the gold-and-black jacket off her shoulders, and struck a sultry pose. With a wriggling motion, the tight sleeveless vest beneath showing the curves of her body, she shucked it off, twirled it around as she moved her hips from side to side, and tossed it casually into the corner of the room.

Varok, of course, didn't react at all, but Edrilli saw that even Lugmilla was smiling to herself. Sumati leaned forward, resting an arm on the table, and waggled a finger at the Tellarite. "Hope you're not going to let the side down when it's your turn," she said, "assuming you ever lose a hand."

"Just you wait," Lugmilla promised, picking up the deck for her next deal.

Two rounds later, and the other two women gave a small cheer as a pair of chunky boots joined the others lying around the table. With that out of the way, though, the Bolian's mind began to turn back to Varok. The Vulcan was beginning to look a little put out, seemingly wanting to object to their emotional behaviour, but seeing no way to bow out of the situation. Finally, he might just be beginning to crack, Edrilli thought, and hoped that the cards might turn against him again, after what had been quite a long lucky streak.

The cards continued to be dealt round the table, the game going much faster than it normally would, especially since none of them really felt inclined to chat with Varok around, as they would have on any other night. At last, though, things began to get interesting.

Edrilli was trying not to show her nerves now that it was becoming clear that things wouldn't last much longer. She glanced across at Varok, as he carefully shuffled the deck, shirtless now, and displaying a smooth, nearly hairless, chest. He was doing well in covering up his discomfort, with no fidgeting, or holding his arms about himself, as members of most other species might. But she could see a small bead of sweat on his forehead, and a flicker of his eyes that indicated he was no longer as in control as he would like.

She could understand that, she thought, pressing her bare legs together beneath the table, feet tapping on the floor as the Vulcan dealt out the next hand. She took the opportunity to surreptitiously pull the hem of her vest down a little further, trying to hide her knickers from view. Although, if she lost even once more, that would all become a little pointless...

But, instead, once all the cards had been turned over, it was Lugmilla who stood up. To Sumati's applause, she tried to imitate the human woman's earlier actions as she removed her jacket. She didn't know what Varok made of it, but Edrilli reflected that, to males of her own race - and, to be honest, most others - the effect would be somewhat spoiled by the Tellarite's ample frame and beefy arms.

But she still joined in the laughter when Lugmilla tossed her uniform jacket across the table, landing it partly across the Vulcan's face. He said nothing as he brushed it aside, but Edrilli could see that he had actually ground his teeth together, straining as hard as he could to maintain his composure in the face of provocation.

"We'll make a dancer of you yet," said Sumati, grinning, and leaning back against her chair. 

Despite having lost as many hands as the Bolian, she looked as comfortable as ever. She had even taken the other tack after her last defeat, and so still wore her black uniform trousers. Her plain white bra contrasted against the deep coppery brown of her skin, although it was otherwise nothing sexy... just comfortable, as you would expect under a Starfleet uniform.

The moment of truth, Edrilli reflected, was fast approaching. Come on Varok, she thought, let's see you lose again. Just once more, and we've all beaten you. It would only be justice, after all.

She got three eights after the draw on her next hand. Varok put his own cards down on the table, and all of the others craned to look. Sumati and Lugmilla had a pair each; he had only a high king.

The Vulcan, resigned to his fate, stood once more, calmly undid his trousers and stepped out of them. He wore a close-fitting grey pair of shorts beneath them, Edrilli noted, as he carefully folded up the clothing and placed it next to the remainder of his uniform.

"I believe," he said, looking straight ahead, and refusing to meet their eyes, "that this means my part in the proceedings has now concluded. A curious game, of which I am not sure I see the attraction." And this, Edrilli reflected, he was saying in the company of one woman sitting in bra and trousers, and another wearing little more than a sleeveless vest. "May I enquire as to what happens next? I would assume re-robing and departure is indicated?"


Poker Interrupted



"Why, are you scared?" That was Lugmilla, leaning forward, her jaw set.

"I do not follow your meaning."

"She means," said Sumati, "that the game has not finished."

It was as Edrilli had feared: she still might end up in her underwear. Unless, she realised, with an even greater shock, the other two were assuming that...

Varok just looked puzzled. "Not for you, perhaps," he said, "but..."

Sumati was already shuffling the cards, as Lugmilla sternly told the Vulcan, "not for you, either. You've still got a garment to bet."

"It is getting late, though," Edrilli broke in quickly, "perhaps we should call it a night?" 

Varok visibly relaxed as she said it. She hadn't quite realised how tense he had become. This was affecting him even more than he had let on.

"I would concur," he said, "and may I recommend a more constructive use of your leisure periods in future? This game serves no logical purpose, and is a poor use of my valuable time, and, I dare say, even of your own."

That did it. Now she wanted to see him really suffer. She caught Lugmilla's eye and gave her a quick nod.

"Two more hands," said the Tellarite, "and we call it a night. Sound fair?"

Varok sat down, evidently reluctant, as Sumati dealt out the cards. Of course, thought Edrilli, two hands might not be enough, but the odds weren't bad. As she had time to reflect and calculate the probabilities, though, she realised what she had just agreed to. The likelihood was that either she or Sumati would end the night in bra and knickers, and there was even a fair chance that she would have to... no, don't even go there.

It did rather explain though, why Lugmilla, still in trousers and vest, had decided on two hands, rather than, say, three.

But Varok, wearing nothing but his shorts... he only had to lose once. Would he even go through with it? Perhaps not, for he was already starting to look as nervous as she'd ever seen one of his race. And backing out would, by definition, force him to show some sign of weakness or even true emotion.

Served him right, thinking he could come here and beat the women on their own game night.

Still, she thought to herself, you know what? I hope he doesn't back out. Let's see.

"Three cards," said Varok, stiffly.

Edrilli looked at her hand, and almost sighed with relief. "Just two," she said.

Lugmilla and Sumati took three each. Edrilli herself felt safe; she might not win the hand, but she couldn't believe she would come last with what she was holding. Which meant that there had to be a one in three chance that...

The door to the room swished open.

Edrilli was, as it happened, on the far side of the room, the table hiding her bare legs from the new arrival. But, even so, she hunched up, blue-grey calves and thighs pressed tightly together, hands suddenly clasped below her knees. At least, she realised, as the others turned to look, it wasn't a man.

Having said which, it would have certainly have been better had it not been Lieutenant Halvorsen.

"What is going on here?" snapped the security officer as she stepped into the room, ice-cold eyes immediately taking in Sumati and Varok's state of undress, and the various items of clothing lying about the room.

"We..." began Varok, but she didn't give him the chance.

"Stand up when I'm speaking to you! All of you!"

Lugmilla was the only one in the room that Halvorsen didn't outrank, but even she chose to comply, if a little more slowly than the others. At least she was decently dressed, thought Edrilli, as she received another glare from the security officer once the latter saw her bare legs, and the rather skimpy black knickers that the hem of her vest could no longer properly conceal.

"You may not be on duty," growled Halvorsen, "but you are serving on a Starfleet vessel. I have no idea what you thought you were doing, or what debauchery you had planned for later, but this is a disgrace to the uniform. You are officers, you should act like it!"

She looked Varok up and down, with a sneer that suggested she wasn't very impressed with what she saw. "By the looks of you, Ensign Varok, it is as well that I arrived when I did. I would have thought that a Vulcan would have had more sense."

"I will be making a report to your department heads tomorrow, and we shall see what they have to say about this." Edrilli could not help but think that the report would make things sound worse than they actually were. Halvorsen was not only a stickler for rules, and a fanatic about the 'honour' of Starfleet, but also a major prude. "Now clean everything up, and..." her lip curled with displeasure, "get dressed!"

They all rushed to comply.

Her trousers back on, Edrilli gathered up the cards from the table. She couldn't resist looking at the hands as she did so, just to see what would have happened, had they not been interrupted.

Varok had lost the hand.

Damn it. She glanced across at Lugmilla, inclining her head towards where the Vulcan had been sitting. The Tellarite seemed to get the message, and pursed her lips with annoyance. But then she gave a small smile, and a wink, before sitting to pull her boots back on.

Lugmilla, Edrill realised, had just come up with another plan.

She looked at the fuming security officer, whose arms were folded across her tall frame. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, she thought...

-***-

"Ready to beam across?" asked Ensign Sezrik, at the transporter console.

Halvorsen nodded, and straightened her already immaculate uniform. She was representing Starfleet, one of the greatest honours she could imagine. If only other people realised that, rather than engaging in... well, she didn't like to think what kind of depravity those other officers had been up to last night. Even had this not been a security mission, nobody would have picked any of them for the sort of role she was about to undertake.

