copyright 1999 Karyn D. Van Kainen "Oh, sh--!" Corry plunged forward, her two bags flying off on separate trajectories, and with a terrific ruckus she tumbled down the ramp and landed in a heap at the bottom of the gangway, her dress flung up about her shoulders. "God," she uttered, struggling to determine which way was up. Before she had a chance to regroup, numerous strong hands took her by the arms and plucked her to her feet. "Are you injured?" Corry brushed hair away from her eyes and looked up into the stern face of the Klingon woman. "I don't think so," she answered, trying very hard to recover what remained of her dignity. She would have much preferred to crawl away somewhere and die, but, unfortunately, that was not an option. Corry could feel her face flushing furiously. "I caught my heel," she explained, slapping dirt from the front of her clothing. She tried to hurry past the moment, past the humiliation that was constricting her chest. "I'm all right now," she said, "really." The Klingon woman exchanged brief remarks with the enormous Klingon warrior who was hovering nearby. He turned to retrieve Corry's bags from the tarmac, and the woman looked once more at Corry. "I am Keya-mor," she said. "I have been ordered to welcome you to Kronos on behalf of the High Council." "Corrine Rousseau," Corry replied, extending her hand. The tall, dark-eyed woman gazed at it a moment, then reluctantly reciprocated. The handshake was nothing more than a momentary contact of palms. Keya-mor swiftly withdrew, looking slightly violated. "I will direct you to your quarters. Follow me." With that, Keya-mor whirled and headed across the tarmac. Her huge companion waited without expression, holding Corry's bags. Avoiding his eyes, Corry hurried after Keya-mor, limping slightly, and the big man stoically fell in behind her. In this manner, Corry was led away from the landing fields and down a cavernous walkway into the enormous complex which was the Klingon Military Command Center. Baleful stares trailed her through the complex. Muttered comments critically appraised her fair skin, lack of height, blonde hair, inadequate breasts, and the likelihood that she would break in two during intercourse. Corry pretended not to hear, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the Klingons, and managed to maintain a dignified visage all the way to her quarters on the western end of the complex. Keya-mor led her to a large suite. Typical of Klingon disdain for creature comforts, the furnishings were sparse, but adequate, the lighting within dim and unpretentious. A basket of dark bread and a carafe of water had been set out on a table near the bed. "Your rooms," said Keya-mor, directing her within. "Thank you," Corry answered, "I'm sure that--" "Your meeting with the council advisors is scheduled for 1700 hours," Keya-mor told her, apparently having no desire to engage in small talk. "If you require anything else, an aide will assist you." "Thank you," Corry repeated, suddenly as anxious for the Klingons to leave as they appeared eager to be gone. The man carrying Corry's bags stepped forward and deposited them with a whump at Corry's feet. He paused long enough to offer Corry a bland, unreadable glare, then he turned and followed Keya-mor out of the room. The door slid shut behind them with a soft whoosh. Corry uttered a loud sigh, relieved at their departure. She hobbled over to the bed, sat down, and pulled up her skirt to examine her wounded left knee. "Corry," she muttered to herself, "I don't think you're in Kansas anymore." ************ With customary Klingon punctuality, there came a banging on her door at precisely 1655. An aide stood on the other side, ready to escort her to her meeting with the council advisors. Corry gathered her documents and followed the huge man to a chamber not far from her quarters. Inside, seven men and women hovered around a long, ornate table, conversing with one another in loud, harsh tones and using sharp gesticulations for emphasis. Someone uninitiated in Klingon customs might have concluded that they were having a very heated argument, which seemed on the verge of breaking down into a full-scale brawl. However, Corry had spent months studying Klingon mannerisms in preparation for this assignment. Therefore, she knew that even friendly discussions between Klingons could be loud and intense, occasionally even violent. The Klingons considered it a sign of strong character to be able to express great emotion, while still controlling it, and it was a skill which they practiced and demonstrated to their peers at every opportunity. Corry took it as a bad sign, however, that the boisterous conversation abruptly ceased when she entered the room. For a long moment, no one spoke. The seven Klingons stood gazing at the new arrival with that uniquely Klingon expression of thoughtful sizing up. Corry refused to flinch under