“This is ridiculous,” Tikva said as the gaggle of officers walked through the main street of Handl Dryf, the crowd parting in the face of the Orion and Nausicaan escorts provided by station security travelling ahead of the Starfleet Security surrounding the core of officers. She had with her Commanders Gantzmann and Terax and considering the circumstances they were marching to, what could only be called a full honour guard of security officers ringed around them.

Upon hearing of a formal challenge between a Klingon and Starfleet officer, it hadn’t taken long for the station administration to get in touch. Administrator Dryf had been keen, demandingly so even, to prevent violence on the street. If there was a fight to be had, it would have to be had in the proper fashion. 

That fashion it turned out was a fighting arena located on the station. For the entertainment of those that liked that sort of thing Dryf had insisted. It wasn’t illegal within the Alliance he had continued, before exclaiming that he didn’t need to explain himself to the Federation. A Ferengi station, in Ferengi space, run by a Ferengi. His money, his rules.

In truth, with the makeup of station security being as it was, an arena for fights made sense. Orion, Nausicaan and even Klingon mercenaries acting as the roughs that kept the peace needed to be allowed to blow off steam in a controlled fashion. As well as being a source for gambling and paid entertainment for the Ferengi who ran the various businesses on the station, or the tourists they were fleecing for all their worth. The latter of course being the most important to the likes of Dryf and his fellow Ferengi. The former, controlled violence lending to peace, was just an added bonus.

“Perhaps,” Adelinde said as she marched through the station. Her height next to Tikva was one thing, but it looked like Ch’tkk’va had selected officers of exceedingly average height for the Starfleet escort just to emphasize Adelinde’s height. She’d dropped the standard uniform for gear more suited for the gym – dark grey leggings, a tight black sleeveless top with ‘ATLAN’ in bold white print across the front and back and sneakers which occasionally squeaked on the decking.

But the most ridiculous part of her get-up was the doru spear she held, tip straight up, and the aspis shield on her other arm, bearing a blue and white colouring with the Academy logo and a graduation year rendered in the same on the front. That had been lifted off of the wall in Tikva’s quarters without complaint before the shorter woman had a chance to even offer it.

And Adelinde swore she wasn’t psychic.

All she was missing was the cuirass, greaves and helmet to complete the look.

“An honour duel, just to simply sell the alliance to his people,” Tikva continued to complain as they walked.

“If it works,” Terax half-growled from behind both women, the Edosian just towering over Lin when standing at his full height, “and brings even a single Klingon house into the fight, then I have no objections.”

“I…get that,” Tikva said after a momentary pause, considering her words when replying to Terax. “But don’t we have enough reasons for them to get involved in the fight anyway? Hor’keth agreed with us on all points. This is just…performance art. Performance art where someone is going to get seriously hurt.”

“It’s Klingon politics,” Lin said. “He wins, he gets to say that Starfleet is weak and clearly needs a proper guiding hand in this fight. That House Lorkoth forces will get to throw themselves at the Dominion and claim honour and glory protecting a weakened ally and before the KDF can rally itself to the cause. I win and he’s honour bound to commit whatever he can to the fight, either because the Federation is strong and is calling the Empire to the mat, or because I personally demand it of him.”

“Ridiculous,” Tikva repeated. “Just,” she trailed off for a moment, then reached out to wrap a hand gently around Lin’s wrist, “don’t kill him.”

“Shouldn’t you be worried about Commander Gantzmann instead?” Terax asked.

“Terrified,” Tikva answered. “But if anyone can pull this off, it’s her.”

The saloon that had been found aboard Handl Dryf was completely and utterly out of place. It belonged somewhere, anywhere else. And to call it a saloon was wrong as well. It leaned into the Old West concept of a saloon for inspiration but that was about it. The sign outside, glowing in red neon and well cared for, declared the place as ‘Roger’s Saloon’ in Federation Standard but then went about repeating it in smaller signs in a variety of other languages.

The place was more a novelty kitschy family restaurant than a saloon, though it did seem that families were more confined to one side of the establishment and everyone else to the other, with a large dual-sided bar splitting the two, the bar’s back wall acting as the divider with a few cut-outs to let staff move from side to side with ease.

