A Bad Day for Shore Leave

Speaking of which... a strange smell was creeping into her nostrils. A few moments later she identified it as the Nausicaan beer. Her jacket was dry now, but not properly cleaned. She pulled herself up in the bed, seeing the Klingon now standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, and thick eyebrows creased in a sulky frown.

"You don't mind if I take this off?" she asked, more for the sake of saying something than in expectation of a response, "I got beer on it earlier, and it still smells."

The Klingon grunted, uninterested, and she pulled the uniform jacket off, balling it up and throwing it to the far side of the room. Her vest wasn't entirely free of the odour, either, but she wasn't taking that off, so this would have to do.

"Gah!" she said as another thought struck her. "Twelve hours? We haven't even got anything to eat. I'll be starving by then."

"You are hungry now?" asked the Klingon.

"No," she admitted, "but I will be by then. And that's assuming they find us straight away."

The Klingon grunted, and stepped to one side, waving his arm behind him. Sumati's eyes widened, as she saw a replicator set into the far wall. There would be a fee for using it, of that she was sure, but, now that she thought about it, this was a hotel room, so it made sense. The door she had only just noticed on the wall to her left presumably led to a bathroom, too.

"Ah, well, then," she said, "I suppose it could be worse. At least we won't go hungry."

"You, perhaps not," replied her reluctant companion, "but replicators can never manage proper Klingon food. It is edible, but..." he made a short retching sound.

"Really?" Did they have chefs on board Klingon vessels, then? "Anyway, can't you try some other cuisine for a change? At least it would be prepared properly."

"You suggest I eat human food?" he looked offended, "I have tried it, from a replicator, as you say. It is bland and tasteless."

Sumati smiled to herself, "you," she said pointing, "have not tried a proper curry. When you get hungry tell it to prepare..." she thought for a second, "kolhapuri mutton rassa. With extra chilli, I'd suggest."

He looked at her quizzically, before deciding she wasn't joking. "Very well, I shall."

He sat down in the room's only chair, a medium-sized one, upholstered in mock leather. He looked a little uncomfortable in it, his bulk and the thickness of his armour not suiting its relatively narrow confines. He wriggled about a bit, frowning at the chair, as if it was somehow to blame. He did a lot of frowning, she had noticed.

He got up again. "Perhaps I do not need the armour," he announced, "and it would not do for me to be better protected than you, for it shows fear."

Sumati raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He wasn't taking that much notice of her anyway. Still, she watched with interest as he unbuckled the bulky hauberk, with its large shoulder pads, and set it aside the chair before sitting down again.

"Much better," he announced. "But I know what would be better still. If you will have me eat human food, then I shall return the honour."

He got up out of the chair again, having sat in it for no more than a few seconds, and walked over to the replicator. Beneath the armour he was wearing a seamless black shirt with a high collar, tight enough to show the muscles of his arms and what Sumati thought was a slight set of ridges down his spine. His shoulders were broad, even without the pads to accentuate them, and his belly taut without a trace of fat. Callisthenics, she supposed, were a daily routine for Klingon warriors.

"Warnog, two," he said, and waited as the replicator hummed to life.

When he turned round again, he was holding two pitchers of what she assumed was some kind of drink. He placed one on the table by the bed, before retreating to his chair, and taking a gulp of his own.

She raised the pitcher, and resisted the temptation to sniff at it. It looked to be a clear fluid, giving no hint as to what it might taste of. Taking his lead, and sitting up on the bed, she took a deep gulp and swallowed a mouthful of it down. It was strong, alcoholic, and, she supposed, not unlike a potent lager, but with more of a bitter flavour to it.

"Whoa..." she said as the fiery drink began to warm her. "You know, that's not bad."

The Klingon grinned, leaning back in the chair as he took another swig. "Kurdok of the House of Khurless," he announced, and it took a second before she realised what he meant.

"Ensign Sumati Chennapragada," she told him in reply. Not that he hadn't heard the surname already, she reflected.

"So, Ensign Sumati," he said, getting the name more or less right the first time, "why have I not heard of this 'curry' before?"

