Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

take c-c-care of herself.”
    “You wouldn't be saying that unless she was doing something dangerous!”
    Barclay backpedaled as the Doctor followed him around for the second time. “You're putting words in my mouth . . .”
    The Doctor vectored back and met Barclay at a corner. There, he stopped him with a grip on both arms and a bulletlike glower. When he spoke, there was no more pretense, no more dancing or fishing or any other hobby.
    For an organized collection of photonic particles, he had a hell of a grip.
    “Tell me where she is, Reg.”



CHAPTER 5

    A K LINGON FORTRESS ON A CRAGBOUND MOON . T HERE WERE A thousand rumors about what these makeshift strongholds really looked like. Even to this modern day, few humans had been allowed the right to pass within such monolithic respositories of survival and tradition. Klingons were volatile and not particularly resourceful, so when they found something that worked and stood the test of time, they stuck with it. Such was the case with rock shelters. They still used them, even though modern construction methods were perfectly available to them.
    The moment Kathryn Janeway materialized inside the fortress, she smelled the telltale odor of synthetic rock. Apparently Korath wasn't so stuck in tradition that he was beyond making use of some modern conveniences. Synthetic silk, synthetic ivory—why not synthetic stone?
    Torchlight confused her eyes briefly, compounded by the whine of transporter beams, which always set Janeway's teeth on edge. Though she didn't have to, she usually held her breath during transporting. No idea why. Just a reaction, slightly troubled by the idea of leaving her shuttle on autopilot in orbit. The vehicle was secured by code and every other available trickery, but she still found herself wishing there were a living accomplice up there, just in case.
    The moon had no atmosphere, which meant this place had to be airtight and secure—another good reason to go technical. The scent of artifice gave her a thrill of confidence. She could understand this manner of living. The image of the primitive was fake, and probably shored up by plenty of mechanics to stabilize everything from life support to aesthetics. She could work with that.
    Before her as the fortress came into form she made out the dim figures of two Klingons—easy enough to identify just by the torchlight-backed silhouettes—and the smaller, less-armored form of Miral Paris between them.
    Beyond them was a corridor of jagged stone lit by wall torches. The effect was decidedly medieval, yet the stones had an artificial sparkle and gloss along their edges.
    “Welcome to the House of Korath, admiral,” Miral said, speaking firmly and loudly, to establish beyond doubt that Janeway was to be accepted here.
    “I love what he's done with the place.” Janeway's voice echoed.
    The Klingon to Miral's left suddenly erupted,
“Guv'ha gor! Nu'Tuq mal!”
    Miral snapped to him and barked,
“P'Tak! Gaht bek'cha tuq mal gun'mok!”
    The Klingon fixed his hands into a set of claws at his sides, but otherwise made no other threats. Miral skewered him to some silent promise, then approached Janeway without either of the guards.
    “What was that about?” Janeway asked. She had picked up a couple of words, though the delivery said more.
    In the torchlight, Miral's one-quarter of Klingon blood seemed to show more in the soft brow ridge on her forehead than it did in ordinary light. Or perhaps the effect of this place was simply working on Janeway's imagination.
    “He said your demeanor was disrespectful.”
    Janeway glanced at the Klingons. “I hope you told him I didn't mean to be rude.”
    “I told him if he didn't show
you
more respect, I'd break his arm.”
    With a little chuckle of admiration, Janeway shook her head. “You're your mother's daughter.”
    Miral beamed, but managed not to smile. That might've been taken by the Klingons as a sign of weakness at this juncture. “Korath's waiting. We should go in.”
    So much for small talk.
    The girl started to lead the way through the caverns, but Janeway put out a hand. “Sorry, but this is where we part ways.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You're dismissed, Ensign.”
    “Admiral, I really think—”
    “I can take care of myself.”
    Miral pivoted to face her. “With all due respect, I've been working on this for six months!”
    “And you've done an exemplary job. But it's over. Understand?”
    Miral Paris had grown up on the decks of