Naed Tre

There were two unusual things about the Klingon Intelligence Chief.

One thing was that no previous head of Klingon Defense Force covert operations had ever journeyed openly into Federation Space, much less to an installation administered by Starfleet. The second noteworthy thing about the Klingon Intelligence head was that he happened to be a human.

Knossos, son of Orson, was three inches over six feet tall. His deep brown face was drawn into a dissatisfied scowl, somewhat offsetting his good looks, and his generous-lipped mouth was set in a sneer. His hair was past his shoulders and worn in shabbily kept dredlocks. He wore Klingon military armor with the insignia of a Defense Force general.

General Knossos had come to the space station Deep Space Nine for the express purpose of having a look at the Jem’Hadar ship, of a previously unknown design, recovered by Starfleet from the planet Torga IV in the Gamma Quadrant.

Knossos stood at the bar in the casino/restaurant called Quark’s, a big fist curled around the handle of a mug of war-nog, doing his best to tolerate the reception staged for the various Intelligence personnel gathered on the station. To his cultural tastes, the bar was over bright and splashed with supernormal colors not found in Nature. Accustomed to the climate of Kronos, the air was too dry and cool.

Knossos flared his nostrils and sniffed deeply. There was the mixed scent of Human, Bajora, along with the taint of Romulan, and a smattering of other aliens present. There were male and female of all the races, excepting the Ferengi who were all male. One of the men, a bald human in a Starfleet uniform and nearly as dark-skinned as himself, detached from the milling crowd and joined Knossos.

“Enjoying yourself, General?” Asked Captain Ben Sisko.

Knossos took a moment to look the speaker over, openly taking the measure of the shorter man. It was a purely Klingonian action, routine, but when performed by a human such an open and focused appraisal was plainly arrogant, rude at the very least. Only after his examination did the Klingon Intelligence officer respond.

“Aye, Captain. The war-nog is surprisingly tasty.” Knossos smiled. It was a charming, engaging expression, so at odds with his penetrating frown. When he smiled the general was handsome.

Sisko returned the smile. “Yes, Quark prides himself on the quality of his wares. I believe our Commander Worf was instrumental in the nog replicator taste trials.”

Knossos grunted in response and took another deep swallow from his mug. He’d met the notorious Worf, son of Morg, just after coming aboard. They’d acknowledged each other with curt nods and brief growls, both conscious of the curious circumstances of a genetic Human in Klingon battle armor meeting a genetic Klingon dressed in a Starfleet uniform.

“Not so long ago, I couldn’t’ve imagine standing here and sharing a drink with a Starfleet captain,” Knossos said. “Back then I never thought to see the inside of your station, except of course as a member of an occupation garrison. I have to say that you fought well against Gowron’s battle group, Sisko. You surprised us all. Our intelligence on the Bajoran System had sorely underestimated your weaponry. Several officers lost their rank and their houses fell as a result.”

Sisko shrugged. “Past history, General. Although, I do believe the encounter helped to clarify matters between our respective governments.”

Knossos barked a laugh. “Aye, that much is true. Nothing like a massive exchange of firepower to get a man’s point across. You’ve gained the respect of both General Martok and Chancellor Gowron, not an easy trick. Believe me, the two seldom agreed on anything, even before the Changling took Martok’s place.”

Sisko shrugged again. “Leaders and their generals often disagree.”

Knossos grunted again and drank his nog, liking the captain’s cool, terse manner. When he’d first come aboard the space station, Knossos had performed the Human ritual of shaking hands with the man. When his own heavily-calloused hand had enclosed Sisko’s, Knossos had found it soft. It was not the hand of a Klingon. Still, however much he might be a soft-handed human, by all reports Sisko was a warrior right enough. Witness his recent penetration of the supposed imprenetrable fortress of Ty’Gokor, right into the Hall of Warriors itself, and his team’s exposure of the Changling Martok there. Yes, Sisko was an honorable man.

His tankard drained, the general banged it down on the metal grill counter of the bar, drawing the attention of the big-eared and snaggled-toothed barkeep. Fixing him with a piercing stare, Knossos growled, “Ferengi, another.”

While the obliging bartender drew the general’s war-nog, he and Sisko were joined by another Starfleet officer. Her name was Jeanne Mahons, green-eyed with long brown hair which fell well down her back, standing at a few inches under six feet, she was a plump woman with a cute pale face that was expertly and sparingly made-up with cosmetics, a bright smile, and a wicked sharp intellect. She was a Starfleet Intelligence officer who’d come all the way out from the Sol System, to join the analyst team going over the Jem'Hadar ship salvaged by Sisko and his survey team.

“Ah, Commander Mahons,” Sisko greeted the woman.

“Commander.” Knossos nodded. He’d met her already in the Ops Room when he’d come aboard. Jeanne had been in the reception line of Starfleet personnel formed to officially greet him.

“Captain. General.”

Jeanne saw Knossos’ dark gaze sweep over her generously curvaceous body, feeling his unvarnished awareness of her as a woman. Then she saw his chest expand as he breathed in deeply.

He’s sniffing me, smelling me

, she realized, embarrassed. And her face colored in a slight blush.

