Captain’s Log, IKS Bardur.
One month following the incident with the enemy vessel from an alternate reality, the IKS Bardur, has been tasked with what Starfleet Command describe as a “routine livestock transfer.”
I have chosen not to interpret this as an insult.
Officially, we are transporting twelve live Targ from Framheim station to the Klingon agricultural outpost on Kethra Minor, where settlers are attempting to rebuild their breeding stock after a recent infection swept through their herds. Unofficially, Kurnath assures me that this task was assigned to the Bardur because we are ‘available, intimidating and already smell of burnt meant.”
Tal’kor has taken this explanation poorly.
The crew, however, seem pleased. Several have made claims about tarb husbandry which I strongly suspect are exaggerated truths. Drenak insists that he understands targs better than most warriors. Bow has already asked whether any of the animals are ‘spare’.
The Bardur continues to recover from her recent trials. Repairs are not fully complete, tempers are short, and the ship itself remains prone to complaint. Perhaps this mission will provide a period of calm.
I have, of course, ordered additional security around the cargo hold.
I am no fool.

—–

The first sign of trouble was the scream.

Not a warriors scream. Not a warning. Not the cry of someone meeting their death with honour.

It was long, high, panicked sound that echoed along deck seven and caused three young warriors to drop their ration trays, one engineer to strike his head on an open panel, and Bow to look up from a pot of broth with professional interest.

“That,” Bow said, lifting his ladle, “was not a person.”

Ka’rek stood beside him with a bowl in each hand. “How can you tell?”

Bow listened carefully as the scream came again, followed by a crash, a metallic clang and what sounded very much like someone shouting, “It has my boot!”

Bow nodded gravely. “Because people rarely scream with their teeth full.”

A second later, the corridor doors slid open and a young Klingon burst into the gallery wearing only one boot, half his armour missing and an expression of profound personal betrayal.

Behind him came a targ.

It was not a large targ, which somehow made the situation worse. A large one had dignity. A large one charged, gored, and died in songs. This targ was low, compact, bristling and moving with the confidence of something that had just discovered corridors.

It had the missing boot clamped in its jaws.

The crewman pointed at it. “That one!”

The targ stopped, turned its head slightly, and growled around the leather.

Bow looked at the targ.

The targ looked at Bow.

Bow slowly lifted his ladle.

“No,” he said firmly.

The targ considered this.

Then it bolted beneath the nearest table, taking the boot with it.

Ka’rek lunged. The targ reversed. Ka’rek struck the table with his forehead and went down with enough force to rattle the bowls. The targ shot out behind him, leapt over a crate of root vegetables, bounced of the lower shelf and vanished through the open galley doors.

There was a moment of silence.

Bow looked at the bootless warrior.

“How many?” he asked.

The warrior swallowed. “All of them.”

Bow lowered the ladle.

“All of them?”

“The cargo handler opened the restraint field to inspect one” the warrior said. “Then another bit him. Then one of them hit the control panel. Then the others…”

A distant alarm began to wail.

Ka’rek, still on the floor, raised one hand. “Permission to remain unconscious.”

“Denied,” Bow said. “Get up, the hunt has begun.”

—–

On the Bridge, Captain L’rena sat very still.

This had become known amongst the bridge crew as the most dangerous expression their commanding officer possessed. Rage was manageable. Amusement was survivable. But silence was a blade ready to be unsheathed.

Tal’kor stood beside her, staring at the tactical display as if it had personally dishonoured his bloodline. C

“Twelve targ, loose?” he said.

“Yes” L’rena replied.

“On my ship.” He said.

L’rena turned her head a fraction, “My ship.”

Tal’kor accepted the correction with a grunt but his expression did not change.

At the helm, Hoban was doing a very poor job of not smiling. Trang, at science, had already brought up internal sensor readings and was watching them with a fascinated horror.

“They’re moving through the ship in groups,” Trang reported.

Tal’kor turned on him, “They are animals.”

“Yes,” Trang said. “Social animals.”