those speculative stares, though internally her adrenaline level rose significantly. Actually, this was only her second personal encounter with Klingons, the first being a brief introductory meeting with the Klingon ambassador to the Outer Territories. Corry had disliked him intently. She was not sure whether she felt that way because she, like most everyone in the Federation, had been taught to despise and distrust Klingons in general, or if it was because the Klingon ambassador reminded Corry of a sleazy used transport salesman. Either way, it took all of her well practiced diplomatic skills to keep her personal feelings about the Klingons from showing, a courtesy the Klingons did not see fit to reciprocate. They made no effort to hide their distaste for her, and everything she represented. Corry stood just inside the doorway and waited for one of the individuals to greet her. The Klingons would consider her grossly ill-mannered if she simply walked up and imposed herself on their conversation without being invited. One of the Klingon men muttered a sharp remark, and though Corry did not understand the words, the tone of his voice spoke for itself. He was silenced by a glance from the tallest man in the group, and it was this man who finally stepped forward to acknowledge her arrival. "You are the emissary from Basedea?" he demanded. "Yes," Corry nodded. She gazed up, awestruck at the Klingon's imposing size. Notions of Gulliver in the land of giants flickered briefly through her head. "Corrine Rousseau," she finished. "I am Brigadier Kerla," he said, "military advisor to the High Council." "I'm honored to be here," she replied. "My government wishes me to extend its warmest regards to Chancellor Azetbur, and to the members of the High Council." "Join us," said Kerla. Corry was introduced to the other council advisors, whose greetings ranged from noncommittal to openly hostile. After the introductions, the group seated themselves around the huge table. Corry felt much more at ease once everyone was sitting, and she could address the Klingons without the added intimidation of having them all hovering over her. She glanced around at their expectant faces. "The Basedean Board of Governors has reviewed your proposal," she told them. "I'm pleased to inform you that they are most impressed with your offer." This inspired a brief round of satisfied rumbles from the Klingon delegates. Noticeably, Brigadier Kerla did not join in. "As you know," Corry continued, "Basedea is primarily a trade center for Federation colonies and allies in the outer quadrants. We rely on merchants from many neighboring systems for resources that our planet doesn't provide. The moon you wish to colonize, Brukka, is very similar to Basedea, perhaps a bit less temperate--" "Then your government has accepted our proposal?" Kerla demanded, having no interest whatsoever in Brukka's climate, temperate or otherwise. Corry gazed across the table at the man, swallowing a rush of annoyance at the way the Klingons constantly interrupted her. Again, it was merely a cultural difference. The Klingons felt obliged to listen only if they agreed with or had a particular interest in what you were saying, or if your social status warranted such a courtesy. Without breaking eye contact, Corry carefully replied, "Your offer will be accepted, with a few revisions." The fallout was instantaneous, loud and angry, but brief. Kerla hushed everyone by slamming an open palm on the table, causing Corry to jump as the impact traveled all the way down to her end of the table. The Brigadier spoke with calm control, watching Corry closely. "What revisions, specifically?" Corry strove to duplicate the military advisor's steely control, determined above all not to allow the Klingons to intimidate her. Corry had been an emissary for six years, and before that she had worked as a chief consultant for the Basedean Trade Commission. She had faced all sorts of negotiating situations during that time. Sometimes you had the upper hand in a deal, giving you the enviable advantage of not having to compromise. This was one of those times. And for all their posturing, the Klingons knew it as well as she did. Corry did not drop her eyes under Kerla's scrutinizing stare. "We require language referring to the construction and testing of any new weapons systems," she told him evenly. "My government made this clear to you when we began our negotiations, yet you failed to address this issue in your proposal." "Your demands are ridiculous," spat Colonel Tarah, who represented the Klingon secret police. "What is the purpose of establishing a colony which you cannot defend?" "No one is asking you to," Corry replied calmly. "We have no objection to your defensive weaponry. But weapons systems which are clearly offensive in nature are objectionable to my government. I'm afraid our position on this issue is unshakable." "And