The light faded. We stood in a cargo bay, dimly lit.
“Stop him!” Hruk’Tal shouted, pointing at the man standing openmouthed next to the transporter controls.
His hand crept for the emergency reversal switch. The Klingons rushed him. I followed, caught up by the adrenaline. He lasted less than five seconds. We left him in a bloody heap, moaning quietly to himself.
“We have control of the cargo bay.” Hruk’Tal thumped his chest with his fist. “Where is the docking bay?”
Herring bent over the control panel. “I haven’t had to read Ferengi in years.” He traced the display with his finger. “Down two decks on the starboard side. Looks like it more towards the aft section. Let’s go.”
The seven of us crowded the door into the ship. Hruk’Tal flipped finger signals. I took a deep breath.
Herring hit the button. The door slid open. We slipped into the deserted hall.
We made it to the lift without meeting anyone. Herring opened the doors and we piled inside. I ended up near the front, sandwiched between two Klingons. I stifled a sneeze at their smell. Unwashed Klingons aren’t exactly unpleasant, just very strong.
The door to the lift slid open. We rushed out.
And stopped short. Fifteen heavily armed guards faced us, weapons ready.
“Well, well.” Del’Brugado stepped forward. “If it isn’t Captain Herring. And his obnoxiously competent assistant.” He smiled and twisted the end of his thin mustache.
Hruk’Tal shifted his weapon. “Today is a good day to die.”
“Agreed.” Rakrr lifted his rifle.
“Three?” Herring asked.
We charged into battle.
Personal Log 1-13: Five Angry Klingons