McCoy and Chekhov

You order Dr. McCoy and a couple of security officers to join you in the transporter room, then add Lt. Tranh, an intelligence officer who specializes in Klingon studies, to the landing party as well. "Chekhov, you're with me," you say, and head to the turbolift. Chekhov and Spock fall in behind you. "Not you, Spock," you say.

"Captain, there is a scientific mystery here. Why have these mining operations been abandoned? I believe my skills will be vital--"

You hold up a hand. "I'm aware of your incomprable skills as a scientist, Mr. Spock," you say, "but if this is indeed a trap as Mr. Chekhov fears the Enterprise may be the target, and she'll need the best available officer in command. That's you. The 425 people you'll command up here need you more than the six who are about to beam down." You give Spock a wry grin. "Besides, if the trap is down on the surface and I'm charging blindly into it, I'll need you to kick it open from the outside." You can tell Spock would still like to argue, but discipline holds.

"Logical," he admits.

"You have the bridge, Mr. Spock." You and Chekhov join the landing party and beam down to the planet's surface.

Moving through several fields of grain, you approach the settlement. On a low rise directly behind it you see several wind turbines, but this seems to be the place's only nod to industrial civilization. The houses wouldn't look out of place in a medieval European village, with wooden frames and what look like wattle and daub walls. Only the roofs, made with wooden shingles rather than thatch, spoil the illusion. A few of the more substantial buildings have plank sidings, and one or two sit on brick foundations.

On the center green a bare-chested Klingon removes what appear to be baked clay tiles from a kiln. He sees your party and calls out a cheery greeting. Several Klingons emerge from the largest of the buildings and and approach you, smiling and waving. They're like no Klingons you've ever seen. Instead of the severe black and gold uniforms you're used to, these people are wearing some sort of homespun, dyed in bright colors. At the center of the group is a woman, her shining bronze skin offset by a green dress and matching leggings. A single flower is tucked into her dark auburn hair, completing an image that seems more appropriate to certain protest movements of 20th century Earth than to a modern Klingon colony.

"Captain Kirk, I assume," she says, walking up to you and kissing you on the cheek. "I am Dara, qumwI'Hey of this colony."

"I'm sorry," you say, "the universal translator had some trouble with a word there."

"I think she said she's more or less the governor here," Lt. Tranh says, "but I'm not sure. I've never heard a Klingon mock authority like that -- certainly not her own."

Dara grins sardonically. "I think you'll find we're not your typical Klingons in a lot of ways." She takes your arm. "Come, Captain, you and your landing party should join us for lunch.

"I appreciate the hospitality," you reply, "but first there is the matter of the distress signal you sent out. I see no evidence of an emergency here. In fact your settlement seems quite pleasant."

"I assure you Captain, the emergency is real," Dara replies, sounding for a moment more like the Klingon officer you had expected. "But it's not so imminent that we can't spare time for lunch before we explain our problem to you. Come." Gently insistent, she presses herself against your arm and guides you into the largest building.