Trang then glanced at the display. “And at present, commander, they are also controlling deck seven.”

The bridge fell silent.

Ka’rella, at tactical, looked deeply offended. “They are what?”

Trang moved his display onto the main viewscreen. Several amber indicators moved through the internal schematic of the Bardur. Three were clustered near cargo bay two. Two had entered a maintenance junction. Once was moving in circles around the secondary armoury. Another was in the galley.

The final six were heading aft.

Drenak’s voice came over the comm. “Bridge, why are there targ in my engineering accessways?”

L’rena closed her eyes briefly.

Tal’kor leaned toward the command console. “Because the cargo hold has failed.”

“The cargo hold did not fail,” Drenak snapped. “Someone failed near the cargo hold. There is a difference.”

A loud snorting noise came through the channel, followed by Drenak shouting away from the comm, “Do not chew that, you little son of a diseased furnace.”

There was a crash.

The Drenak continued. “One of them had taken a plasma coupling.”

Kaylee’s voice sounded somewhere near him. “It’s using it as a club!”

Another crash.

Tal’kor’s fist tightened. “Captain, I request permission to assemble a hunting party.”

“No weapons,” L’rena said.

Every warrior on the bridge stopped what they were doing at looked at her.

“No weapons?” Ka’rella repeated, as though the words were in a foreign language.

“They are cargo,” L’rena said. “Valuable cargo. Alive cargo. We will deliver them alive.”

Tal’kor’s face darkened. “Captain, with respect, one of them had already conquered engineering.”

“It had not conquered anything.” She spat.

Drenak’s voice returned over the comm, “That is yet to be decided.”

L’rena stood. “Stun batons, restraint nets, portable forcefield emitters. No blades, no disruptors. Recover the animals.”

Tal’kor straightened. “And if they resist?”

L’rena looked at him.

Tal’kor’s shoulders sand very slightly. “We will recover the animals,” he said.

—–

Rin’Tal had always believed herself ready for battle.

She had trained with blades, rifles, improvised weapons, broken bottles, and once, during an argument on shore leave, a chair. She understood the movement of opponents. She understood fear, anger, and the sharp bright line between hesitation and victory.

She did not understand targs though.

The first one came at her from an access panel.

There was no warning. One moment the corridor was clear. The next, a panel burst outward and a bristling shape shot from the wall, collided with her knees and sent her crashing onto her back.

Ka’rek, walking behind her with a restraint net, looked down. “Are you alive?”

Rin’Tal stared at the ceiling, “do not speak.”

The targ, meanwhile, had recovered faster than she had. It shook itself, snorted, and trotted away with a proud wobble.

Ka’rek raised the net.

Rin’Tal grabbed his ankle. “Not that way.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” she continued, “that way is where it wants you to go.”

Ka’rek frowned. “It is an animal.”

Rin’Tal sat up slowly. “So are we.”

This sounded wise enough that Ka’rek hesitated. That was when the targ returned with two more. They stood at the end of the corridor shoulder to shoulder, tusks low, eyes bright, bodies quivering with the promise of bad decisions.

Ka’rek took one step back.

Rin’Tal stood.

The three targ charged.

Ka’rek threw the net too early. It landed over the first targ, which immediately rolled, twisted and somehow emerged wearing it as a cloak. The second targ went between Ka’rek’s legs. The third bounced off Rin’Tal’s thigh, ricocheted into the wall and continued running as if that had been the plan from the beginning.

Rin’Tal grabbed for the net cloaked targ, it bit the edge of her sleeve and pulled.

She pulled back.

The targ growled.

Rin’Tal growled louder.

The targ blinked.

For one glorious moment, victory seemed possible.

Then Ka’rek, still attempting to recover his dignity, stepped backward onto the trailing edge of the net. Rin’Tal lurched forward, the targ lurched backward and all three of them collapsed into a heap.

The targ escaped first.

Ka’rek escaped second.

Rin’Tal remained on the floor with the net over her head.

