The Sato Series, Episode 3: a new Frontier

“What happened here?” Kieran asked.
“It’s a long story,” Naomi put in, taking Kieran’s arm. “We’re all exhausted. Please, take us home,” she begged.
Kieran’s gaze shifted around to each of the women in the room. “Why do I have a feeling I don’t really want to know why you’re bleeding?” she asked P’Arth.
“Oh, don’t fret, Lukara,” she returned. “I was showing Kit some bat’leth techniques and she got very good, very fast,” she fibbed. “It was an accident.” She smiled. “Take your lovely wives home. They have spent the evening convincing me the wormhole belongs in Romulan space, and tomorrow, we can wrap up our negotiations.”
Kieran was stunned. “Just like that?”
P’Arth smiled. “Your wives are very persuasive women. Remarkable, as well, as is fitting,” she added as an indirect compliment. She waved them out of the room. “Now, Kit,” she turned back to Kieran’s daughter. “I believe you have a work detail to tend to. I suspect there are several liters of Klingon blood awaiting your gravity mop.”
Kit smiled. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t fight back. Why you didn’t teach me a lesson,” she added contritely.
P’Arth considered. “I understand anger. I understand the turmoil of youth. And I understand perfectly why you hate me. In your position, I would hate me, too.” She sighed. “But I caused your mother enough heartache when we were children. I will not compound it now.”
“Would you have let me kill you?” Kit asked softly, golden eyes horrified at the prospect.
P’Arth laughed gently. “Kit,” she said reproachfully. “I trusted you would not. You are, after all, Kieran’s daughter.”
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Detara had not slept for fuming over the dismissive way P’Arth had sent her back to the ship. She paced the floor of her quarters, thinking of Lenara Kahn. P’Arth was so impressed with her, with her work, and Detara was suitably jealous. She wondered what was taking her mistress so long to return to their ship.
She remembered the first time P’Arth had made love to her, when she had been barely of age, and she asked if P’Arth wore Mor’dehK’s mark at her throat. P’Arth had said the mark was not Mor’dehK’s, and she had forbidden Detara to ever ask again about it. Detara was relatively certain the blood-bonding scar was from Kieran Wildman. When P’Arth spoke of Kieran it was always with a melancholy air, a restless, longing expression. Detara thought it was scandalous that a woman of P’Arth’s stature—a hero of the Empire—would stoop so low as to bond with a mere human being.
P’Arth hailed her after she had beamed aboard, ordering her to P’Arth’s quarters. Detara swallowed her anger and forced herself to a more demure attitude. She walked across the corridor to P’Arth’s door, awaiting entrance.
“Come,” P’Arth growled. She advanced on her vassal in a threatening posture. “You arrogant taHqeq,” she said, slapping Detara across the face. “Get up!” she shouted, yanking the young woman upright again. “Trill are educated, you worthless piece of baktag! Doctor Kahn understood every word you said. She is fluent in our language,” P’Arth advised her, slamming her own forehead into Detara’s. “You humiliated me. How dare you question her honor? Her motives?”
Detara cowered before the Chancellor. “I did not know she spoke Klingonese,” she defended herself. “Chancellor, I am sorry,” she offered, wiping the blood from her lip.
“You are fortunate I did not kill you where you stood,” she hissed angrily. “But Doctor Kahn actually worried because you disliked her. ghuy’cha’ baka!” P’Arth threw Detara back on the couch in her quarters, shouting “veQ!”
P’Arth stormed out of her quarters, her footfalls echoing outside on the deck plating. Detara dared not move a muscle. P’Arth returned momentarily, Keh’grang in tow. She went into her bedroom, and emerged again with a small metal band in her fingers. Keh’grang opened his trousers without being told, and P’Arth affixed the metal band around the base of his penis. “She is yours,” she told him. “If she resists you, do as you like with her,” she added.
Detara looked at P’Arth as though the Chancellor had just fed her to the wolves.
P’Arth sat in a chair, watching as Keh’grang shredded Detara’s clothing, then removed his own. Detara’s face was hard as stone, her body unyielding, but it didn’t stop Keh’grang from taking her, mounting her right there on the couch while P’Arth watched. Keh’grang was a powerful lover, and P’Arth knew Detara despised him. She also knew Detara was a virgin, and untried by any man. He clawed and bit her, thrusting wildly into her, crying out like an animal seeking release. But the metal band at the base of his member kept him from climaxing, prevented his satisfaction, and the more frenzied he became, the more frustrated he grew, as well. Detara prayed for his seed, anything to end his sweating, writhing hips from pounding into her, but P’Arth had made certain Keh’grang would not be able to take his pleasure. She would not allow Detara to become pregnant, or Keh’grang to take what was hers.