“What can I get ‘cha?” the rather bubbly young man asked as he approached Tikva and Mac, standing and waiting at the little sign that read ‘Please wait to be seated’ in no less than thirty distinct languages.

“We have a private room booked,” Tikva stated. “Under the name Walsingham.” She’d had to look that up after Rosa Mackeson had informed her of the name she’d made the bookings under. The young woman had a sense of humour. One she approved of.

“Ah, excellent, your guest has already arrived. Please, this way.”

“Already here. That’s a promising start,” Mac said with a smile. “Here’s hoping that what Fightmaster managed to turn up is accurate.”

“No doubt about it.”

“Oh, I do not doubt that Fightmaster did a thorough job of collating what he could. I’m worried about the quality of data he had to work with,” Mac clarified. “This guy has been in fights with no less than ten different ambassadors.”

“He’s also honoured every deal he’s made, including picking a fight with an elder member of his own house to ensure that what he agreed to was kept to.” Tikva found herself quickly in the middle of the waitstaff leading and Mac following as they progressed through the restaurant towards the back. “After sending the Federation diplomat he was negotiating with to the hospital,” she conceded.

The place was packed, with a variety of species present. Ferengi hunched over a table, platters of food that looked like a mushy take on tapas while whispers of profit and indexes and other financial sundries floated on the air. Humans, Orions, Andorians and a handful of other species sat mixed at a variety of tables, meals in various states, all discussing some matter or another. Two Klingons sat at another table, ladened down with what looked like barbeque ribs, though the size of the ribs hinted at something larger than a pig as the source. All the food on display looked a variety across both quadrants and all of it looked appetizing.

Roger’s Saloon offered a very large and varied menu, catering to almost any guest that could walk through the door at any time. And all with either a family-friendly appeal or a safe business appeal, care taken to sit what could be considered volatile entities away from each other. How the peace was kept and enforced was a secret that would hopefully and ideally stay with the operators.

Finally shown through to the private room, Mac and Tikva both stepped in to find a single Klingon sitting at the table within. Food had been ordered, a variety of small dishes weighing the table down, carafes of drink strategically placed to be within easy reach of all three seats. Scents of meals and delicacies from Earth and Qo’nos mixed in a rich aroma that brought one’s mouth to water.

“Captain Theodoras,” Captain Hor’keth, son of Tela’bur, of the House of Lorkoth, said as he stood, a large and friendly grin on his face, arms wide in greeting. “I took the liberty of ordering a selection from the menu.”

The arena was simply known as The Pit and was evidently well-used. The floor was coated in what looked like a fresh layer of sand, evenly spread across the surface. The walls looked to have taken many a beating over many years of confined combat. The first row of seats started just over three metres from the arena floor, to make sure guests were safe, even with the obvious forcefield separating combatants and guests.

It wasn’t a large fighting space, maybe twenty-five meters across at most, but it was large enough for single combat, or small groups as were scheduled for later today according to the announcer. Hor’keth and his second were already there when Tikva, Lin and Terax walked through the door on their side of the arena.

This was the last chance for combatants to talk or arrangements to be made by seconds before everyone would retreat and let the fight take place. Not that that was likely. Arrangements after all had already been made, this was after all just a performance and not one that Tikva had considered when she agreed to let Hor’keth sort out how he’d sell the arrangement to his people.

Now she understood why he’d been in fights with so many diplomats. And why the Diplomatic Service had flagged him as ‘agreeable if dangerous’ in the files that had been in Atlantis’ computer.

For his part the Klingon captain was standing feet apart, arms crossed, grinning. His second was impassive, bearing his superior’s bat’leth. “I had no doubt you’d show,” Hor’keth said, addressing Lin and Lin only. “I give humans this, when you challenge someone, you tend to follow through.”

Lin stopped a third of the way across the arena, much like Hor’keth had, dividing the width of the space into three equal distances. She tapped the doru hard into the ground, the metal tip pushing sand aside and clanging against the deck plate. “Apologise, take back what you said and we can both go to the nearest drinking hall instead.” She used the same impassive professional tone she used when on duty, keeping emotion from her voice.