by whose criteria will you determine if our weapons are offensive or defensive?" demanded General Kah, commander of the Klingon space fleet, her eyes narrowing to burning slits. "Those criteria were determined long ago by the Federation," Corry responded. "The guidelines are very clear. If you intend to colonize in Federation space, you will have to conform to these guidelines. All we are asking is for your assurance that you will conform. Without it, there can be no agreement between our governments." "So, here it is," said Kah with a dismissing wheeze, addressing herself to the Klingons, "another thinly veiled attempt to dismantle our military and colonize us neatly under the thumb of the Federation." "With all due respect, General Kah, I think you're exaggerating the magnitude of the Federation's control," said Corry, finding it hard to keep the indignation from her voice. The issue hardly seemed worth the Klingons stubborn resistance. "Am I?" barked Kah. "Yes, I think you are," Corry replied. "Every member of the Federation agrees to live by its articles and treaties, but we are not sheep, General Kah. The articles of the Federation leave us free to direct our own lives. Without a system of basic laws we could never get along together." She leaned forward, folding her hands. "All my government is looking for is your assurance that you intend to colonize our space in peace." "Peace," snarled the general. "How you humans love to throw that word around. I say you are sheep, that you--" Kerla, who had been observing the whole exchange with great interest, saw that matters were about to get out of hand. Two raps of his knuckles on the tabletop silenced General Kah and restored order. "We are getting off the topic," he told them quietly. General Kah breathed a loud, angry sigh but did not offer further argument. Kerla's eyes returned to Corry. "Does your government have a counter proposal?" Like the general, Corry took in a breath and reigned in her temper. "The Board of Governors has instructed me to present this counter proposal for your consideration," she replied, handing a thick document to the nearest advisor, who passed it down the table to Brigadier Kerla. "They are hopeful that the High Council will find it agreeable." Corry sorted through her papers, supporting documentation of similar treaties from other Federation worlds, and prepared to debate the particulars of the new proposal. For a long moment, Kerla simply gazed at her with an unreadable expression. Then he leaned forward and touched a button on a small console affixed to the tabletop. Momentarily, an aide appeared at the door. "Leave us," the brigadier told Corry. "We will review your proposal." "I beg your pardon?" Kerla watched her closely, but did not reply. Corry stared, a sudden, intense rage roiling up from somewhere deep in her gut. I'm being dismissed, she marveled. Kerla was gazing at her with that calm, thoughtful, and slightly amused look on his face. The other Klingons watched her in silence. For what seemed like an awfully long time, Corry was frozen in her seat, indignation and fury dueling for supremacy in her innards. Then, with an effort, Corry gathered her papers back together, rose and headed swiftly for the door. When she was almost there, Kerla said, "We will summon you when we have a reply." Corry paused, drew in a breath and turned back to face the assemblage. She met Kerla's eyes and calmly answered, "You do that." ************ Dad was right, Corry thought internally. Maybe I'm not the right person for this job. A full ten minutes had passed since she'd been escorted back to her quarters, and Corry was still fuming around the room, her footfalls echoing dully on unpolished metal, the sounds reverberating off the walls where a single piece of artwork -- a dark, twisted thing with the hard angles and stone inlays which typified Klingon art -- broke up the otherwise undecorated room. "A girl with your temper shouldn't come within twelve parsecs of a Klingon," her father said the day she told him they had offered her the assignment to Kronos. The words had rolled right off. Dad hated the Klingons. The very notion of a Klingon colony in Basedean space had thrown the man into a fit. Naturally, he didn't want his only daughter sent to the Klingon territories to negotiate a treaty. He'd reminded her of the stories about the way Klingons abused their human prisoners, and the special atrocities they reserved for human women. Corry had heard it all before. It was obvious that her father didn't appreciate Corry's ability to rise above the prejudice with which she'd been raised. And as far as her temper went, Corry had struggled to overcome that personality flaw her entire life. It was disheartening to hear her own father say that he didn't think she could handle it. But, maybe he was right. Corry sighed, kicking her shoes into a corner. She had fought