From somewhere above her, Ka’rek said, “I think it respected you.”

“I am going to kill you,” she replied.

Ka’rek smiled, “Me or the targ?”

“Yes,” she replied.

—–

In engineering, Drenak had removed his armour.

This was usually a sign that something mechanical was about to lose an argument.

Kaylee stood on top of a console, holding a diagnostic wand in one hand and a length of cable in the other. Below her two targ circled the base of the console with their noses pressed to the deck.

A third targ had wedged itself under the main coolant manifold and was making a soft grumbling sound.

Drenak pointed at it. “That one had sense.”

Kaylee stared at him. “It’s blocking the coolant purge line.”

“Yes. A defensible position.” He replied.

“It has also eaten the insulation off three cables” Kaylee called.

Drenak looked down. “A flawed but bold strategy.”

The targ under the manifold sneezed. The lights flickered and Kaylee’s smile vanished. “That was important insulation.”

Drenak crouched, bringing himself level with the animal. His voice softened in a way Kaylee had never heard before. “Come out, little warrior.”

The targ watched him,

Kaylee looked between them, “Are you negotiating?”

“I am establishing dominance,” he replied without breaking eye contact.

“You are crouching on the floor and making your voice gentle,” she said.

The targ sneezed again.

Drenak extended one hand slowly.

The animal did not bite him.

Instead it flinched.

Drenak stopped.

The entire room seemed to change around him.

Kaylee noticed it too. The humour in her expression faded. The targ tucked itself tighter beneath the manifold. Not aggressive. Not stubborn. Afraid.

Drenak’s eyes narrowed.

He shifted closer, careful now, and saw the marks along the animals flank. Dark bruising beneath its bristles. A raw line where a restraint strap had cut too deeply. One tusk- was cracked near the base.

Kaylee saw his face. “What is it?”

Drenak did not answer at once.

The targ made a small sound. Not a growl. Not a challenge. A whimper.

Drenak’s hand closed slowly into a fist. “Who loaded these animals?” he asked.

Kaylee climbed down from the console more carefully than before. “Cargo manifest says handler named Brok, son of Metak. A civilian. He same aboard at Framheim with them.”

Drenak’s voice went low.

“Find him.”

—–

Brok, son of Metak, had taken refuge in cargo bay two.

This would have been more impressive if cargo bay two had not been the place where the problem had started.

He was a heavy shouldered Klingon with a broad face, a badly wrapped bite on one forearm, and the offended expression of a man who believed that the universe owed him obedience. He stood near the damaged transport crates shouting at two junior warriors.

“Do not stand there looking stupid! Get the prods!” he shouted.

The warriors did not move. Partly because they had not been given orders by anyone they respected. Mostly because Bow was standing behind Brok with a carving knife in one had and a bowl of chopped root vegetables in the other.

Bow cleared his throat. Brok turned.

“You,” Brok snapped. “Cook. Good. These beasts respond to hunger. Bring meat. We will bait them back into the crates.”

Bow looked down at the vegetables, then at the knife, then at Brok. “I am not merely a cook.”

Brok snorted. “On a ship, everyone is what their station says they are.”

Bow smiled. It was not a comforting smile. “Then, you are cargo.”

Brok took one step toward him. “I am the handler of these animals.”

“Yes,” Bow said. “I am beginning to understand that.”

Before Brok could respond, Drenak entered the cargo bay. He did not hurry.

Kaylee followed behind him carrying a medical scanner. Rin’Tal and Ka’rek came in from the other door, both dishevelled. Ka’rek had a bite mark on one sleeve. Rin’Tal had targ hair stuck to her shoulder and murder in her eyes.

Drenak stopped in front of Brok. “The animals are injured.”

Brok shrugged. “They are targ.”

The cargo bay became very quiet.

Drenak took one step closer.

Brok either did not notice the danger or was too foolish to respect it. “They bite. They fight. They are moved with force. That is how these beasts learn.”

Bow set the bowl down.