It was a pity that, because of the other ship arriving early, she had not had time to put them on report, as she had promised. At least they would sweat about it, which was some consolation.

The Saurian transporter officer gave her a nod, and she felt the familiar sensation as the beam coalesced around her, and she vanished from the Endeavour to re-appear...

...on the other ship.

The room was not as well lit as the one she had just left, and it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimmer, redder, lighting. It did not help that the walls were darker, bare metal in angular designs rather than the smooth functionality of Starfleet design.

There were five people waiting in the room for her. One, of course, was operating their transporter, and another stood near the exit, a chunky gun very visible at his hip. The other three, two women and a man, were standing in a group, an obviously formal welcoming party.

The man stepped forward, glancing her over. He did not seem impressed.

"Welcome," he said, "to the IKS Tarantula, starship of the Imperial Klingon Defence Force."

Not having had anything to do with the negotiations, she had not seen the captain of the other vessel before. He seemed to be a typical Klingon, tall and broad shouldered, with long hair and a short, but thick beard. A narrow scar cut across the brown skin of his cheek, just below his left eye. Even Klingon medicine ought to be able to seal that up, she thought, so he had to have kept it purposefully, as a badge of honour from some past conflict.

His armour seemed much the same as that she had seen on other Klingons; if he had a rank badge, it wasn't obvious. His gun, though, was as bluntly visible as that of the guard at the door.

"I am Lieutenant Astrid Halvorsen of the USS Endeavour," she said, "I hope that our cooperation will lead to a swift resolution in both our interests."

"Of course," he said, sounding a little reluctant, "but remember this is a Klingon vessel. You are here to observe. And to observe the operation only."

He was presumably warning her away from spending any time looking over the engines or weapon capabilities of the ship. Not that she could have told much without seeing them in action, which she was likely to do anyway; she wasn't an engineer. Halvorsen reflected that he did not seem happy to see her here, which seemed odd, if he had agreed to it. But, even so, she felt the need to remind him that her role was to do more than stand around and watch.

"And to take custody of the prisoner," she said.

He almost grimaced at that. Odd. "Of course," he growled, "but still..."

"But still, you are our guest." 

That was one of the female Klingons, who she had almost forgotten. There were two of them, one a tall, bald woman whose skin was ebony black, dark even for one of her race. She looked imperious, Halvorsen thought, perhaps a senior officer. Yet, oddly, it was the other who had spoken, a small, slender, coffee-skinned Klingon in tight, decorative leathers.

And, when she had spoken, the male Klingon had been immediately silenced.

There was an uncomfortable pause, while they all stood, watching one another - except for the transporter officer and the man she assumed was a guard, both of them whom seemed to doing their best to pretend they were somewhere else.

It was the man that she had assumed was the captain who eventually broke the silence. "I am Commander Rel'kor, First Officer of the Tarantula," he said. "These, " he stood to one side, giving her a clearer view of the women, "are Captain Adjur zantai Khurless and Lieutenant -Commander Laska."

The small Klingon woman stepped forward, and Halvorsen realised with surprise that she was the captain. By human standards, she was not particularly short, even if, at around 160 cm, she was quite a bit shorter than Halvorsen herself. Compared with her fellow Klingons, though, she was tiny.

And, yet... thought the security officer, appraising her properly for the first time. There was something about her, something that belied her size. It wasn't just the air of confidence that was now apparent in her, but a hardness in her eyes, a set to her jaw that said 'here is a vicious terrier that will tear you apart given the chance'. The body under the tight leathers looked muscular too. Slender, yes, but compact and, Halvorsen suspected, the body of a natural athlete.

Klingons, the human believed, prized height and visible power. Even Laska showed that - the dark woman was over 180 cm tall, and built like an Amazon. But what, Halvorsen, wondered, did you have to be like to successfully take charge of a Klingon starship when everyone else towered above you? Just how much would this woman have had to prove - at every stage of her life - to have got anywhere near where she was today? 

Halvorsen wondered how many Klingons had underestimated Adjur in the past, and now lay littered on the floor of history.

"I am sure," said the Klingon captain, her words clipped and precise, her dark eyes watching the human woman with an intense gaze that was almost unnerving, "that this will, as you say, prove beneficial to us both." She gave a small smile, a twitch of her lips that did not reach the rest of her face. "But for now, Laska will show you to your room. We will be leaving immediately."

Apparently satisfied with whatever she had been looking for, the small Klingon turned and left the room without another word, her first officer in tow.

Laska smiled, managing a much better job of it than her captain had. "Follow me," she said, speaking for the first time.

Halvorsen followed the dark-skinned officer into the ship's corridors. The Tarantula - she reflected that somebody must have programed the translator with that, since it clearly wasn't a Klingon word - was quite a bit smaller than the Endeavour. So far as she knew, it was a long-distance exploration and patrol ship, somewhere between a Bird of Prey and a full-size warship. Given that, it did not take long to reach the metal door that led to her temporary quarters.

"These will be yours," said Laska, "spartan, I know, but sufficient."

The room was decorated in the plain metal that Klingons seemed to like. It actually had a porthole above the low and rather rigid looking bed. That was an advantage of a small ship, she suspected; that it had less interior rooms far from the hull. Other than the bed, though, the room contained no more than a fold-down desk, a cupboard and a door leading to a shower cubicle and what could only be a Klingon toilet.

"Dinner will be served in the mess in four hours," Laska informed her. "In the meantime, once you have settled in, I can show you around. At least the parts of the ship that won't upset the Commander, anyway."

"Thank you," replied the human. Laska probably just wanted to keep an eye on her, but it seemed as good an idea as any. Besides, she could do with some sort of an ally, even if it was one she could not completely trust.

Halvorsen had originally assumed that the Klingon woman was bald. In fact, as had become apparent since she had turned to lead the human out of the transporter room, she had a shoulder-length pony-tail growing from the back of an otherwise shaven head, and bound with a leather cord. It leant at least something of an air of femininity to her, if only by default.

"You are a warrior, I understand?" asked the Klingon, "or security officer. Whatever the term is." Halvorsen nodded. "Good. Just remember that, and keep your wits about you. There will be some on this ship who want to show themselves superior to humans. They won't try anything directly, not while you're under the Captain's protection, but don't show weakness, or wander about where you shouldn't."

"And if you do somehow get injured... well, I'm the ship's medical officer."

-***-

The Tarantula was, as it turned out, not so different from a medium-sized Federation starship. Certainly the décor was different, but Klingons were basically humanoid, and seemed to have similar needs to any other humanoid race. Lighting, artificial gravity, crew quarters... the differences were all superficial, and even the organisation of the crew was similar to that on a Starfleet tactical vessel, if not a science ship like the Endeavour.

As she had indicated, Laska did not show Halvorsen the engine rooms or the torpedo launch tubes, nor, for that matter, the bridge. But she at least learned the basic layout of the ship, and which corridors she was probably better off not wandering down if she didn't want to be thought a spy. The medical centre was, perhaps unsurprisingly, one of the first items on the agenda, and, while it was smaller than she might have expected, it didn't look notably under-equipped to her - admittedly inexpert - eye. 

And why not? Klingons might be happy to keep scars as tokens of past battles, but it made sense to get them back onto the front lines again if you could. It was hard to remember sometimes that the Klingons were a technically advanced race, with engineering almost the equal of the Federation's own. In human history, war had often been a spur to technological advancement, and the Klingons had plenty of the former, so why not the latter? She recalled, from her lectures at the Academy, that you couldn't build something like a disruptor beam bank without a sound understanding of electromagnetic wave theory, computing, and quantum mechanics. Even if the only thing you wanted to do was build a bigger gun, the knowledge you gained in doing so had knock-on effects elsewhere.

"These are recreation areas," said Laska, as another door slid open, "you might..."

"Ha! I had heard there was a human on board! What do you think you can possibly gain here, other than a quick death?"

The speaker was a squat, heavily built man, one of two Klingons in the room they had just entered. It was clearly a combat training area, with a wide open space in the centre, and a rack of bat'leths and other hand weapons on one wall. It looked as if the two warriors has just finished a bout, and that it was the silent man who had just lost - the bruises and contusions showed that it had been a rather rougher fight than would have been normal on a Starfleet vessel.

"The human officer is here at the Captain's invitation," said Laska stiffly.

The squat Klingon snorted. He was ugly, even for a Klingon, with a couple of scars across his face and chest that did nothing to add to his looks, at least from a human perspective. He was currently, like his companion, stripped to the waist, a sheen of sweat across his muscular torso, and still holding his bat'leth - with specks of blood on it, she noticed - in one hand.