She laughed, and took another sip of the warnog – smaller this time, since she didn't want to get drunk. "I have no idea," she said, "it's a common enough dish. There was a time in England when young men would try to show their worthiness by eating the strongest curry they could find. Showing off the strength of their stomachs, I guess."

"A warrior's food, then? I did not think humans had such things."

"If you like. At least, that seems to be what they thought. It's just regular food where I come from."

Kurdok thought about this for a moment, "then you are not from this Ing-Gland?"

"No, no, I was born in Mumbai. It's a big city in the tropics."

"And the people there are warriors? There seem to be few such among humans today."

"In the past there were more, Earth had as much of a warrior culture as any world. Well, perhaps not as much as Klingons, but we did have many warriors. Knights, samurai, Vikings... my own ancestors were Kshatriya – ruling warriors."

"But no longer." It was a statement, not a question.

"I'm an engineer, I told you. But, come on, all Klingons can't be warriors. Somebody has to design the disruptors and the warp drives. They may be useful for conquest, but you don't discover hyperspace theory by thinking solely about tactics."

"As my captain sometimes says," he nodded, "but we all understand that the warrior ideal is the highest."

It was like some of the conversations she'd had with the alien crewmen on the Endeavour, except that she knew rather less about Klingon culture to start with. She had thought of them only as violent brutes, except that they had a sense of honour that set them apart from the likes of the Nausicaans. Other than that, she knew little, and she wasn't even sure how true that was. Klingons had discovered faster-than-light travel on their own – at least so far as she knew – so they were hardly stupid.

Of course, the ones she had met earlier in the day had hardly done much to dispel the myth, and she did not want Kurdok to suddenly turn on her like that, so she forbore from saying anything about how the Federation viewed the role of warriors in society.

"I've told you where I come from," she said instead, "what about you?"

Kurdok looked down into his drink, perhaps wondering how much he should tell her. The Federation and the Empire were not at war, at least not now, but they were hardly close friends, either.

"A small place," he said, eventually, "a town in the countryside, in a southern part of Qo'nos. The homeworld, yes, but far from the main cities. It is a cold and harsh land, a good place for building strength and determination. In the past, food was hard to come by. My ancestors were warriors, yes, but also hunters."

"Sounds about as unlike Mumbai as it's possible to be," she told him, "it's one of the largest cities on Earth. Even with modern technology, it feels crowded, although it was probably more so in the past. But it makes it easier to live on a spaceship, I guess. I never grew up with great open spaces."

"Your ship is the Endeavour?" he asked, before taking another swig of the drink. "To strive, or struggle. Not a bad name for a Federation starship."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it is named for a famous ship of exploration, not a warship. Not all great endeavours are on the field of combat, I'm afraid, at least not on Earth. Although, if it helps, the captain of the original died in battle. Although that was later, I think. So what is your ship? I didn't see it when we arrived here."

Kurdok made a sound that the universal translator refused to handle, presumably because the word had no equivalent in Marathi. "What is that?" she asked, "a place or the name of somebody?"

"An animal," he said. He put the drink down and held out his hand in a clenched fist, "about this big. Lots of legs, deadly poisonous bite."

"A tarantula?" offered Sumati.

"Perhaps," he said, his translator evidently having handled that word no better than her own had handled his.

"Well, here's to the IKS Tarantula," said Sumati, downing more of the Klingon ale, "may she bite people many times her own size."

She got a broad grin in response. Evidently it had been the right thing to say. Despite the unpleasantness of their initial meeting, Sumati was beginning to warm to Kurdok. He seemed very different to the other Klingons she had met today, or those she had heard of. Of course he was a warrior, inclined to see all things in terms of conflict, but he was being pleasant enough, under the circumstances, as trapped here as she was, and trying to make the best of it.

The warnog was warming her, too, although she had not drunk enough to get tipsy. The stuff wasn't bloodwine, or some other ridiculously potent drink. She supposed that no captain wanted drunken Klingons all over their warship, and she suspected that a Klingon crew could drink a lot of this stuff, with much banging of cups and warlike singing, without running the risk of that happening.

"You have this on your ship? We're only allowed synthehol."

"Of course!" he replied, "only the real thing. Perhaps humans are too weak to drink much real alcohol?"