“Ha!” barked Hor’keth. “I like you!” He held out a hand, this second handing him his weapon of choice for this fight. “A shield and spear? An interesting combination to use against a bat’leth.”

Before Lin could respond Tikva stepped forward. Hor’keth’s second went for his weapon at the challenge, stepping forward before being stopped by Hor’keth holding his bat’leth flat across the other man’s chest and nodding to let this happen. Tikva approached so she could speak without shouting. “We don’t have to do this, you know. There has to be another way to convince your people.”

Hor’keth chuckled briefly, then stepped forward, towering over Tikva. “You need ships and warriors now. We don’t have time to dance and play subtle politics. This is a time for bold actions. Your par’mach seems to understand that better than you.”

Tikva stood there, staring up at Hor’keth for a handful of seconds. “Did you bring your own doctor?”

“No. I knew you would bring one,” he answered, tossing a look to Terax, who was busy whispering something to Lin. “Though I won’t be needing his services.” He laughed slightly to himself. “I’ll try not to scar her face.”

“Chicks dig scars,” Tikva answered. “I’ll tell her to go easy on you.” And before he could respond she stepped back and then returned to Lin.

“Guessing he didn’t back down?” Lin asked, looking over Tikva and straight at Hor’keth.

“No.” She then stepped right up to Lin, up on her tiptoes, reaching for Lin’s top with both hands. With a tight grip, bunching the top up in her hands, she pulled Lin down into a kiss, earning hoots and whistles from the gathered crowd before breaking it. “Kick his ass.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lin said with a deadly grin.

“The Dominion?” Hor’Keth asked around the skewer he was ripping meatballs off. “In the Deneb Sector?”

“The Breen border raids are just a cover for a much larger attack. A cover being propagated by the media and Starfleet Command for some reason,” Tikva answered. She, like Mac, had loaded her plate with a helping of food from across the dishes that Hor’keth had ordered. None of it had been the more interesting, or still alive, varieties of Klingon cuisine at least. “Best theory, supported by quantum scans, is that the Dominion ships are the Lost Fleet.”

“Ah,” Hor’keth said with understanding. “So they still think the war is ongoing. And any attempt at peace is some sort of desperate Federation lie.” The waved the decimated skewer around, pointing it at the two officers before him. “But if it’s just this Lost Fleet, surely Starfleet could handle the issue on its own, yes? Twenty-five years of advancement, rebuilding, and training. Starfleet has never been stronger than it is today.”

“Politics,” Tikva offered. “And Fourth Fleet command has suspicions about possible Changeling infiltrators delaying a total and comprehensive Starfleet response.” The meeting had turned quickly into a working meal, initial pleasantries had finally given way to the guts of the matter.

“The Founders – they have no honour,” Hor’keth growled. “It will be difficult to convince the High Council if Starfleet Command is denying what a single Fleet Command is saying. And the Empire is suffering its own internal problems as well. We’ve been at peace for too long. The houses, great and minor, are eyeing each other for conquest. Young warriors desire a chance for glory and with no external enemy, no chance at Romulan conquests now, we are left with only two worthy foes – the Federation and ourselves.”

“So let’s give them one,” Mac said. “As you said, it would be hard to convince the High Council to act, but what about just your house or even a segment of it? Come forth, join the fight, and find the irrefutable proof you need that the Dominion are back, the mighty foe that threatened both our nations. It’ll be a little hard for the High Council to deny you when House Lorkoth troops all sing the same song and you throw the heads of a few Jem’Hadar at their feet.”

Hor’keth stared at Mac for a moment, then laughed. A mighty bellow of a laugh. Hearty and full, with cheer as an underlying emotion. “Now I hadn’t thought of that!” He reached for one of the carafes and refilled his drink while discarding his empty skewer on a plate and grabbing another. “My house at the forefront, fighting and killing Jem’Hadar. Oh, the glory to be had! And afterwards so many dispossessed would flock to our banner. That thought, that concern, would make the Great Houses act if this drags on. They’d have to rally if just to protect their reputations.”

“But Lorkoth would still be leading the way,” Tikva added.