He snorted derisively. "Of course," he said, "but then, such a coward and weakling would need protection, would she not? You can see she is no warrior... but then, no human truly is. They hide inside their ships or behind their phasers, never willing to enter true combat. The entire race are an evolutionary dead-end, little better than Ferengi."

"Come on," Laska said to Halvorsen, "we don't need to..."

"I'm not frightened of you," said the human security officer, taking a step forward into the room. "So there's no point in trying to provoke me."

"This might not be..." began Laska, before being interrupted for the third time.

"Not frightened? Ha! I can smell the fear on you. The cringing terror that fills your very being. If you were truly as brave as you say, you would fight me, one on one, but you have not the guts, nor the strength to do so."

Halvorsen looked him straight in the eye, noting that she was actually a couple of centimetres taller than he. "I accept your challenge," she said, simply.

At that, Laska took a step back, away from them, her face suddenly formal. It was clear she would not intervene now. Halvorsen needed to show her character to these people, for her own safety, and for the honour of Starfleet. She could only hope that she had not made a mistake in choosing to do so at this point.

"Very well," said the Klingon, with a grin, readying his bat'leth as his former sparring partner also left the fighting area.

Halvorsen took off her tunic and passed it to Laska before walking forward onto the mat. She had no experience with a bat'leth, and the Klingon surely knew it.

"You can put that away," she told him, dropping into a fighting crouch, "unless, of course, you're too frightened to face me without a weapon."

That did it. The Klingon dropped the bat'leth and hurled himself at her, a roar of fury on his lips. Perhaps he was blinded by anger, or perhaps by his own overconfidence and bias about human weakness. Perhaps he had just taken more of a battering from his sparring partner than was visible at first glance. Maybe it was even a combination of all of these, but either way, he left himself wide open for a counterstrike.

Halvorsen kicked out at his leg, grabbed an arm, and threw him over her shoulder in a classic move. The Klingon's speed and strength counted against him, slamming him hard into the floor with a loud crash that actually shook the metal plating beneath the mat.

Any human would have been at least momentarily stunned by the force of that impact, but her opponent was not human. He rolled over and prepared to rise to his feet... just as Halvorsen spun round and kicked him with all her might in his jaw. 

His head snapped back, and she wondered for a second if she'd overdone it. A human would have been seriously injured by a blow like that, and certainly should have been out cold. But not, it seemed, a Klingon. He shook his head, and staggered to his feet, visibly groggy, but more conscious than he had any right to be.

He lunged for her, and this time she could not quite evade him, caught with his arm about her shoulder. But she had the advantage now, after that last blow. They wrestled, her vest rucking and coming loose from her trousers as she kicked at his legs and pulled at his arms.




Poker Interrupted



He stumbled at one of her blows, and she threw him down again as his arm came free. She was on top of him immediately, locking her arm under his shoulder and rapidly catching him in a three-quarter nelson. He bucked underneath her, legs kicking out and trying to break the hold. Halvorsen's muscles were straining, but she just about managed to keep him pinned.

He shouted out something incoherent, spitting onto the floor. The human didn't budge, the hold secure, but her opponent did not seem about to submit, and while he seemed weakened, he was hardly about to collapse. Halvorsen gritted her teeth and held on for dear life, wondering how long she would need to keep this up for, and whether she could.

She had forgotten the other Klingons in the room, but remembered when the other man shouted something short and incomprehensible and banged his fist three times hard on the wall of the room. Laska joined in, stepping onto the mat in front of the struggling pair. At first nothing happened, but after another shout from the medical officer, the scarred warrior finally went limp.

Halvorsen climbed off him, panting, face red from the exertion, tucking her shirt back in as she did so. The Klingon was not moving except to draw ragged breaths, his face invisible to her, down towards the floor as it was.

The other Klingon man clapped her on the back, and she saw a wide grin on his face. "Qapla'!" he said, before walking out of the room.

Laska, she saw, was also smiling, teeth white against her dark face. The medical officer handed over Halvorsen's uniform tunic, and motioned for them both to leave the room. The defeated warrior remained where he was, making no move to follow them, although she fancied she heard him grunting and moving to get up as the door slid shut behind them.

"Murakh is unpopular," Laska said to her, her voice lowered, "which means that, as soon as word of this gets around, you will not be. You made the right decision. Qapla', indeed."

-***-

The ships 'mess hall' was, as it turned out, Halvorsen's first clear example of how Klingon ships really did differ from Federation ones in matters other than aesthetics. In Starfleet, even on one of the larger ships, like the Endeavour, most food was replicated. Indeed, for humans and many of the other races, that was the way it often was on their homeworlds, too. Cooking and manual food preparation wasn't entirely a lost art, but it was hardy a common skill, either. The security officer had to admit that she hadn't had food that wasn't replicated for well over a year.

But the Tarantula had a kitchen. It seemed wasteful, with all that need to carry supplies, but it seemed that the Klingons thought nothing of it. All the food available at the counter was decidedly real, and some of it hadn't quite stopped moving yet.

Halvorsen was relieved, however, to discover it wasn't all quite as bad as rumour had it. Most of it was actually cooked, at least partially, although much of it would have alarmed a vegetarian. She selected a steak, which came with some small alien vegetables and odd-looking greyish brown items that, honestly, could have been anything. She didn't like to ask what sort of animal the steak had come from, and it probably wouldn't have meant much to her if she had. But, still, it was surprisingly normal food, compared with what her imagination had conjured up.

The mess hall was also, she reflected as she sat down opposite Laska, rather noisier than anywhere on the Endeavour. Klingons were a boisterous lot, and the fact that, at least tonight, warnog ale seemed to be the only drink available might have had something to do with that. At any rate, there was loud singing, good natured shouting and raucous laughter. 

It wasn't really her idea of a good time; she preferred discipline and focus. A Vulcan ship would have been preferable to this, but she was here for a reason, and she had to put up with what she had. Fortunately it seemed that, as Laska had predicted, word of the incident with Murakh had got round, and seemed to have done her reputation the power of good. The Klingons were evidently respectful of her, if not exactly friendly, and there was no open hostility, nor any attempt to call her out again.

She wondered how long that would last.

"A little after midday tomorrow, ship time," said Laska. Halvorsen blinked, before realising that she hadn't spoken out loud, and the Klingon woman had to be referring to something else. "We should reach the planet then, and begin our operation. If all goes well, you will be back on board your own ship in three days' time. In the meantime, try to look like you're enjoying yourself, will you? I don't know what it's like in Starfleet, but we like to let our hair down off duty."

"I'll try to bear that in mind," she replied, somewhat stiffly. She didn't really do that sort of relaxation, and, frankly, didn't much approve of it in others. But these were aliens, and, if the Federation insisted on anything, it was that you didn't interfere with foreign cultures.

As she spoke, another Klingon moved up to the table and sat down next to her. He was a young officer, with somewhat paler skin than many of his fellows, a trimmed beard and pure black, shoulder-length hair.

"We have other forms of entertainment," said the newcomer, "there is rarely a quiet moment on a Klingon ship. You will find something that you like."

"True," said Laska, "there is a quartet from engineering performing a section of Shevok'tah gish here tomorrow evening. If we're back in time. " Halvorsen's thoughts on spending an evening listening to Klingon opera must have registered to the Klingon woman because she quickly added, "although it's not mandatory, and, frankly," she leaned over the table, and said in a quieter voice, "they're not actually very good, so you won't be alone if you stay away."

"There might be other experiences you might want to try," said the young man, "you might find some things to be more pleasurable than you might think."

Halvorsen realised with shock that he had paused in his eating to sweep his eyes up and down her body, visibly admiring the tight fit of her uniform and the curves beneath. She put down her knife and glared at him, a stare that would have quelled any junior officer on the Endeavour.

Somewhat surprisingly, it actually seemed to work on him, and he looked a little taken aback, and, she had to say, somewhat disappointed. "Not all the same," he muttered cryptically, and turned to listen to the conversation of his fellows further down the table, his interest in her apparently over.

Laska leaned over again, "Kurdok is a young man," she whispered, "rather a hothead. But Klingons are an honourable people, nobody will try anything."

They had better bloody not, thought Halvorsen to herself. She was not one for fraternising, even with her own species, let alone another.

-***-

The mattress on the bed in her quarters was thin and stiff, but Halvorsen had no problem with that, and managed to get a surprisingly good night's sleep. She followed her usual routine in the morning; a series of callisthenic exercises followed by a freezing cold shower. There were, in her opinion, a few Starfleet officers who could do with the same; it might keep their minds off of more immoral pursuits.