Ka’rek slowly moved behind a crate, which showed rare wisdom.

Drenak spoke softly, “A targ learns loyalty.”

Brok laughed. “A targ learn pain first. Loyalty comes when it understands who hold the prod.”

Drenak hit him.

It was not a dramatic punch. It was not accompanied by a shout or a speech. It was a short, sharp blow to the centre of Brok’s face that dropped him onto the deck like a badly stacked freight.

Rin’Tal looked at Ka’rek.

Ka’rek looked at Bow.

Bow looked at the fallen handler.

The Bow nudged the bowl of vegetables slightly away from Brok’s hand.

“Contamination risk,” he explained.

Brok groaned and tried to sit up. Drenak seized him by the front of his jacket and hauled him halfway off the floor.

“You brought frightened, wounded animals aboard this ship,” Drenak said.

Brok spat blood. “They are property.”

Drenak’s lip curled. “So is a blade. Only a fool leaved one rusted.”

The comm chirped.

L’rena’s voice filled the cargo bay. “Report.”

Drenak did not look away from brok. “We have found the cause of the disturbance.”

“The targ?” L’rena responded.

Drenak shook her head, “No.”

There was a pause.

“Explain.” She asked.

Drenak released Brok, who hit the deck again with less dignity than before. “The handler abused the animals. They did not escape because they are wild, they escaped because they were afraid.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

When L’rena spoke again, her voice changed. “Secure him.”

“With pleasure,” Rin’Tal said.

Brok looked up. “You cannot detain me. I am contracted by the outpost.”

Ka’rek stepped forward with the restraint net.

Brok’s eyes widened. “Do not use that on me.”

Rin’Tal smiled. “It has already failed against three targ. I am curious to how it performs against cargo.”

—–

By the end of the first hour, the Bardur had recovered five targ, lost two restraint nets, damaged one access chute, temporarily sealed off deck seven and issued a shipwide warning that all personnel were to stop attempting to feed animals “to gain their trust.”

This warning had been necessary because three crewmen had separately tried to lure targ using ration meat, blood pie and in one case a bowl of spiced noodles that someone had smuggled on board from Framheim.

The spiced noodles had been the worst decision.

The targ had eaten them, sneezed, panicked and sprinted through a maintenance corridor with such force that it knocked open multiple storage lockers and released six emergency flotation devices.

The Bardur did not need such things, no one knew why they were on board, a water landing in the middle of the emptiness of the galaxy was hardly possible.

Drenak claimed they came with a previous refit and had been waiting for a worthy moment to prove themselves.

On the bridge, L’rena reviewed the latest damage report.

Tal’kor stood beside her, jaw tight.

“A livestock transfer,” he said.

“No mission is routine on this ship,” L’rena responded.

Trang turned from science. “Captain, internal sensors now show seven targ contained in cargo bay two. Three remain in engineering. One is still in the ventilation system.”

“And the twelfth?” L’rena asked.

Trang hesitated.

Tal’kor looked at him. “Where is the twelfth?”

Trang adjusted the display. A single amber light blinked. Tal’kor stared.

“That is the captain’s mess.”

L’rena rose from the command chair. Very slowly.

Hoban suddenly found the helm display very interesting. Ka’rella leaned over her tactical display, her shoulder shaking.

Tal’kor drew himself upward. “I will retrieve it.”

“No,” L’rena said.

“Captain…” he responded.

She did not reply and instead turned toward the rear bridge hatch.

Ta’kor followed. “At least take a security team.”

L’rena stopped at the doors and looked back.

“I am the commanding officer if the IKS Bardur. I have faced assassins, traitors, Starfleet admirals, temporal madness and my own engineering reports. I will not be defeated by a targ.”

The doors opened.

From somewhere down the corridor came a distant crash.

Then the unmistakable sound of a weapon racked being nocked over.

L’rena’s eyes narrowed.

“However,” she said, “bring bow.”

—–

The targ in the captains mess had found her secret stash of snacks.