When Keh’grang collapsed from exhaustion, still throbbing and unsated, P’Arth led him to her own bedroom, where she removed the device. “Lie back,” she instructed him, shedding her clothing.
He waited on her bed, watching as she straddled him, eyes closing as she settled onto his girth. “Thank you,” he breathed, desperate for release. He controlled himself admirably, considering his peak had been held at bay for the better part of two hours. P’Arth had used the device to train him, so that he never failed to satisfy her, and now he was, like most Klingon men, able to sustain his sexual technique for extended periods. If Keh’grang was disappointed at not being allowed to climax with Detara, he never let on. He watched P’Arth riding him, mesmerized by the sight, and her own frenzied cries.
Detara cried into her hands, listening to P’Arth taking her pleasure with Keh’grang. Her body ached from his penetration, and her heart ached from the betrayal. She knew she would be very lucky if P’Arth didn’t dismiss her the next morning altogether, and send her home in disgrace. And it was all because P’Arth couldn’t divorce herself from her obsession with Lenara Kahn, with the Federation, with Starfleet. After everything Detara had done for her, all the ways she had made P’Arth a success, this was her reward.

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Kathryn Janeway threaded her fingers together, nodding to the delegates. “Let’s get started. Chancellor P’Arth,” she addressed the Klingon, “I have a compromise proposal for you that may not be everything you had hoped for, but please, hear me out.”
“Please, Ambassador,” P’Arth bowed her head in acknowledgement.
“I propose that we agree to the terminus of the wormhole’s placement in Romulan space, but that you, as leader of the Klingon high council, accompany the Sato on it’s trip through the wormhole, as a symbolic gesture of our unity as an alliance—so that you would enter Romulan space on our ship, and the Romulan delegation would meet us on the other side. In fact, the Klingons could be credited with initiation of the opening of the wormhole, Chancellor. And if you like, the Sato could include a representative of the Klingon Empire on its crew.”
P’Arth’s interest was piqued. “As a permanent crew member?”
“For the maiden mission, yes,” Kathryn agreed. “Mr. Worf would be an excellent choice.”
P’Arth looked around the room at the delegates, all of whom were waiting hopefully for her to capitulate. Kathryn, however, did not expect it to be so easy.
P’Arth nodded. “I think your proposal is acceptable, Ambassador. Your most convincing advocate was Doctor Wildman, who was gracious enough to explain to me why Klingon space is less hospitable for the aperture than Romulan space. I admit, I did not understand the complexities of her theory, but I am duly impressed with her arguments, as well as her considerable charm. The Sato is fortunate, indeed, to have such a noteworthy scientist as part of her crew complement. And while I agree that Mr. Worf is an excellent choice to accompany Sato on her maiden voyage to the Beta Quadrant, the high council may very well insist on a native Klingon being the one to go. This is, after all, an auspicious achievement for all of our peoples,” she said proudly. “And a Klingon so closely aligned with Starfleet would not be quite the symbolism fitting the moment.”
Kathryn inclined her head. “I am certain it can be arranged.”
The Romulan delegate spoke up. “If the Klingons have representation on the crew of the Sato, on its maiden voyage into the Beta Quadrant, the Romulans should be accorded the same privilege.”
Kathryn looked at P’Arth. “Do you have any objections to that?” she asked.
“I think the noble delegate from our sister world is absolutely correct. A Romulan Ambassador beside a Klingon Ambassador is most appropriate,” she replied.
The Romulan inclined his head. “We would, however, be agreeable to having only the Klingon Ambassador on the Sato when it traverses the wormhole,” he allowed as a conciliatory gesture in exchange for P’Arth’s lack of opposition to the concept of a Romulan Ambassador.
“That is most gracious of you, Zegeer,” P’Arth said humbly. “My people accept your generous gesture.”
The moderator smiled, making eye contact with the member world delegates. “Is there anything more then?”
“Only one thing,” P’Arth put in. “I would like to extend my most humble thanks to all the delegates for their tolerance, and I would most especially like to thank the crews of the Sato and the Enterprise for their hospitality. I have enjoyed this trip immensely.”
Kieran tried to keep her tone neutral. “It has been our honor, Chancellor.”