so hard for this job, and now she was letting her damned temper get the best of her. She pulled her dress uniform over her head and threw it on top of her shoes, her anger suddenly turning inward. When she thought of the strings she'd had to pull, the butts she'd had to kiss to beat out that guy, Cullens, for this assignment. They had both known what this job could do for their respective careers. Successfully negotiating a treaty of this magnitude could easily lead to a full ambassadorship, perhaps even an appointment to the Federation Ambassador Corps. Cullens had even gone so far as to offer to postpone his engagement to that woman -- what was her name, from Sandshed, the one with the frizzy hair? Corry blew out a short laugh, tearing open her bag and rummaging for a nightshirt. Right now, Cullens was probably honeymooning on some fabulous Orion moon with his frizzy-haired wife. And I'm stuck here with these damned, stinking-- In the midst of the thought, Corry was blinded by a brilliant orange flash of light from the window over the bed. She pulled on her nightshirt, then climbed onto the bed to look outside. Two suns were setting in the distant horizon. The huge primary was burning like a savage, red colossus low on the horizon, while a smaller secondary sun still hung above, a less impressive orange orb throwing rays of yellow into the sky at its summit. The skyline was smeared in fabulous colors; blue overhead which became splashed with pink and opalescent purples, and then flaming corals and reds at its deepest edge. The city surrounding the military complex had taken on a soft and surreal appearance. The once functional and uninteresting buildings were now bathed in brilliant ochre's and deepening shadows, and took on a mazelike quality that beckoned exploration. All at once, Corry noticed a fascinating abstraction in the design of the buildings, unique shapes, turns and angles that had escaped her notice before. There was expression in the architecture, in the way the buildings were formed and positioned, the materials and colors they had used. Corry's anger dissipated so surreptitiously that for several minutes, as she enjoyed the progressing sunset, Corry didn't even realize that it was gone. When the realization did come, she found herself wondering why she had been so angry in the first place. Corry pondered this one a while. Yes, the Klingons were stubborn, smelly, rude, and infuriating. True, they treated her like something slightly less respectable than a good hunting animal. No, they were not impressed with her arguments about the virtues of the Federation or her governments perfectly reasonable concerns about the offensive weaponry. But Corry had expected all of that, had spent months preparing herself mentally and emotionally for interacting with the Klingons; for the way they might treat her, and her instinctive fear of their great size and intimidating cultural eccentricities. Corry watched as the primary sun began slipping beneath the horizon. It suddenly struck her that the reason this sunset was so incredibly beautiful was because the atmosphere of Kronos was loaded with particulate debris, the aftermath of the explosion on Praxes. The upper atmospheres were rapidly deteriorating, their delicate chemical balance destroyed. The only reason she was here at all was because the residents of Kronos would perish in a matter of months, unless they found homes elsewhere. Corry watched the second sun set on a dying world, and felt a sudden, profound sadness. This was accompanied by a feeling of relief that it was someone else's world that was dying, not hers. And bringing up the rear were hard pangs of guilt for such a selfish thought. Suddenly exhausted, Corry settled back and rested her head against the window frame. She watched in quiet wonder as the flaming sunset began to burn itself down into a magnificent ember. Truthful self-exploration was always painful, and Corry took no pleasure in the realization that she had come to Kronos fully equipped with her own set of prejudices, expecting to find subdued, humble Klingons anxious to take whatever crumbs the more fortunate Federation was willing to drop from its table. Brukka was just such a crumb. Truth be told, Basedea's moon was barely one step better than a wasteland. If Brukka was at all hospitable, or in any way valuable in either climate or natural resources, someone would have colonized it long ago. Corry cringed inwardly, as the answer to her question suddenly was clear. The reason you were so angry, Corry's conscience informed her, sparing no disparagement, is because you believe the Klingons have come to you with their hat in their hands to beg for a place to live. The truth is, they'd rather die than be treated that way, and you can't stand it. Corry closed her eyes with a soft moan, unable to argue with her conscience. Not only was Dad right, her inner