It now stood in the centre of the table, surrounded by destruction, with purple juice across its snout and the proud glazed expression of a creature that had discovered luxury and judged it acceptable.

L’rena stood in the doorway.

Bow stood beside her holding a pan and Tal’kor stood behind with a stun baton.

The targ chewed.

L’rena stared. “That fruit,” she said, “was a gift!”

Bow looked at the table. “It appears to have been accepted by the targ on your behalf.”

Tal’kor lifted the baton but L’rena lifted her hand to stop him.

The targ swallowed and snorted.

Bow tilted his head. “This one is not frightened.”

“No,” L’rena said.

The targ lowered its head and pawed at the table.

Tal’kor’s voice became hopeful. “Now?”

“No” she said again.

The targ charged.

Not at them.

Across the table.

It skidded through the fruit juice, crashed into a serving tray, launched off the far end, struck Tal’kor directly in the chest and nocked him backward into the corridor.

The stun baton clattered across the floor.

Bow looked down at the first officer.

Tal’kor lay flay on his back, eyes open with the targ standing on his armour.

No one moved.

The targ burped.

L’rena covered her mouth with one hand.

Bow turned away with heroic speed.

Tal’kor spoke from the floor. “If either of you laugh, I will kill everyone on this deck.”

The targ licked his chin.

L’rena lost the battle first. It was not loud. Barely more than a breath. But it was enough.

Bow followed, shoulders shaking.

Tal’kor closed his eyes. “I hate this mission.”

The targ, apparently satisfied with its conquest, stepped off him and trotted calmly toward the corridor.

Drenak appeared at the far end. He crouched and opened his arms.

The targ ran to him.

Tal’kor sat up slowly, purple fruit juice on his armour.

Drenak lifted the animal with surprising care. It settled against him, grunting softly.

L’rena’s amusement faded as she saw the way Drenak held it. Protective. Angry beneath the gentleness.

“This one is bruised too?” she asked.

Drenak nodded.

Bow’s face hardened.

Tal’kor got to his feet, dignity badly wounded. “The handler is secured?”

“In cargo bay two,” Drenak said. “Rin’Tal is watching him.”

Tal’kor looked mildly comforted by that.

L’rena stepped closer to the targ. The animal looked at her with purple stained suspicion.

“They were not cargo,” she said.

“No,” Drenak replied. “They were prisoners.”

The corridor seemed quieter now.

The comedy of the chase remained, but beneath it something uglier had been uncovered. Aboard a Klingon ship, pain was not unfamiliar. Blood was not feared. Discipline was expected.

Cruelty, however, was something else.

L’rena engaged her comm, “Bridge, this is the captain. Inform Kethra minor that the deliver will be delayed. Also inform them that their contracted handler is under detention pending investigation.”

Trang’s voice answered. “Understood.”

Tal’kor stepped forward. “And the targ?”

L’rena looked at Drenak as he gazed down at the animal in his arms. The targ sneezed purple juice onto his sleeve and Drenak nodded solemnly.

“The targ,” L’rena said, “will be examined, fed and treated as guests of the Bardur until we determine who among the outpost can be trusted with them.”

Bow smiled slowly. “I will prepare a meal.”

Tal’kor glared at him.

“For the targ,” Bow clarified.

The glare remained.

“And perhaps for the crew” bow said, smile widening.

L’rena turned back toward the ruined captains mess. The table was scratched. The fruit was gone. The floor was sticky. A painting depicting a great battle was in tatters and her chair now had bite marks.

She drew a long breath.

“One month ago,” she said, “we faced a warship from another reality.”

Drenak grunted.

Tal’kor said nothing.

Bow looked at the wreckage and nodded.

L’rena continued. “Today, we have been defeated by a group of targ.”

The animal in Drenak’s arms made a small satisfied sound.

Drenak looked down at it with growing approval.

“Not defeated,” he said. “Tested.”

Tal’kor wiped the fruit juice from his armour. “I preferred the warship.”