At first, she thought it best to remain in her cabin, avoiding any provocation of the Klingon crew. But after an hour of sheer boredom, she decided that it would do better to be seen about. This afternoon, she might need them to guard her back, and that was going to be hard enough to do without them thinking she spent her days hiding.

As it turned out, she faced no further challenges that day. The Klingons seemed to have accepted her presence, at least for the time being. She caught a few resentful looks, but for the most part, the crew just got on with whatever they were doing. One young Klingon woman even gave her a quick smile and what seemed to be a victory gesture before turning away. Laska had said that the warrior she had defeated yesterday in the gym was unpopular, and Halvorsen suspected that this might well relate to that.

The call to the bridge came slightly earlier than she had been expecting it, but Halvorsen never relaxed on duty, and was as ready for it then as she would have been later. She went up to the bridge strait away, pressing down her uniform again as she did so, the Starfleet com badge already gleaming.

The bridge was about what she would expect for a ship the size of the Tarantula if, like the rest of the vessel, dimly lit by Starfleet standards. It had all the usual consoles, in the angular metallic style that Klingons seemed to find aesthetically pleasing, red and orange symbols scrolling across the screens. The console that appeared to control the weapons was proportionately larger and more prominent than she would expect, but whether that was because the ship was better armed than similar Starfleet vessels, or the designers had just thought it was more important, she couldn't tell.

Starfleet would, naturally, be interested in what she could tell them of her host's tactics and capabilities, but they knew there would be nothing she could tell them about Klingon engineering and control systems that they did not already know. She really wasn't here as a spy.

Captain Adjur stood in the centre of the room, somehow dominating it with her presence despite her small stature. Her dark eyes were hard, sometimes darting about the room to keep an eye on all of the bridge crew, gloved hands clasped behind her back. Her first officer stood to one side, watching the planet displayed in the viewscreen ahead of them, and the small freighter orbiting above it. Laska was nowhere to be seen.

"We have confirmed," said the Captain, her voice clipped and precise, "that the vessel is O'Leary's ship. From intercepted communications, we believe that he is currently on the planet's surface, engaged in his trade."

"He should die," said Rel'kor, succinctly.

"Yes," agreed the Captain, "but today is not that day. Starfleet have given us the information to locate him, and in, return, we allow them to capture him, and do whatever it is that they do with their prisoners. There are times that cooperation is useful, and the House of Khurless also gains from this operation in other ways. So, today, we take him alive, and hand him over, as we have agreed. Our House keeps its word, does it not?"

"Of course, Captain."

"I understand, Lieutenant Halvorsen, that Patrick O'Leary has evaded capture by your people many times?"

"He is devious," she agreed, not pointing out that the gun runner had done the same to the Klingons. The Federation was more concerned that O'Leary sold advanced weapons to cultures not ready for them, but the Klingon Empire, she suspected, was more concerned about the challenge to its own power. "Are we sure that we have got him this time?"

"We are currently under cloak, so his vessel cannot see us. The moment we drop the cloak, we beam down, then put a jamming field in place to stop him - or anyone else - beaming off the planet. Then we blow his ship out of the sky. The survival of his crew was, after all, not part of our deal. Then it will be up to the away team to capture him, and ensure that, this time, he does not escape."

"I am ready," replied the security officer.

"Good. I have seen what I need to. Rel'kor, you have the bridge. Halvorsen, with me."

"You're going on the away team?"

The corner of Adjur's mouth twitched, in what might have been as close as she could get to a smile. "Wouldn't miss it," she said, patting the pistol at her hip. It wasn't a design the human recognised. A custom made sniper's pistol, perhaps, with an enlarged power pack to boost the punch. She wondered if it had a stun setting.

-***-

Halvorsen ducked down behind a stack of crates as a disruptor shot blasted into the wall just behind where her head had been. O'Leary and his Gorn mercenaries had been waiting for them, and the firefight had begun in earnest before they had even reached the pre-fab dome from which the gun runners had been operating. The only positive sign was that they clearly hadn't been able to beam out, and Halvorsen could only imagine that the Tarantula was currently engaging their souped-up freighter in orbit.

The criminals were, at least, trapped down here with five angry Klingons and a Starfleet security officer.

Or they had been to begin with. One of the four warriors that the Captain had brought down was already out of action, caught by some automated defence. Nobody had bothered to provide him with medical aid, and, naturally enough, he hadn't asked for any, so he was still lying out in the scrubby desert outside, too injured to stand. Although, so far as Halvorsen could tell, he'd probably live if the fight didn't go on for too much longer.

A couple of blasts thudded into the crate, but it seemed solid enough to take it for now. An explosion rang out from somewhere, shaking the whole of the dome. Another trap, perhaps, or else one of the Gorn had hand grenades. Halvorsen took the opportunity to pop her head up from her hiding place, scanning the area, phaser ready.

She saw one of the Gorn, and fired at him, but he ducked away just in time, and the shot went wide. Halvorsen ducked down again, and ran along behind the crates, in the alien's direction, keeping her head low, but hoping to approach him from another direction.

As she did so, she spotted a panel that had come loose from one wall of the dome. It looked to have been popped out deliberately, with no sign of weapon fire, but it was quite hidden from the direction from which the Klingon team had entered the dome. She glanced out of it, and saw boot prints in the rough sand, heading away.

She paused for a moment, unsure of which direction she should go. But the sound of more firing from behind her persuaded her that the remaining Klingons were still holding their own against the Gorn. Meanwhile one of their opponents - and one with human-sized feet - was making his getaway across the desert. Halvorsen ducked through the hole in the wall, and headed out.

She was facing a rocky slope, some distance away across open ground that would leave her exposed to anyone looking from up above. The Captain had sent one of her warriors round the back when they entered the dome, in case of just such an eventuality, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was O'Leary, who had obviously vanished somewhere into the rocks up above. If only the sand had been softer and deeper here, she could have followed his foot prints, but she wasn't that skilled a tracker.

She spun as she heard a sound behind her, and found her gun levelled at Captain Adjur, stepping through the gap in the dome wall, the sun bright on her coffee-brown skin. 

"Two of my warriors still standing," said the Captain, "one of his Gorn. Won't last long. So let's go get him. Cover me."

Without another word, the small Klingon was sprinting across the open space towards the foot of the ridge. Acting from instinct, Halvorsen crouched down, phaser held high as she scanned the rocks above. Nobody fired back, and soon the Klingon was in cover, beckoning at her to follow.

She ran as fast as she could, feeling the adrenaline rush as her long legs carried her across the gap in less time than it had taken the Captain. Once again, fortunately, nobody took a shot, and soon she was skidding in the dust, ducking behind the rock that concealed the Klingon woman.

"Now where?" she asked, barely out of breath from the run, and eager to continue the fight.

It must have showed in her eyes, because she caught an approving look from her alien fellow, before her face went hard again, and she scanned the slope above them with her dark eyes.

"That way," she said, pointing with a gloved hand, "broken twig on one of the bushes. Recent. Scuff mark on the edge of the flat rock just above it. Follow me."

Halvorsen followed the leather-clad figure ahead of her as they both scrambled up the slope. It was rough and rocky, a difficult passage if you did not know exactly where you were going, but Adjur seemed to have it all perfectly in hand, pausing at intervals to pick up on her quarry's trail. The human woman could do nothing but follow, her phaser at the ready... although it was clear which of them would get the first shot off if O'Leary came in sight, and she held no doubts about the Klingon's marksmanship.

As it happened, though, it was their target that fired first. The beam blasted into a bush, setting it on fire as Adjur rolled out of the way behind a large rock. The path up ahead looked even steeper than that so far, and, having just dropped a metre or so behind when her foot slipped on a loose stone, Halvorsen realised that that same slope now hid her own presence from whomever had just fired.

She froze in place, even before Adjur held out her free hand in a 'stop' motion, the other still gripping her pistol.

"I can see you," called out a voice from up ahead. 

It was human and male, leaving Halvorsen in no doubt as to who it belonged, even if the accent was hidden by the universal translator's rendering of the words into her native Norwegian.

"Not quite, or you'd be shooting now," replied Adjur, gesturing back at the human.

Halvorsen immediately got the gist of what the Klingon wanted her to do. The gestures might not have been exactly the same as the hand signals used by Starfleet, but they were close enough that the meaning was clear. She crept a little further back down the hill.

"Enough to know you're on your own; my tricorder only picks up one of you. Did my Gorn friends pick off the rest of you, or did you just leave them behind? Either way, one of you, one of me, and I've got the advantage."

Halvorsen grinned to herself, realising just how O'Leary had made such a crucial error. Adjur had doubtless worked it out, too, but now it was time for the human to carry out the Klingon's plan. A plan that had just been made that much easier.