voice told her as sleep began to engulf her mind, you ARE Dad! Chapter Two The air was heavy, thick with the heat of the afternoon sun and the scent of dried grass baking under a summer sky. The hum of insects filled Corry's ears, and the intensity of the sunlight made her eyes water a little as she fell back into the prickly grass, which had long since turned from green to a parched shade of brown. The suns rays penetrated her clothes, and made her exposed skin tingle in mild protest. I'll have a hell of a sunburn if I stay out here much longer, she thought, but couldn't summon the initiative to get up and go inside just yet. The white light, the heat, the buzzing drone of summer in the air were intoxicating, and Corry allowed them to carry her along like a cloud floating in the summer sky. In only a few weeks the seasons would begin to change, and the long Basedean winter would descend upon their homestead; the days short and gray, the nights bitter under icy stars. Corry absorbed the sun rays as if storing them internally for the cold and sunless months ahead. As she lay there, Corry began to notice a slightly acrid aftertaste in the air. Scowling, she opened her eyes. Corry blocked the sun with her hand, squinting into the afternoon sky. Wisps of dark gray swirled across the palette of blue. Corry rose, following the line of swirling gray. It became darker, thicker as she turned, following it to its source. A cry escaped her throat. Their homestead, the big house with its ugly solar panels, the barn and silo, were all engulfed in raging flames. Fire leapt wildly from the second floor windows, and black smoke poured from the roof and up into the summer sky. Small figures were running between the buildings, her father and two younger brothers. As Corry watched, transfixed with horror, there came a deep, muffled explosion from somewhere in the house and a huge section of the structure collapsed. Flames and thick black smoke gushed from the opening and swirled into the sky. Time seemed to be standing still. Corry could not move, as if her body had become rooted to the ground. The small figures seemed miles away as they ran frantically between the burning buildings. Panic-stricken livestock crashed out of their pens and scattered in all directions. Corry's father appeared to be dragging the garden hose toward the house. Just then, riders on horseback swarmed into Corry's field of vision. She could see the ominous shapes of rifles slung against the riders backs. "Dad!" Corry managed to haul herself to her feet, her body feeling weighted with lead. She headed at a drunken run toward the homestead. Up ahead, the riders descended upon the homestead at a full gallop, and Corry watched her father drop the garden hose and stare at the approaching horsemen in dumb surprise. "Run!" Corry screamed, her voice sounding as if she were light years down a black hole. "Dad, run!" Sharp cracks of small weapons fire filled the air. Corry screamed again, the sound lost to her ears. Two of the riders whirled to look in her direction. Spurring their mounts fiercely, they came galloping toward her incredibly fast. With a fearful cry, Corry attempted to change direction, but her feet slid out from under her and she fell sidelong into the hot summer grass. Sudden, intense pain shot through her left arm. The stench of burning material, the thunder of approaching horses, the shouts of men filled and overwhelmed her senses. Corry lifted her eyes. She saw long, dark hair flying in the wind behind prominently ridged foreheads, heard the delicate clinking of battle armor against leather and horsehide. The ominous hoof beats rose to a deafening thunder, a roar which became a chilling alien scream-- ************ A huge hand clamped over Corry's mouth to muffle her cries, while a second hand grabbed her by the arm and hauled her from the bed. Corry struggled in disoriented panic. Shoving the hand from her face, she cried out in fear. "Quiet!" a voice commanded sharply. Instinctively, Corry continued to fight, trying to focus her eyes, her mind whirling as it floundered to comprehend this sudden exchange of one insane reality for another. She became conscious of people moving around her, of hushed voices speaking in Klingonese. The room was dark, but flickering light caught Corry's attention. Outside, fires lit the night time sky and burned in random locations throughout the city. The building directly across from Corry's window was fully ablaze. There was a brief volley of small weapons fire somewhere nearby, and the voices in the room grew sharper and more urgent. With mounting alarm, Corry frantically sought to disengage herself from that ironclad grip. "Let go of me!" she shouted. "Someone, hel-" She was silenced abruptly as the man holding her arm shook her, just once but very hard. So hard, in fact, that Corry's mouth snapped shut and she bit her tongue savagely. Corry