“Well, then,” the moderator announced. “It would appear that we are adjourned. Chancellor, the agreement will be detailed and sent to your comm account for your thumbprint,” he added.
“Very good,” P’Arth agreed, smiling. She reached across the table to shake Kathryn’s hand. “Ambassador. It was a pleasure.”
Lenara shook P’Arth’s hand next. “I believe you and I have an appointment for a holophoto, Chancellor?” she asked.
P’Arth grinned ear to ear. “Excellent. Detara, did you bring the imager?”
Detara fairly glared at Lenara. “Yes, councilwoman. Shall we take the images inside or out in the atrium?”
P’Arth turned an imploring eye to Kieran. “If Captain Wildman has no objections, I’d be very pleased to take the image in your lab, Doctor,” she requested.
“It’s fine with me,” Kieran agreed. “Ladies? Shall we beam aboard?”
Lenara walked between her wife and the Chancellor, Kit Wildman following with Kathryn Janeway. Kit was still puzzling over the night before, when P’Arth had nearly allowed Kit to behead her. But Kit had decided to try to reason through it after P’Arth was gone. She knew she would have to make an appointment to see a counselor aboard the ship. Her impressions were too jumbled to begin to sort out alone.
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Ro Laren sat in the furthest corner of the only bar on the Sato that could be described as a dive. It amused most of the officers that there was a demand for a place like The Back Alley, but Laren found it easy enough to blend into the darkened surroundings. Kit was with her wives, and Laren hadn’t the faintest idea how to distract herself from imagining them together.
The negotiations had ended on a high note, and Kieran was finally convinced that Lenara didn’t need a body guard 24-7, although Kieran was spending the evening with her wives, just as Kit was. Laren couldn’t very well run to Lenara to talk through her complex emotions. Getting drunk with P’Arth had helped the first time Kit had been with her wives. Laren was again drinking bloodwine, but she was cognizant that she didn’t want to make intoxication a habit. She had seen alcohol ruin lives and careers.
As if thinking of the Chancellor had summoned her, P’Arth entered the bar, placed her order, and made a beeline for Ro Laren.
“May I join you, Commander?” she asked politely, waiting to be invited to sit down.
“Of course,” Laren agreed, though she wished she could say no. “How did you find this place?” she asked, chuckling.
“I queried your computer to find you,” P’Arth answered. “I was hoping you might reconsider my proposition.”
Laren’s recollection was foggy, but she vaguely recalled P’Arth mentioning a position in the Klingon army. “To be a general?” Laren asked, grasping at the tendrils of memory.
P’Arth laughed. “No, to be my body guard. Were you so drunk you’d forgotten?” she asked, grinning.
Laren smiled. “Yes. I’m sorry, I really don’t remember that. I do remember in sickbay, you said you’d be assassinated. You did say that, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes. It is simply a foregone conclusion,” P’Arth replied. “But the longer I hold this office, the better for the women of the Empire. With you watching out for me, I know I could survive much longer. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t seem particularly happy here,” she waved her arm, indicating the Sato. “What troubles you so, my friend, that you spend your nights inside a bottle instead of Kit Wildman’s embrace?” she asked sympathetically.
“You don’t miss much, do you?” Laren asked rhetorically.
“I am a warrior. Warriors who are unobservant do not live long,” she noted, looking up as the bartender brought her bloodwine.
Laren toyed with her glass, thinking about it. “I am not Trill,” she replied.
“Nor is your lover,” P’Arth put in. “Yet she practices their ways. And you cannot reconcile that in your heart,” she observed. “Distance, I have found, is the way to recover your equilibrium in the face of heartbreak,” she offered. “It’s how I got over Kieran.”
Laren quirked an eyebrow. “From what I’ve heard, you were never in a position to have your heart broken with her.”
P’Arth laughed bitterly. “Is that what she has made you believe, then?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “My Lukara,” she sighed. “She never believed in anyone’s love for her. Not her parents’, not her friends, not mine. Only Cassidy’s. It was the only love she ever trusted. And when Cassidy became ill, Kieran’s world teetered on annihilation. I could not reach her. No one could. She was in such horrid pain, and we began to fight almost daily. I loved her, don’t doubt that. But I realized we had no future, because she was unable to find any pride in herself, any confidence, and Klingons are nothing, if not arrogant. I have a strong personality, in case you haven’t noticed. Kieran began to disappear, little by little, as I overshadowed her character. I needed a strong-willed woman to keep me in line, and she wasn’t strong then.”
“And now?” Laren asked softly.