"I'm drinking this aren't I?" she said, before proving the point again.

"You are a good human," he said, nodding, "strong in heart, if not in body. Will matters more than muscle, as my captain would say. I think she may be right in this. Sometimes."

"Your captain sounds interesting."

He grunted. "Perhaps. She is unusual, I would say. But what of yours? Your captain that does not allow alcohol? Is he dull, then?"

"She's a Vulcan. Which says all you need to know, really. I'm not sure she understands human needs all that well. Although the synthehol isn't just her; that's Starfleet regulations."

"A Vulcan? Ha! I suspect one such as you chafes under the command of a Vulcan. Am I right?"

"Not really," said Sumati, defensively, "she's a good captain, and I'm a Starfleet officer. We just have different ideas about how to have a good time off-duty, that's all."

"Your loyalty is admirable. And you are right: even Klingon warriors have their differences. Or I would not be here. But still... I doubt that even a Vulcan's idea of a good time is sitting in an empty hotel room."

Kurdok pulled himself up out of the chair and began pacing the carpet again, his scowl indicating that he had clearly lost interest in further conversation. Sumati sighed and tried to ignore him, closing her eyes to see if she could get some sleep, and the time would pass quicker that way.

It was no use. She opened her eyes again, and watched the Klingon walking back and forth, occasionally casting an angry glance at the partially disassembled lock.

"Can't you do some exercises or something?" she asked in exasperation. It had to be better than wearing a hole in the carpet.

"Why not?" he agreed. "A warrior needs to keep in shape."

Kurdok sat down on the chair, and began to pull his boots off. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Presumably it was more comfortable that way, and she had to admit the boots did look rather heavy and bulky. She was more surprised, though, when his next act was to stand up, and to pull off his shirt as well. Straightening his belt, he dropped to the floor, and began to perform press-ups.

From her angle lying down on the bed, she couldn't see much, but curiosity compelled her to pull herself up straight for a better view. She could still only see his back, and that only half the time, but even so she could see that the ridges on his forehead continued down his spine. Some kind of skeletal armour, she supposed, evolved to protect his spinal cord.

Soon, he switched to doing sit-ups. Sumati found, to her surprise, that she was admiring his body. Blushing slightly, and hoping he hadn't noticed, she turned her head away. He was a Klingon, after all. If she hadn't been admiring non-humans in that way during her time on the Endeavour, his was hardly the race she should be starting with!

Unconsciously, her eyes drifted back towards Kurdok's half-naked body. Oh, why not, she thought, as she caught herself admiring him again. I'm only watching after all, and he's only bare above the waist.

She had to admit, he looked rather impressive. His chest was broad and muscular, as she had already deduced, and looked much like that of a human, anatomically. He was moderately hairy, but less so than she might have expected, given his long hair and beard. His abdominal muscles were well-defined, taut, and starting to glisten with sweat. His arms were powerful, too, although not so muscle-bound as to look odd to human eyes.

Eventually, he stood up, and stretched, and Sumati took the opportunity to drink in every athletic curve of his exposed body. He had already shown more stamina for exercise than she expected all but the fittest of humans could, and he looked barely out of breath, for all the slight beads of sweat against his tanned skin.

"That feels better," he announced, giving no sign that he had noticed her attention. She wasn't sure whether she felt good about that, or not.

"If that's how you like to spend your free time, it's fine by me."

"It is one of the ways," he said, without elaborating further.

"So what else?" she asked, "what do you do on the Tarantula for fun? What is it we're missing out on in Starfleet?"

"Proper drink and food, for one."

"Okay, I'll give you that. At least if replicators aren't good at Klingon food."

She realised she hadn't finished the ale, although Kurdok had done so long ago. She picked up the flagon and downed the remainder, discovering there was more left than she had thought, but determined to get through it in one go.

"There is combat practice, and tactical games," the Klingon was continuing, "and we can listen to opera and join in with the singing. There is much to do, to keep our spirits up between duties. Klingons live life to the full!"

"Perhaps it helps that you are all the same race and culture. On the Endeavour, humans are a minority. We have members of two dozen different races on the crew. It keeps things varied, but..." she'd almost said too much, "well, I guess there can be some downsides."