yelped, tears of sudden pain swimming into her eyes and the nauseating, metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. She looked up, red-faced with anger and pain, and recognized Brigadier Kerla hovering over her, his dark eyes hard and unyielding in the flickering light. Bending closer, he repeated in a coarse whisper, "Be quiet!" Corry could do no more than glare at him in confusion and fear, clutching her wounded mouth. Then, all at once, she was being propelled forward, surrounded by Klingons carrying rifles and hand weapons. Corry was whisked away from her suite and down the hallway, through unfamiliar sections of the building toward and unknown destination. The only sound was the clank of the Klingons boots against the floor, and the slapping of her own bare feet on the cold metal. A distant explosion caused their pace to quicken. Panic twisted like a living thing in Corry's gut. She was hustled roughly through doorways and darkened passages, running to keep pace with the long strides of her captors. Kerla retained his painful grip on her arm, occasionally glancing behind them as if expecting pursuit. Corry stumbled and pitched forward. Kerla effortlessly put her back on her feet without missing a step. Corry's mind was whirling, frantically seeking an explanation for this sudden turn of events. She was panting, terrified, and yet she managed to draw a breath and utter, "Please, what's happening?" "Shh!" Kerla hissed, glancing backward again. Up ahead, Keya-mor stood in a doorway at the end of the hall, motioning them forward with a sharp gesture. They passed into a large building which resembled a parking garage. A vehicle rolled forward, and Corry found herself being shoved into a seat. Numerous Klingons piled in behind her, and before the hatch had completely closed the vehicle sped out of the building, roared down a ramp, and out into the dark streets of the city. Corry was breathless, cold, terrified, and her mouth was throbbing horribly. Beside her, Kerla leaned forward and barked orders at the driver. With a nod of acknowledgment, the driver gunned the engine, taking a right turn at breakneck speed and propelling the passengers sideways. Kerla braced an arm against the sideboard on Corry's left to keep from crushing her with his body. She met his eyes in that moment, unable to interpret his expression. The vehicle rocketed down a narrow dirt road, clearly leading them out of the city and away from any part of Kronos that Corry was even casually familiar with. Kerla lowered his arm and turned to converse with Keya-mor in the seat behind them. Corry discovered, with chagrin, just how limited her mastery of Klingonese really was. Kerla wanted to know something about another vehicle. Keya-mor's answer was beyond Corry's command of the language. There was a shout of alarm from the driver, and before anyone could react he slammed on the brakes, simultaneously jamming the control stick to the right. Passengers cried out as the vehicle spun hard, launching the stunned occupants from their seats and propelling them into the sideboards. Corry slammed into the back of the drivers seat, and was crushed by Kerla who was helpless to prevent it. For a terrifying moment, the vehicle seemed destined to roll over. Tires squealing in protest, the vehicle fishtailed violently several times, then miraculously righted itself. The driver stepped on the accelerator and they rocketed forward on a new course. While Corry was inwardly praising the skill of the fellow at the controls, the window directly above her head suddenly exploded in a flash of light and flying glass. In almost the same instant, the vehicle's rear window similarly exploded, sending shards of glass blasting through the interior. The driver pushed the accelerator to the floor, the engines screamed, and the car plunged onward at a horrifying speed. Muttering Klingon epitaphs, Kerla hauled himself up, drawing his weapon from its holster. Lights shone brightly into the vehicle, emanating from somewhere behind them. Corry pulled herself up far enough to see the headlights of another vehicle following them closely, the driver determinedly maneuvering to get alongside, their own driver just as determined to prevent it. It was like something out of a crazy nightmare; Klingons shouting excitedly, the vehicle swerving madly, the stench of superheated metal filling the cab. Brigadier Kerla, looking like some colossal enforcer, was silhouetted in the white glare of the pursuing vehicle's headlights. Blood pounded in her ears and, for a moment, Corry could have easily allowed herself to pass out. She shook her head, chasing the sensation away with an effort. Kerla moved to the back of the vehicle, aimed his weapon, and fired a salvo into the blinding headlights of the vehicle behind them. There were brief explosions, then the lights abruptly vanished as the other vehicle