“She is magnificent,” P’Arth admitted. “Decisive, confident, dominant. Exactly what I wanted her to be in the first place. I would like to think that she became those things as a result, at least in part, to our relationship.”
“I think, Chancellor, it has been more from blood and tears.”
P’Arth nodded. “A good blade is cured by fire,” she opined. “And you find yourself in the very fire that will cure you, or break you, if you allow it to,” she philosophized. “Come join my entourage, Ro Laren. Leave this pain behind you,” she urged. “You deserve a partner who will make you the sole object of their devotion, not one whose energies are scattered and dispersed.”
Laren considered momentarily. Escape was a very tempting option. And she hated the idea of P’Arth being murdered. From everything she had seen, the Chancellor was no monster. She was a diplomat, and a skilled negotiator, and a warrior of the highest order. She tried to imagine herself on a Klingon Bird of Prey, surrounded by Klingons. But the thought of never seeing Kit again, well, she couldn’t begin to process that emotion. How would she say goodbye to Cassidy? To Lenara? Most importantly, how would she say goodbye to Kit and Emily and Jenny? Kieran needed her, especially now, trying to find her feet in her new command. Laren owed her that support. “It’s a generous offer,” Laren began. “I do appreciate it. But I can’t, Chancellor.”
“Please,” P’Arth said jovially, “we have walked the River of Blood together. Call me by my given name, at least,” she admonished the Commander.
“P’Arth, then,” Laren replied. “I have a proposition for you,” she said slowly, sipping her bloodwine. “You should stay with us. As the Klingon Ambassador to the Beta Quadrant,” she contended. “It will allow you to retain the office of Chancellor longer, as you wished. But you will also be safe, on the Sato.”
“Who will run the high council?” she asked skeptically.
“Who is running it now?” Laren asked.
P’Arth’s eyes glittered. “You are very clever, Commander. And very brave. Kieran would kill you if she knew you suggested such a thing,” she laughed derisively. “And I’m not so certain I would be safe, here,” she added. “After all, Kit nearly killed me, and Kieran would like to, too,” she noted, chuckling.
“I’m serious, P’Arth,” Laren encouraged her. “What’s the down side?”
“I might be thought a coward, afraid to face my detractors,” she said thoughtfully. “But whether I die now, or later, the impact will be the same. And I can continue to run the council over subspace. It’s almost worth it to piss off those miserable ko’tal,” she snickered.
Laren touched her hand. “Let another day be a good day to die,” she implored. “And think for a moment. If you visited all the new worlds we will see as a representative of the Empire, how many civilizations will have the impression of a woman in power, leading her people? It might do more to solidify the position of women in your culture, if you are a visible leader. You might form new alliances that will benefit the Empire. The leaders we meet will trust you, and you will be even more integral to the political workings of the Empire.”
P’Arth laughed in her booming voice. “You have the makings of a politician, Ro Laren,” she complimented her. “You are very persuasive. I will consider it.” She downed a large gulp of bloodwine, thinking over Laren’s words. “I fear that the council won’t be the only ones pissed off though. It will not be a decision that makes your crew happy.”
Laren smirked. “I know one member of the crew who will be overjoyed,” she argued. “Katie Torres.”
Laren’s comm badge chirped and Kit came over the link. “Go ahead,” she returned, wondering what had gone wrong at home.
“Can you come home, now?” Kit asked, barely able to hide the mirth in her voice.
Laren frowned. “So soon? Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” Kit replied.
“Excuse me,” Laren stood to go. “Something’s come up.”
“Of course, Commander,” P’Arth replied. She watched the lithe Bajoran walk away, thinking she moved gracefully.
Laren entered her quarters, thinking the girls had probably had a fight, if they were hailing her to come home so soon. Instead, the table was set with formal Bajoran implements, and the girls were dressed in traditional ceremonial robes.
“What’s going on?” Laren asked, bewildered.
Kit approached her, sliding her hands up Laren’s chest. “It’s the celebration of the discovery of the third orb, Averone. Had you forgotten?”
Laren smiled, stretching up to kiss Kit. “I had. I can’t believe you remembered.”
Kit hugged her. “I didn’t, Ji’talia. Jenny did.”
Laren turned to her roommates, hugging them each in turn. “You guys are something else.”
Jenny squeezed her tightly. “I hope you’re hungry, because we made enough for the Bajoran Militia.”
Laren looked around the room, her throat tight. She knew she had made the right decision when she turned P’Arth down. The very best decision.