Klingons To The Left of Me, Starfleet To The Right

Posted on 31 Mar 2017 @ 4:01pm by Ensign Miraj Derani

1,227 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Episode 14 - Statecraft
Location: IKS DuJa'Q
Timeline: MD11 all day, ending 2135

[ON]

Miraj went back to her quarters, rubbing at her sore arm. She didn't dare go anywhere else. She was sure Chorag was watching her. She had said she was going to sleep, so she went through the motions, changing her uniform for her pyjamas. She caught a glimpse of her arm in the mirror. Klingons were so strong! Chorag's fingers had left small purpling bruises around her upper arm, and more on her shoulder. She scowled at them. Bastard didn't have to be so rough.

Her mind swirling she lay down. How could she warn anyone with Chorag listening. He could be listening now. Was he waiting for her to betray him? Was he lurking in the corridor outside for her to call LIrha or Ban, and rush right in to cut her throat? She felt her heart start to pound with anxiety. She had to calm herself. She remembered Allyndra's advice. Ice volcanoes, she thought, and summoned the memory of soaring through a sky made of diamonds and raining a kaleidoscope in ice and quartz. She closed her eyes, feeling her heart calm, seeing again the shimmering light, like being caught inside a rainbow, a tiny slice of celestial beauty in the mortal sphere.

She opened her eyes again when her alarm went off

Miraj sat up, shocked she'd even managed to fall asleep. It was seven am. Probably no more than twelve hours to the neutral zone and she still had no answer! "Bollocks!" she shouted, throwing the covers back and pulled her pyjama top off so fast it ripped "Bollocks!" she snarled again, and dragged her uniform on, jumping up and down to settle the legs in place. She had to get food, and act normal. She had to go to her shift. But she had to warn people. How could she warn people when she couldn't speak?

She was pondering that all the way to the mess for a bit to eat. Hell's Bells there were Klingons everywhere ! Before she hadn’t really noticed them, hadn’t dared to look, knowing there’d be nothing but glares and contempt for weak little Starfleet. But now. Now it was like they all knew, they were all watching. She took her usual breakfast of bland fruits and swallowed them down as best she could, and went to her shift, miserable and alone.

At her console she felt around surreptitiously, and found the compartment Chorag had told her about. There was no weapon in it. She obviously wasn’t expected to murder Lirha in the next eight hours. It was scant comfort. She had to find away to warn them. She sat at her console, rubbing her arm, and turning it over and over and over as the Neutral Zone got closer and closer.

Then it came to her. Telepaths! She sat up in her chair. That was how to do it! Telepaths wouldn’t need her to speak. No machine could hear telepathy. Then she slumped down again. There weren’t any Betazoids on board that she knew of. The counsellor was a half-Vulcan, and she knew there were a couple of Whole Vulcans floating around. But weren’t Vulcans touch-telepaths?. She couldn’t just go up and causally touch a Vulcan. They weren’t the touchy feely type.

All through lunch, where she pushed her food around her plate trying to show willing, she thought about what she knew about all the crew, but couldn't think of one with the relevant ability. She went back to her console feeling wretched and miserable. She checked the compartment. Still no weapon, thank goodness.

The afternoon dragged on, and DuJa'Q flew ever closer to the neutral zone. She still had no answer to the pressing issue of the impending mutiny. When her shift ended she walked back to her quarters feeling utterly dejected. Utterly defeated. Dropping down on her bed, she rubbed at her arm and stared at the ceiling. “I bet you’re enjoying this.” she told DuJa’Q. The ship decline to comment. “Did you know? Of course you knew. You see everything, don’t you, you tricksy bitch.”

She sighed and threw her non aching arm over her eyes. What could she do? Nothing. No. She wasn’t going to accept that. The hero of her favourite novels, Captain Bloodbeard, wouldn’t have given up. He’d have come up with something crazy daring. Or Staines would have found a way to shoot their way out, or Bates, the sailing master, would have come up with some sort of navigation trickery. She could hardly pull that right now. Roger would have done something clever, like write a note.

It was like being struck by lightning. Miraj sat straight up. Write a note. It was so simple. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? ”Lack-brain,” she scolded herself. “Total idiot.” She went for her padd, then stopped herself. Chorag could probably read anything sent by his own equipment, and she hadn’t brought a Starfleet one. They’d been lost with the Galileo. She needed something to write with, and on. She looked around her room. What could she use?

She went over to the replicator. What could she ask for that wouldn’t raise suspicion. She racked her brains to think of what she might use. She had no idea how to make ink. But she needed anything that could stain that wasn’t obviously a painting or colouring medium. Rokeg blood pie. That would do it. A small dish of the rusty brown delicacy arrived in the slot. Her stomach recoiled at the smell. But when she stuck her finger in it, it left a red-brown stain across her skin.

It was served with a knife and two pronged fork. She used the knife to pare off a sliver of material from one of the chairs, and shape it into a a nib. It wasn’t as soft as plastic, or as hard as wood. Hopefully it would serve the purpose.

All she needed now would be something to write on. Just ordering paper would probably be grossly suspicious. She drummed her fingers against the replicator housing. The model was old and didn't have much and all of it was very klingon.

She sighed, nothing she recognised would fit the bill. Nothing that would fold small enough, or nothing that would take the stain. She dropped back on the bed, and shifted slightly to get the balled up top of her pyjamas out from under her bum. She'd just left them there that morning after they'd torn. She held the silky soft fabric in her hand.

And realised she was holding the answer. Silk! Silk was painted on all the time. So it would take a stain from blood pie, and she could squash it down small to pass it to someone. She laughed out loud. Fate was being more than kind. She glanced at the clock. Maybe an hour before they reached the neutral zone. She had to work fast.

She had everything she needed. She pulled her now mutilated chair up to the desk, and started to scratch out her desperate warning, hoping it wouldn’t come too late.

[OFF]

Ensign Miraj Derani
Chief Flight Control Officer
IKS DuJa'Q

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