skidded out of control, careening off the road and crashing into a building. It disappeared in a flash of exploding fuel and flying debris. There were shouts of victory among the Klingons. Corry stared into the shrinking afterglow, which was rapidly swallowed up by the receding blackness stretching out behind them. For all she knew, Kerla had just obliterated her rescuers. A deep, sinking dread engulfed her and she sank back to the floor, suddenly feeling weak and nauseous. Once again, Corry felt herself on the verge of losing consciousness. This time, she wasn't inclined to fight it. Just then, Brigadier Kerla was hovering over her. He grabbed her by the collar of her nightshirt, hauled her up from the floor and put her back on the seat. Corry noticed for the first time a warmth on the side of her head. Touching it, she was surprised to find blood on her fingers. "Here," Keya-mor leaned over the seat. She pressed a piece of cloth to Corry's head. Taking Corry's hand and putting it in place of her own, she said, "Hold this, tightly." Passively, Corry obeyed. Keya-mor turned her attention to Brigadier Kerla. "My lord," she said, "we will never reach the rendezvous in this vehicle. They had more than enough time to transmit our description and heading." "I know," he replied without turning, then barked another order at the driver. In a moment, the car was pulling off the road. It skidded to a stop between two huge buildings which rose up into the night on either side like great, ghostly sentinels. To Corry, they looked like enormous factories, their facades solid and plain, without ornamentation or pretense, only spotted here and there with the small portals the Klingons seemed to prefer over windows. The driver killed the engine, plunging them into darkness. "You come with me," Kerla told Corry. He flung the door open. Corry did not resist as he pulled her from the vehicle, but the driver sprang forward to protest. Several others loudly added their opinions before Kerla silenced them all with a shout. Corry tried to absorb some of the conversation, but her mind was too numb to do much interpretation. Kerla barked a series of stern orders. There were grumbled affirmatives, but no further protests. With a yank, Kerla whirled Corry about and they headed off down the deserted street. Corry ventured a glance backwards as the vehicle roared, then sped off into the night. The sound of the engine quickly trailed off, and in just a few moments the street was silent once more. They traveled along that street for nearly half an hour without exchanging a word. Corry had to walk double-time to keep up with Kerla. They passed more huge buildings, then a wide expanse that was surrounded by what appeared to be electrified fencing. There were no streetlights, no moonlight to guide them. Corry could barely see the street in front of her, even after her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Kerla seemed to know exactly where he was going, but had no inclination to share that information with Corry. All at once, he turned and headed in another direction. He never slowed his pace, nor did he relinquish his grip on her arm. He headed tirelessly toward whatever awaited them, pulling Corry along with stoic determination. Corry moved as if in a trance. Her legs were cramping mercilessly, her lungs raw in the cold night air, her heart pumping furiously and beating like a stampede in her ears. Corry's wounded tongue throbbed, throwing stabs of exquisite pain through her mouth and down her spine with every step. Her bare feet were so numb from the cold and from pounding against the hard-packed surface of the street that she no longer had any feeling in them. Until, that is, she stepped on something big and sharp which penetrated the sole of her right foot and sank deep. Corry cried out, pitching forward, but Kerla held fast to her arm. "Keep going," he snapped, holding her up. "Wait, please," she cried. Corry hobbled to avoid stepping on the wounded foot, daggers of fierce pain coursing up her leg. "My foot.." "We cannot stop," he barked, grabbing her about the waist to keep her moving forward. "Do you understand?" "No, I do not understand, you big, dumb, son-of-a-bitch!" she hollered, suddenly more furious than frightened. She swung at him with both fists, as hard as she could. She aimed at his face, but her fists struck him in the chest instead. It felt like punching a brick wall, and probably did more damage to Corry's fists than it did to Kerla. He took her by the wrists, easily restraining her. "Stop it!" he ordered. A sob escaped her, and red-hot tears streamed unbidden down her face. "Why are you doing this to me?" she cried. Kerla answered, but his words sounded miles away. This time, Corry didn't even try to fight the blackness which swiftly engulfed her. The world swam, and Corry felt her body pitching forward into a dark and silent abyss.