"Think I'm just going to sit here?" called out the Captain, from behind the rock.

Halvorsen knew that her ally had to keep O'Leary talking, but fortunately, that wasn't proving too hard. She continued to move.

'Ally'? Had she really just thought that about a Klingon? The camaraderie of action and shared threat did odd things to you sometimes. But, yeah, why not? For the moment, there was no reason she couldn't trust the other woman, no matter her origin and ultimate loyalties.

"Wondering where your other warrior went? I left him down near the bottom of the slope, but not without a little gift. See, I strapped a bomb to his chest after I stunned him. I've got the trigger right here. If you get close, I'll use it. Hardly an honourable death, I'd say. I mean, you might not care for your warriors' lives, but I'm guessing dishonourable death, that's not something you'd want for them, am I right?"

"Might kill you before you hit the trigger."

"Nah, you'd be out from behind that rock if you thought that was the case. Though, to be honest, maybe you will, and I get to pick you off. Blast a hole through your forehead. Even Klingon skulls aren't that thick."

"You'd know that from the other warrior."

"No, he's stunned. I told you."

"You're not the type. He's already dead, and we both know it. There's no bomb." There was silence; she'd obviously got him there, and Halvorsen felt slightly more at ease with the plan. "So there's no threat," called Adjur, "for what it was worth."

"I can still blow your head off."

"Which is your other mistake."

"Try it and see. Come out where I can shoot you. You're not scared, are you?"

"Honour does not mean stupidity. And you still made a mistake. Saw me coming so far off because you've got that tricorder rigged to signal the presence of Klingons, ignoring any other life forms. Which is how you know there's no others with me."




Poker Interrupted



"Yeah, so?"

Halvorsen dropped on him.

She had been lucky, as she scrambled up the slope to the side, that she had not dislodged any stones or otherwise made any noises that would have given her away. She had been even more lucky that O'Leary had been partly sheltering beneath an overhanging rock, giving her the chance to get above him. 

The landing was heavy, partly knocking the wind out of both of them. O'Leary's pistol dropped from his hand as her weight slammed him into the ground, falling out of easy reach. But the fight was far from over.

They grappled on the ground, kicking up sand and small stones as they did so. At last, O'Leary managed to push her away, and they both leapt to their feet, facing each other. Halvorsen realised that her phaser had come loose in the struggle - and only now wondered why she just hadn't shot him when she had the chance. It had fallen away down the slope, and O'Leary lunged for his own fallen weapon instead.

He snatched his hand away as a beam of energy hit the blaster, and it exploded in a shower of sparks. He looked up to see Adjur standing there, a short distance away, already holstering her pistol. O'Leary looked puzzled, but Halvorsen realised what had just happened.

This was a duel, like the one in the gym, or so Adjur saw it. She had just been evening up the odds. She wouldn't interfere now, not until one of them had fallen.

O'Leary evidently had no such compunction, and pulled a knife from his belt, lunging at the human woman, sweeping it in a wide arc, and forcing her to dodge out of the way. He slashed a couple more times, but with no more luck, and she managed to kick a leg out, trying to knock him over.

The move failed, but it unbalanced him just enough for her to step behind him, and grab onto his knife arm. He kicked back, and jabbed his free hand towards her eyes. This was a man who clearly fought dirty, and there would be no referee to break up the fight this time. O'Leary would fight on for as long as he was able.

Halvorsen dodged out of the way of her opponent's attempted eye-gouge, spinning him round as she still gripped onto his right arm. For a second, she was back in the gym, fighting an enraged Klingon, and blind instinct took over.

She kicked the man's legs out from under him, flinging them both to the ground, twisting his arm around, smashing into his elbow with her free hand with enough force to hurt even a Klingon. There was an audible snap, and O'Leary screamed in agony.

"You broke my fucking arm!" he yelled, letting out a stream of further profanity as he writhed on the ground.

Halvorsen got to her feet, kicking the fallen knife away, although she suspected there was no further need to do so.

"I thought you'd shoot him," said Adjur, walking up to join her standing over their prisoner, pistol now levelled again.

"Maybe I'm getting a little bit Klingon."

"Didn't say I didn't approve."

-***-

Halvorsen had cleaned her uniform down, and was wondering what to do for the evening, when the buzzer at the door to her cabin sounded. She opened it to see Laska standing there, a slight smile on her face. "I hear congratulations are in order," she said. 

"Thank you," replied the human, "O'Leary is now in custody, and we should be transferring him to the Endeavour tomorrow night for trial and punishment."

"Yes. He's in a secure area near my sick bay. It's where we hold disgraced warriors. We don't have much call for other prisoners. And his arm will heal in time. Although he keeps asking for something called 'pain-killers'. I imagine that those are not as interesting as they sound."

"No, I shouldn't think so."

"Anyway, I came to see you because the Captain wants to thank you for a mission completed. You are honoured; she will see you in her quarters."

"Of course. I am honoured, indeed. Lead the way."

The Captain, it turned out, warranted a proper suite on board the Tarantula. The main room was decorated in what Halvorsen supposed must be Klingon style, with decorative tapestries on the walls, along with a bat'leth, a selection of knives, and what appeared to be a number of trophies. Two doors led off it, presumably leading to a bedroom and bathroom, although both were, of course, shut.

Rel'kor was already there, holding a goblet in his hand, and looking slightly put out. There were three similar goblets on the table in the centre of the room, and, as she entered, the Captain stepped forward to hand one to Halvorsen, gesturing to Laska to take a third, before she picked up the remaining one herself. The human woman caught a frown on the First Officer's face as this happened, glancing at Laska as if he had not expected her to be joining them. If the medic noticed, though, she gave no sign.

"A great success," said Adjur, "now we have Starfleet on our side, at least for a little while. A prudent warrior welcomes allies as much as she does foes to fight. Qapla'!"

So saying, she downed the contents of the goblet in one gulp, and the other Klingons joined in, prompting Halvorsen to do so as well. It was fiery, obviously alcoholic, yet with some fruity flavour behind the kick that was not entirely unpleasant. Even so, she barely managed to rasp out the "Qapla'!" response as it burned its way down her throat.

"I know that you require no reward beyond our prisoner himself," said the Captain, "but it is the Klingon way to celebrate after victory, and after new alliances. So, why not an evening's entertainment?" Rel'kor stiffened, and she waved a hand towards him, "not the opera quartet, I think." He visibly relaxed, and even Halvorsen had to stifle a small grin.

"No, something different," Adjur went on, "in honour of our guest. I received a communication from your vessel, Lt. Halvorsen. When we collected you. Details of a human pastime. Quite different to those of my people, but why not?"

Halvorsen frowned. What was this? It made no sense.

"Tonight," said Adjur, "we play the human game of 'poker'. One of your pilots kindly sent me the rules," she pulled what looked like a newly replicated deck of cards from a pocket, and held it up.

A cold chill ran down the human's spine, as she realised what had happened. Lugmilla. She was going to kill the Tellarite woman when she got back. But what could she say now? If she explained what had happened, it would put Starfleet in a bad light, and, worse still, might even make the Klingon captain look a fool in front of two of her officers. Doubly so, if, as she suspected, Lugmilla had sent across the rules for the variant that she had been playing with the other three so recently.

Which, knowing her, was guaranteed.

Halvorsen had only one hope, which was that one of the other Klingons would decline, letting her avoid the game with honour.

"Cards?" asked Rel'kor suspiciously, "they don't look dangerous. Where is the sport? How does this game work?"

"You arrange the cards in patterns. The objective is to have matching numbers, or sequential ones. I have written out the scoring," Adjur tapped a PADD lying on the table. "It is simple enough."

"And the sport...?" prompted the first officer again.

"It is a human game. They divert themselves with things other than physical contest."

"Tokens? Like Ferengi?" He did not sound impressed, and Halvorsen silently prayed for him to back out.

"Not quite. Whoever has the lowest score removes an item of clothing. And so it continues. An unusual game to us, but perhaps not by human standards."

There was a long silence. Rel'kor's initial reaction was clearly that this was not a proper game. Even if Halvorsen could not persuade the Captain that three players were insufficient, at least it would be much better with him out of the room. He had to leave. He just had to.

But then, the first officer looked across at Laska, eyeing up the Amazonian Klingon's figure. "And it finishes, when...?" he asked.

"When one of the players has just a single item of clothing remaining, the game ends. And whoever retains the most at that point wins."

Rel'kor's eyes dropped to Laska's chest, which the human realised, was somewhat prominent even beneath the armour that the medic wore. 