“Stop, stop,” Hor’keth said with a laugh, setting the carafe down and waving his now free hand. “You’ve sold me on the fight. I was asked here to discuss supporting the Federation in a conflict. Did you honestly think there was much doubt I’d agree?”

“A little,” Tikva said. “We knew about the Empire’s internal political situation and it was a consideration that it might sway the Empire into not acting.”

“The old targs on the council perhaps, but not me.” He leaned forward. “I have thirty vessels nearby, ready to come to your aid.”

“Thirty?” Mac asked, then looked to Tikva. “The Lost Fleet was supposed to number in the thousands.”

“Don’t doubt my people boy,” Hor’keth growled, then eased when Mac offered a conciliatory look and raised hands in apology.

“Thirty is a good start,” Tikva said. “But if this is the whole Lost Fleet, we’re going to need more if we want to hold, let alone retake the Deneb Sector.”

“Then you’re in luck that I have three KDF regular ships in my number as well. They’re along to…supervise.” The way he said that last word made it very clear he was unhappy with that situation. “I’ll put them out front. They can see what’s really out there, then report to their masters and the Chancellor. And if I’m lucky die with honour.”

“With friends like these,” Mac muttered.

“Who needs friends when you have allies?” Hor’keth demanded with a smile.

“I’ll take it,” Tikva said. “But maybe let us not waste ships we’ll desperately need?”

“If you want my forces to assist, I’ll have to sell it though. Even some within House Lorkoth are ambivalent to the Federation as of late,” the Klingon continued. “Most of the junior officers would follow me to Grethor and back, but some of the captains are a trickier matter.” He drank from his mug, in a very Klingon manner, the dark blue liquid spilling past and down his front, his uniform protected by a now very stained napkin he’d tucked into his collar, formerly white with ‘Roger’s Saloon’ and a cowboy riding a bull screen printed on the fabric.

It was at once very and not very Klingon to behold.

“Leave it with me,” he declared. “I’ll think of something.” He then leaned forward over the table; the skewer of meatballs he’d been wielding for a bit held out in examination between all of them. “Just what is a Swedish? And why do you make balls of its flesh?” he asked. “Because it is delectable.”

“Oh, a fearsome beast,” Mac started straight away. “Let me tell you…”

“How did Captain Hor’keth lure Commander Gantzmann into challenging him?” Terax asked as he and Tikva both stepped out of the arena. The door sealed behind them and a porter who was waiting held out a hand to guide them to the side room, a slit along the wall at head height allowing them to look out at the arena.

During a programme of fights combatants would wait here, each waiting their turn, able to watch those that went before spilling their blood, or someone else’s, upon the sand and metal. The room smelled of sweat and oils with a tang of metal to it.

“Invitation.” The answer was straight to the point. Tikva had stepped up to the viewing port in the wall and her eyes settled on Lin out in the field. Terax knew from her tone not to probe, but after only a few moments, the announcer blaring something, she continued. “Messaged her directly, inviting her to a drinking hall. He was purposefully disparaging my character to his men when she arrived.”

“She’s a Starfleet officer, she knows better.”

“She does,” Tikva replied. “She also knows what type of manipulator Hor’keth is and the last strategic assessment we were sent. And what he said to Mac and I when we first met him.” Her tone was icy cold. “He has better intelligence on my crew than I care to think about.”

Terax huffed at that, stepping up beside his captain and arching his back so he could look through the viewport alongside her. “Don’t suppose Admiral Beckett provided him with dossiers when he sent out the initial invitations, do you? Gave Hor’keth everything he needed to manipulate us into manipulating him to join the fight?”

The announcer finished his piece, a statement was then read out in Standard, Klingon and Ferengi, setting the terms of the fight, the grievance behind it – the minutia of ritual combat. It took nearly a whole two minutes before Tikva spoke once more as Lin and Hor’keth started circling. “Fucking bastard,” she spat. “I’m going to –“

Her communicator chirped, cutting her off. “Mitchel to Theodoras,” Lieutenant Gavin Mitchell’s voice emitted from the device.

“Theodoras here,” she replied.

“Ma’am, we’ve got a,” he paused for a moment, “foundational issue.”