"The Klingon Empire employs the best warriors it can. Even our engineers and medics are warriors. There is no room for weaker races on our ships!"

Perhaps it was the alcohol speaking, as the warmth of that last drink spread through her body, but Sumati found herself responding to that as she would not have done less than an hour before. "We aren't 'weaker' races! It's not all about brawn, you said so yourself earlier. The Federation has hardly been a failure, now, has it?"

"Perhaps not. But you are not warriors. That is all I mean."

"You said earlier that wearing more armour than me would have made it seem you were showing fear."

"What of it?"

"You think I'm showing fear? I mean, I'm just sitting here, not trying to hide. And you're the one with the weapon, remember."

"No," he conceded, sounding a little conciliatory, "you have shown that you have steel in you. I do not think you a coward."

"Good," she said, "thank you. But just to prove I'm not afraid, let's make sure we're equal."

"I have already put the knife away," he indicated it, lying beside his armour now. She hadn't noticed him removing it.

"But I'm wearing more armour than you. As it were."

She made a show of pulling her boots off and dumping them beside the bed, balling up her socks and tucking them inside. Kurdok grinned, the thought of imitation leather boots as 'armour' evidently amusing him.

"I shall not attack your feet," he promised, sounding solemn.

"Well, what about this?"

She pulled her vest up, over her head and off, then dropped it over the boots before lying back on the bed again.

"Now we're even," she told him, "besides, it still smelled of Nausicaan beer."

She crossed her arms and looked at him, tilting her chin up a little to look proud. Amazingly, it was only then that it hit her: she was sitting across from a ferocious Klingon warrior, wearing just her uniform trousers and a white sports bra. And Kurdok himself was bare from the waist up. How much of the ale had she drunk to make her do that? She was acting before she was thinking, which was rather unlike her.

But she wasn't backing down, either.

There was a long silence. Kurdok shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Yes, we are," he said eventually. "You have made your point."

She nodded in agreement, and unfolded her arms, adopting a less confrontational posture. She couldn't help but note though, that, while Kurdok had always maintained eye contact while speaking to her so far, that now his gaze kept flicking downwards. It should have made her nervous, but actually, she felt pleased, a warm glow touching her that no longer had anything to do with the warnog.

"Well, at least you have women on your ship. That must make it easier to 'live life to the full'."

"A woman has as much right to be a warrior as a man."

"No arguments from me on that front."

Sumati adjusted her position slightly, and flipped her long braid over her shoulder, nestling it in her cleavage. Kurdok's eyes followed it, tracing down its length to where the end rested close to her navel, before darting back to her face, as if hoping she hadn't noticed. She pretended she hadn't.

"Being a warrior is about determination, skill, and honour," he went on, "not gender. Our ancestors once thought otherwise, centuries ago, but we recognise the wastage of that approach."

"Birth control, huh? It had something like that effect on Earth, back in the twentieth century."

"Just so. It liberated many women for combat roles."

"Must help for entertainment on the ship, too. You can't spend all your time in combat practice."

Sumati rolled over onto her side, propping her head up on one hand, and idly twirling the end of her braid with the other. From this angle, she knew, her cleavage would be more visible to him, and, once again, she saw the movement of his dark eyes.

Kurdok crossed his legs suddenly, and cleared his throat. She suppressed a grin, guessing the effect she was beginning to have on him. How far could she take this teasing? How far did she want to take it? She was, for the first time in her life, leading on an alien, and, of all races, he had to be a Klingon. Was it wise, what she was doing? What if he took it the wrong way?

Was there, she wondered, her heart suddenly jumping, even a wrong way to take it? Yes, he was a Klingon, but did that have to be such a problem? She had come to the station for a purpose, and it had been thwarted at every step. Until, perhaps, now...?

"There are liaisons on the Tarantula," he was saying, "it is understood. Except for the Captain, so far as I know. She keeps out of that. As she has to."

"I guess she would. Our captain doesn't exactly have to deal with the question, though. But it happens on the Endeavour. Even with our range of different species. Even the Captain doesn't forbid that, if it doesn't get in the way of work."