"One item?" mused the Klingon man, and then grinned widely, "as you say, why not?"

Halvorsen looked across at Laska in desperation. Surely the medical officer was not going to allow herself to be ogled in that way? If Adjur, for whatever reason, had already decided to go along with this, surely Laska would not do the same?

"Sounds different," said Laska, crushing the human's last glimmer of hope, "I'm in."

"Good. Then we are agreed." 

Adjur pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table, indicating to the others to take the three chairs already arranged around it. Rel'kor immediately took the one opposite Laska, leaving Halvorsen facing the Captain.

She sat down, her hands suddenly clammy. There was no way to avoid this. With rising horror, she realised that she could not even report Lugmilla for what she had done. To do that would require an admission, actually giving evidence. She could not let anyone else know about this. Ever.

"Why don't you make the first deal?" asked Adjur, sliding the deck across the metal surface of the table towards Halvorsen. The human woman felt those dark eyes boring into her like phaser beams, appraising how she acted. She had no choice but to continue.

The shuffled the deck a little uncertainly, never having played any form of card game since childhood, and then dealt the cards round to each of the Klingons. Each of them examined their hands, and Rel'kor grimaced, growling under his breath. The concept of a 'poker face' evidently eluded him, although, to be fair, it was hard to see how much difference it would make to this particular game.

Halvorsen herself had a pair of nines, which she suspected wasn't that bad for a first deal. It probably meant that she was ahead of Rel'kor at least, which would be a relief. She had no desire to see him even partly undressed, but, all things considered, it was better than the alternatives. Her objective, she realised, trying to think now that the initial anger had faded, was to end up with at least her vest and trousers by the time somebody else stripped to their last garment. And, for the sake of moral decency, it would be best if that somebody was the first officer.

The draw proceeded around the table, and Rel'kor glared at his new cards with anger, actually glancing across at her, as if wondering if she'd deliberately slipped him a bad hand. She tried to ignore that; she wouldn't have had any idea how to fix the hand, even if she had wanted to. He'd have the deal next himself, anyway.

When she received a second eight, giving her two pairs, Halvorsen actually thought she'd won the first round. But then Laska turned over three queens, her wide grin a flash of white teeth against her dark face. Neither the Captain nor Rel'kor had developed any hand at all, which showed that the former, at least, really did have a poker face. But then, Adjur at least had an Ace.

"A pair of boots counts as one item," said the Captain, as the male Klingon stood, a sour expression on his face, "I don't know why. Perhaps it's to just to make the game go quicker."

Rel'kor pulled off his heavy combat boots with obvious bad grace. It looked for a moment as if he would angrily throw them across the room, but then he evidently remembered whose room it was, and placed them down by his chair with a heavy thud instead.

The Klingon, it turned out, was not wearing any socks, revealing a pair of bare feet that were, unsurprisingly, as human as his hands. It was a minor point, but, Halvorsen realised, a small advantage in her favour. In fact, since he didn't have one of those great sashes that some Klingons wore, she wondered how many items of clothing Rel'kor was actually wearing. Perhaps this potential humiliation might be over quicker than she'd thought.

Fingers crossed, anyway.

"Now it is my turn," said the first officer, as she passed the deck over to him. 

He fumbled the first shuffle, dropping some of the cards and had to pick them up again for a second attempt, heavy eyebrows scowling as he did so. He was obviously even less familiar with them than Halvorsen herself, but even so, he succeeded on the second attempt and dealt them round the table.

After the draw, she had two pairs. They were low - fives and threes - but that had to be enough, didn't it? Rel'Kor had a grin on his face this time, so maybe not. She looked across at the Klingon Captain, unflappable as always, and hoped she didn't look as nervous as she felt. Adjur turned over her cards.

Three jacks.

Halvorsen turned to Laska, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She rather liked the medical officer, but right now she needed her to lose the hand. Yet, instead, she was leaning back in her chair, a slight smile on her face. She casually flipped the cards over.

"High Queen," she said, unnecessarily, her voice showing a complete lack of concern that Halvorsen couldn't help but think showed a lack of moral decency under the circumstances, "could be me."

Rel'kor let out a barking laugh, and Halvorsen felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She showed her two pair, and after the first officer revealed that he had only slightly better himself, Laska stood up, still looking quite relaxed - at least so far as she'd ever noticed Klingons were.

The medical officer placed one of her feet on the chair, and slid her hands slowly down the tight leather of her trousers to the boot, before sliding it off. She wasn't wearing socks, either, but Halvorsen had mixed feelings about the way the Klingon woman had chosen to take her boots off. On the one hand, it looked provocative, hardly the sort of appropriate behaviour she approved of, but, on the other hand, it seemed to entrance Rel'kor, which at least meant his attention was off the human. Hopefully it would stay that way, especially if - heaven forfend - the next few hands went badly for her.

Adjur was the next to take the deck, shuffling it thoroughly, with far greater dexterity than her first officer had managed. She dealt the cards swiftly round the table, before lifting her own hand, and looking at it expressionlessly. A professional poker player could doubtless read the little Klingon, but Halvorsen certainly couldn't. 

She had no clue what the Captain was thinking, although the same couldn't be said for the other two. Laska let out what appeared to be a sarcastic huff, and shook her head slightly, while the first officer leaned across the table to her, evidently delighted with whatever he had just been handed.

"Looks like you'll be out of your armour before I am," he told the medic.

"Ha! The game's still early yet, you know. There's plenty of time for you to lose."

"We'll see."

"Anyway... gah, four cards for me."

"Huh, got to be bad."

Laska made the draw. "Better now, though," she said, leaning back with a sneer, "but we'll see."

Even after the draw, though, Halvorsen had no better than a pair of Kings. That wouldn't have been a winning hand in either of the previous rounds, but it wouldn't have lost, either. Nonetheless, she felt relief when Laska revealed - to Rel'kor's evident delight - that she only had a pair of sixes.

With three jacks, it turned out that he had the right to look smug, but then his smile faded.

"Pair of fours," said Adjur, calmly as she revealed her own hand. 

Everyone looked to her, her first officer looking slightly embarrassed, Laska's expression unreadable. Halvorsen wasn't sure what she felt herself.

"So," said the captain.

She placed her elbows on the table, hands raised... and pulled off her gloves, laying them down by her side. Her mouth twitched, and, for once, Halvorsen could actually see a twinkle of humour in those dark eyes. The other two Klingons looked relieved, seemingly having forgotten about the gloves as much as the human had.

"Your deal, Laska."

When she looked at her cards, Halvorsen realised that her luck might finally have run out. She had nothing, just a high queen. She reflected that each of the Klingons had lost once each so far, and that it was arguably her turn to do so. Statistically, of course, assuming that nobody messed up their decision on the draw, she was no more likely to lose than anyone else. But it didn't feel like that, and it was only Rel'kor's evident look of disgust and Laska's pursed lips and frown that gave her any hope.

Her hand failed to develop after the draw, although none of the Klingons looked very happy with what they'd got either. Not that you could tell with Adjur, admittedly. With a sinking feeling she turned over her cards, revealing the high queen. 

"Huh," said Laska, frowning, but didn't elaborate.

Rel'kor, on the other hand, didn't respond, just grunted with distaste as he revealed that he only had a pair of fives himself. What had he got to be displeased with? He hadn't lost, and that was all that really mattered in this game. The reason for Laska's apparent confusion, however, became apparent when she became the last of the four to reveal her hand - another high queen.

"What happens?" asked the medical officer, looking between Adjur and Halvorsen, apparently thinking that the latter at least, had played the game before and knew what the rules were.

"It's a tie," observed Rel'kor, "perhaps they both...?"

Adjur jabbed a finger at her PADD, looking at it intently. "Hmm," she said, after a little while, "that makes sense." Her dark eyes swept over the revealed cards. "Second highest card decides the tie. So... ahah... our human guest."

It could be a lot worse, reflected Halvorsen, as she stood up. The problem was, it quite likely would later on. She had put this off for three hands, and it had been inevitable she would lose eventually. Perhaps, though, she should have said something earlier? She couldn't think how, without making Starfleet look bad, and avoiding that that was surely her highest priority.

Trying to look as calm as possible, she removed her boots and slid them under the table. Laska raised her eyebrows, and Rel'kor followed her gaze downwards. Oh, yes, her socks.

"What are those for?" asked the first officer.

"It's... just a human custom."

"Well, clothing is clothing," observed Adjur, "your deal, I believe."

If Rel'kor had really harboured any suspicions that she had somehow rigged the cards against him on her first deal, they clearly vanished this time round. "Qa'pla!" he shouted cheerfully as he threw his cards down at the end of the hand to reveal, of all things, a flush.

It turned out that Laska was the only one to fail to develop a hand that round, to the first officer's evident delight. "I told you that you wouldn't need that armour much longer," he said, leaning back in his chair and grinning, as if his victory was somehow due to more than mere luck, as seemed likely.

Laska stood, and Halvorsen realised that what had appeared to be a wide leather belt around her waist was actually a fastening for the medic's moulded body armour; she couldn't take off one without the other. She undid the heavy buckle slowly, with what the security officer couldn't help but feel was entirely too much relish, and separated the parts of her armour, thrusting her chest forward as she did so.

The human glanced across at Rel'kor, her lip curling in disapproval at his evident interest at just how taut the dark grey cloth of Laska's shirt was across her buxom figure. Men could be so crude, and Laska seemed to be playing to that, in a way that was surely inappropriate for one of her rank. But then, looking back at the medic, she saw the dark Klingon give a quick wink in her direction - Rel'kor's focus of attention was apparently too low for him to notice - and she thought she understood. 




Poker Interrupted



Laska, perhaps, was deliberately distracting her fellow Klingon's attention from the human in the room. It didn't matter too much yet, but it might be helpful later on. Halvorsen did not appreciate being eyed up by anyone, but the first officer would have been low on her list even if she did. She managed to make a small smile in reply, grateful for what little protection she might gain.

The male Klingon did not seem too disappointed when he lost the following hand, his own armour going to lie behind his chair. He flexed his arms, making his broad chest muscles ripple beneath the black undershirt, his bearded face grinning. He was certainly coming round to the appeal of the game, thought Halvorsen, who couldn't agree with that perspective.

Adjur lost next, becoming the final member of the group to take off her boots. So far, thought the security officer as she looked at the hand Laska had just dealt her, it was even between everyone. By the looks of what she was holding now, that looked set to continue. But, she realised, with a sudden leap of hope, that was all she needed. Two more defeats for her, and she would still be holding onto her treasured modesty, while two more defeats for the male Klingon would mean that the game would be over.

One could only hope that that was the way it would be. She had a chance to get out of this yet.

So resigned was she to having to remove her socks - fortunately no great sacrifice - that she didn't even notice Laska's hand until Rel'kor let out a bark of delight, and gave a little punch into the air. It was she, not Halvorsen, that had just lost the round. The human set her jaw, trying to ignore the first officer as he edged forward in his seat, as if that would somehow give him a better view. Disgusting.

Laska stood up once more, and even the human couldn't help but notice how the fabric of her shirt seemed to be positively bursting with the strain of holding her upper body in. The dark Klingon woman ran her hands around the waistband of her trousers, even running a thumb along the inside, before apparently changing her mind.

She pulled the shirt up, bunching it beneath her ample bosom, revealing a muscular six-pack better defined than that of many human men. She held the position for a moment, looking down at her male colleague, white teeth flashing another grin, "I'm still going to beat you, you know," she said.

"I don't think so. Now stop stalling."

Laska didn't reply to that, and instead, with a few final tugs, eased the shirt up onto her shoulders, and pulled it over her head. Her bra was made of something that looked like thin leather, although it might have been a mock effect. It was cut surprisingly low, with a design that emphasised her impressive cleavage more than it offered protection. Although, the security officer reflected, either Klingons were built differently than human women, or it had some serious under-wiring for support.

Rel'kor clapped his hands in glee, Halvorsen doing her best not to give him a disgusted look as he did so, and flexed his hands again. "Now we're getting somewhere," he observed.

"Ah, but you are wearing as little as I. We cannot say yet who will win this battle."

"Perhaps," said Adjur, glancing between the pair of them, "before too long, we shall. Your deal, Lieutenant Halvorsen."

The human's luck continued to hold, as the captain lost the next hand. Instead of standing, she simply reached her hands up to her neck, and unclipped a leather band holding a triangular metal gorget in place. It went on top of her gloves as Adjur revealed the bare skin of... her neck. It was becoming apparent that she had started out wearing rather more items than anyone else, but nobody, of course, dared say a thing. If anything, Laska seemed amused, and Rel'kor was having difficulty dragging his gaze away from the bust of the Amazon sitting opposite him, and so barely seemed to notice.

Although he might, Halvorsen supposed, be grateful that there wasn't anything much that he could notice yet...

The human's socks were next to go, to, it seemed, nobody's great interest. The bare metal of the floor plating was warmer beneath her toes than she might have expected, but she could not help reflecting that she could afford to lose only once more. She had no real desire to see Rel'kor dressed only in his underwear, but she prayed that something like that would happen soon, and release her from this constant worry.

Her luck, however, had ended. For the second time in a row, she failed to develop a hand, while everyone else had at least a pair. She did not even stand as she removed her black-and-gold jacket in the least provocative manner she could manage, hanging it over the back of her chair. With it went her comm badge, useless here in its own right, perhaps, but bearing the symbol of Starfleet, as well as her rank pips. 

She was so proud of that uniform that taking off the jacket had been a harder moment than she had anticipated. She had done it on the Tarantula before, of course, when facing Murakh, but this was different in so many ways.

Fortunately, only Adjur seemed to really be watching her, dark eyes like gimlets as always, unfathomable thoughts passing beneath them. The Starfleet officer could not afford to lose again, and she wished that was some tactic she could employ to boost her chances, but beyond the minimal possibilities of the draw, there was nothing.

She picked up the hand the captain had just dealt her. So long as... no, no, no, no! How could she get such a bad hand for the third time in a row? She couldn't believe it, especially when the draw turned up nothing. She felt a cold sweat break out on her brow, and a sinking feeling in her stomach as she showed the cards to the others. This couldn't be happening!

Rel'kor turned over a pair of threes. Even that had her beat, although he didn't particularly seem to have noticed, judging from the scowl on his face. With Laska also ahead of her, that left just Adjur. The Klingon woman paused for a while, contemplating her cards, making everyone wait. Then, finally, she put them down.

"No hand," she said, and Halvorsen's heart leapt for a split second, "high Ace, though." Dark eyes flicked towards the human, but she needed to say nothing.

Silently, she stood. She tried to think of something to say, some excuse, but she knew there wasn't one. In all her years as a security officer, nothing had made her this nervous. She clenched and unclenched her hands, the eyes of the other two women on her. Laska leaned forward slightly, and the human noted that Rel'Kor was the only one not looking at her; if he had any interest in what lay beneath Starfleet clothing, it evidently paled compared to his interest in Laska's increasingly visible cleavage.

Lieutenant Halvorsen undid her trousers, and dropped them to the floor. She knew that her vest was not quite long enough to prevent the others seeing a flash of white knickers above her long, pale, athletic thighs, and she felt a blush creeping to her cheeks as she stepped out of the clothing, and sat down again as quickly as possible.

She had failed in her objective at the start of this game, and tried not to fidget as she clenched her legs together beneath the table. The game was perverse... the Federation should ban it. She should have said so at the outset, no matter the consequence, but it was too late now. Even Lugmilla, she suspected, wouldn't have expected that she'd actually go through with it. Now she had only herself to blame.

She dragged her attention back to the game as Laska placed another set of cards before her. Surely this couldn't go on much longer? And this time? A pair of twos! Let her have some luck in the draw for once...

Thankfully, she did, and was able to display the resulting three twos with something like relief. It didn't even need to be a winning hand to let her keep what remained of her modesty, but as it turned out, it was - only the second time she'd won in the whole of the game so far.

"Well," said Adjur, displaying her own hand, "my turn again." She stood, before adding, "an interesting game, Lieutenant, for all its lack of violence. It tells us something about humans, I am sure."

This time, it seemed, even the captain had run out of minor 'garments' to remove, and carefully began undoing a series of straps on her tight leather jacket. Halvorsen could see there was some armour plate discretely sewn into it, although it looked light, and was perhaps present more for the sake of Klingon decency than for any really protective value. Armour was of little use against phasers, after all, and, with her small frame, speed and agility would likely be Adjur's main assets in hand-to-hand combat.

The captain was wearing a sleeveless brown cloth vest beneath the jacket, tucked tightly into the top of her leather trousers. Even so, Rel'kor avoided looking in her direction, although whether out of deference or out of desire to continue looking at Laska's more obvious assets was hard to tell.

Focussed as she was on the discomfort of sitting with little more than a vest to cover her own body, Halvorsen none the less almost sighed with relief when Rel'kor lost the next hand. The Klingon lost no opportunity to show off as he removed his vest, revealing a muscular and hairy chest.

"It actually feels better to be out of these clothes," he observed with a grin, as he sat down again, "As I'm sure you'll agree, Laska."

"As soon as those trousers come off, you've lost," the medic told him, "I can still afford to lose mine."

"Which you will!"

"Ha! Do you think?"

"I'm a superior officer, I know these things," he said, apparently half-seriously, "two or three more deals, and you'll be standing there wearing nothing but your knickers."

"We won't know," pointed out Adjur, "until you deal, Rel'kor. It is your turn."

"Of course, captain," he said, although he did not look particularly chastened.

Still leering, and evidently filled with thoughts of a topless Laska, the Klingon dealt out the cards for what might, just possibly, be the final time. Halvorsen certainly hoped so.

But then her heart sank as she turned over her cards. A hopeless hand. Again! She had being doing all right to begin with, but of late, everything seemed to be turning against her. Rel'kor grunted angrily at his cards, and Laska smiled at hers. Adjur, as ever, was unreadable. Not, Halvorsen reflected, that she had too much to worry about at this stage, being clearly in the lead with little of the game remaining.

"Three cards," said the captain.

"One card," said Laska, with a smirk. She shrugged when she looked at the one she had received. "You are going down, Rel'kor," she said, "by which I mean, your trousers are."

Not necessarily, thought Halvorsen, wondering if the two had even remembered that there was anyone else in the game. Even so, she managed to keep a steady voice as she reluctantly said "four cards." Laska would surely win this hand, with whatever she had, but the real battle was in not being last. The draw had just given the Starfleet lieutenant an ace, which was something, but without any pairs, she could only hope that it would be enough.

The first officer replaced three of his cards, grunting with evident dissatisfaction at what he had received. He looked across at Laska and then, for one of the few times in the game, at the solitary human. "Maybe not," he said noncommittally, before pulling his gaze back to the usual focus of his attention.

"Pair of aces," said Adjur. So not her, this round.

"Two pair, nines and sevens."

There was silence for a little while, everyone still.

"Your turn, Lieutenant," said Adjur, and she realised she had forgotten to turn her cards over.

She did so quickly, not trusting herself to say anything. High ace. Lousy. But, on the other hand, it wasn't impossible that Rel'kor had something worse, and if he did...

"Pair of fours."

Halvorsen felt a strange sense of calm wash over her. This was the moment of humiliation she had dreaded all evening, and possibly just a forerunner to one that was even greater. Yet, now that she actually faced it, it wasn't humiliating at all. The whole game, really, was just the luck of the draw, with but minor elements of gambling and calculation. It wasn't her fault that she had ended up where she was.

Yes, she represented Starfleet, and had a hard time imagining a worse advert for them than this. But that also meant she was proud, and noble, and brave. If she could face the Borg without flinching, surely she could face this? Let the Klingons see honour in action.

The lieutenant stood, although she did not really need to, holding her chin up, and standing stiffly to attention for a second. Then she lifted the hem of her vest, and pulled it up and over her head, dropping it down beside her trousers. She remained standing for a moment, in plain white bra and knickers, noting with detachment that all three of the others were watching her, feeling the warm air of the room on the pale skin of her bare stomach and back, her shoulders, arms, and thighs. 

Then she sat down again, calm, yet conscious of the way her slow deep breathing was moving her chest. Rel'kor had already lost interest, and she grasped fully for the first time that he was no more interested in aliens than she was. Adjur was actually smiling, a small smile to be sure, but, it seemed, a real one. She rather thought that the captain approved of the way she had just handled that.

"Your deal, Rel'kor," said the captain.

So this was it. The odds were fifty-fifty that the game would end right here, and it couldn't possibly go on for longer than another four hands. 

"Commander Rel'kor," she said out loud, feeling that odd sense of detachment again, "it seems that it may well be between you and me. May the best woman win."

Laska snorted with amusement as Rel'kor shuffled the cards.

The mood was suddenly broken by a loud beeping sound.

Everyone was still for a moment, and then Laska bent down to remove something from her discarded clothing. "Yes?" she said, speaking into it. "I see. In that case, I will be right with you." She looked up at the others, "it seems I have a medical emergency. Some rather overzealous duelling, and we really don't want to be without our best beam weapons officer."

"Of course," said Adjur, leaning back in her chair, "do as you have to. Disappointing, but still. It would have been interesting to see how this turned out, but, as the evening has now ended, Rel'kor, go and see what you can do. There may be a disciplinary offence, here."

The first officer ground his teeth in frustration, his face like thunder, before copping a last glance at Laska's ample assets as she pulled her shirt back on again. "Of course, captain," he said, "although I can't promise that you will have only one patient tonight, Laska."

"However, we still have some of the drink," continued Adjur, "so perhaps you could stay for a little while, Lieutenant? I apologise for the disruption, of course, but so be it. Oh, and Rel'kor?"

"Captain?" he paused at the door, his hand already over the control.

"You might want to your shirt back on, at least."

-***-

Laska wondered how she was going to break it to Rel'Kor without the first officer becoming violent. When the Captain had first suggested the idea, her plan had been to make the 'interruption' rather more subtle. But now Rel'Kor thought that there had been a real disruption to the crew's performance, and she could tell from his expression that he was even more annoyed by what had apparently happened than she had suspected.

She had, it seemed, overdone both the details of the fake call and her seductive behaviour during the game itself. Distracting him from the pale-skinned human woman, Halvorsen, had been even easier than she had expected, and he seemed to have become quite fixated on Laska herself.

Which hadn't been the plan. Except... now that she thought about it, was it such a bad thing? A delicious possibility rose to her mind, unbidden. If there was one way to break the news to a fuming Rel'Kor that she had just lied to him (under Captain's orders, but still...) then surely it would be to give him what he wanted?

After all, he hadn't looked that bad with his shirt off...

"I need something from my room," she told him.

"What?" He scowled, growling out the question. "Why?"

"I just do. Medical matters."

He snorted angrily. "Very well. Whatever. I will meet you in the sick bay."

"I'll need you to carry some of it."

"What? Seriously? What the baQa' have you left in your room?"

But she was already half way down the corridor, and declined to answer. With a huff, he followed her, feet clanging heavily on the deck plating. A junior officer hurriedly ducked out of the way as they approached, evidently not wishing to be caught anywhere nearby. 

Finally, they reached the door to her cabin, and she jabbed the door open, stepped inside, and span around to face Rel'Kor. She grabbed onto his loose armoured jacket and heaved, yanking him off his feet and into the room. Another pirouette and she slammed him up against the wall beside the door, hitting it hard enough to raise a considerable bang.

Instinctively, he reached for a dagger, but the next instant she was pressed up against him, pressing her mouth against his, a passionate kiss with tongues and teeth. He was frozen with surprise for a few seconds, but then re-sheathed his knife and thumped the door control so that it slid shut, closing them both in.

"I lied," she said, pulling herself away from him, forcefully pulling his jacket down around his shoulders, "there's no medical emergency. Nothing happened."

"Uh..." he looked confused, heavy brows creased in puzzlement.

"I could see you liked what she saw," she took a step back, and threw off her own armour, "do you really think I didn't too?" Her hands pushed up inside his shirt, running over his muscular belly. "I don't know if you could wait, but I know I couldn't."

He growled again, but this time with a lusty rumble, before pulling her back to him and pulling up her own shirt. They tussled, arms grabbing at clothing and flesh, teeth nipping at lips, necks, and shoulders. Soon, both their shirts were off, and Rel'Kor grabbed for the fastening of her bra.

Instead of letting him do that, she ducked, crouching down on her knees, reaching for his remaining clothes. He growled with approval, shifting his hips away from the wall, making it easier for her. With a sudden move, she yanked his trousers and shorts down around his knees, baring his crotch.

According to the medical texts Laska had read, Klingon males were better endowed than those of almost any other humanoid species. She had no idea whether that was really true, or just boasting on the part of the authors, as seemed entirely plausible. Whatever the truth of the matter, she did know, as much from experience as from the text books, that the average erect Klingon penis measured about 18 centimetres in length.

Rel'Kor, it seemed, was well above average.

She slid her hand along his length, rubbing the prominent ridges against her fingers, before gripping the head and giving it a tight squeeze, to Rel'Kor's evident enjoyment. She moved her hand back down to the base, where a thick hatch of hair surrounded the hard carapace of his scrotum, before pulling his cock down slightly so that she could slip its tip between her lips.

The first officer let out a groan of satisfaction, gripping her shaven head with one hand as the other clenched and unclenched against the wall. His hips began to move, forcing his length further into her mouth, her tongue greedily feeling out the ridges on his shaft. She looked up, to see his eyes fixed on hers, a hunger burning in them that had little to do with affection, but much to do with raw animal desire.