Captain Sisko noted the nonverbal sexual by-play between the two. He couldn’t really blame Knossos for his reaction to the young woman. Commander Mahons had caused a minor sensation on-station a few days back when she’d come aboard in her retro 23rd Century mini-dress uniform, the fashion was apparently all the rage among the younger women of Starfleet back in Sol. Certainly Quark had been taken by the Commander’s off-duty attire, or more likely by her plump thighs which flashed under her short-hemmed dress and the way her more than ample breasts strained against the material of the archaic blue uniform.

Jeanne felt herself come somewhat undone suffering under the frank stare of General Knossos. He passed her his refilled tankard. “Have a drink, Commander. Or is your system too delicate for Klingon spirits?”

She realized the man was challenging her and the thought helped her to push back against the strong force of his personality. She smiled, showing teeth as her hand curled around the handle of the mug. Without hesitation she brought the cup to her lips and took a lengthy swallow. The nog, a somewhat creamy concoction, burned as it drained down, warming her insides. Beneath her uniform her nipples hardened in reaction. As she took the cup from her lips she gave a deep and throaty sigh. Her color was high and she had to furiously bat her green eyes to keep them from tearing up.

“Smooth,” she croaked, then coughed a little, passing the tankard back to the general.

Knossos gave an appreciative laugh at the woman’s bravado and Sisko himself failed to hide a smile.

“I’m not much a drinker,” Jeanne admitted, still batting back tears. “Except for synthahol.”

“Ah, synthahol, a non-sensical concept to the Klingon mind. Not to change the subject, but I wonder, Commander, if you’ve ever been on an active-duty Klingon ship of the line?”

“No, General. I have not.”

“Would you like a tour then?”

“Yes, sir. I’d like that,” she smiled, regaining her composure.

“In that case, my compliments, Captain. I’ll be taking my leave.”

Sisko nodded, feeling the sexual tension crackling between the two of them.

“Captain,” Jeanne said, nodding. Sisko gave her a return nod, careful to keep his expression neutral.

#

Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer of DS9, was immensely enjoying the reception. One of the pure joys of his young life was hobnobbing with species other than his own and watching them interact with one another. This reception for the various Intelligence personnel had turned into a humdinger. Standing in a group centered around the popular Bajoran poet Mec Cuin, Bashir saw General Knossos threading his way through the crowd toward an exit.

“I wonder, Cuin, if you’ve met General Knossos. He’s in charge of Klingon Intelligence. He’s a human you know.”

Mec Cuin smiled dreamily, being well into his cups. “No, Doctor. I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Then allow me to introduce you.” He put his hand to the poet’s elbow and the pair weaved through the party-goers on a tangent to intercept the general. They caught up to the Intelligence head just at the exit to the outer promenade.

“Excuse me, General,” Bashir said, with his customarily eager-puppy manner, blocking Knossos’ path. “Before you leave, allow me to introduce you to the premier poet of Bajor, Mec Cuin.”

The inebriated poet smiled at Knossos, putting a hand on the general’s shoulder. “Well met, Sir Klingon. I understand this is your first visit to our system. I’d be interested in what impressions you’ve formed of we, the Bajora, thus far?”

Knossos took the poet’s hand in a less than gentle grip and removed it from his shoulder before releasing it. His sneer returned as he put his fists to his hips and took the measure of the much shorter man with the ridged nose.

“Seeing as you asked, I’m not an admirer of the Bajora,” the general said with blunt, if predictable, honesty. “You people like to say, based on questionably-dated artifacts, that you were civilized before many known sentient species had truly evolved. You tout your art, your spirituality. And yet you stand today as a beaten people inhabiting a plundered and ruined planet. A race so weak that you can no longer support yourselves. Your politicians are corrupt and a burden to the people. Your religious-class seems intent on tearing itself apart. To merely survive you must lick the boots of the Federation. An entire race reduced to begging for crumbs from a strong man’s table.”

Jeanne noticed that conversation in the immediate vicinity around the little group had fallen silent, people were listening. Knossos of course had not bothered to keep his voice quiet. The poet had blanched, both from the pain in his hand and the brutality of the general’s words. Bashir’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times but no words came out. Jeanne stood slightly behind Knossos, her features composed in a neutral expression. Major Kira, the Bajoran First Officer of the space station, had turned her head toward them. Catching the sneering tone of Knossos voice rather than his actual words and seeing the shocked expressions of both Bashir and the poet, the small woman decided to see what the hell was going on.

“If not for Bajor’s proximity to the wormhole,” Knossos continued, “which you had nothing whatsoever to do with creating, you would’ve already faded into a minor footnote in galactic history. And as to your poetry in particular, I find it uninspired, derivative, and without nuance.”

Kira had walked over and reached Knossos’ group just as the general finished. “Is there a problem?” The petite warrior asked.

“Only for the Bajorans,” Knossos rumbled. He turned to Jeanne. “My ship awaits.”

The couple walked out onto the Promenade as the poet tried to stammer out to Kira what the Klingon had just said.

#

As Knossos had guessed, Jeanne had never been on an active duty Klingon ship before. During the years of her career as a Starfleet Intelligence officer she’d of course studied countless mock-ups of all classes of Klingon crafts in holo-simulations.

But nothing beats being there, she thought.

The first thing Jeanne noticed, after she’d materialized on the transporter pad, was the presence of strong and pungent Klingon body-odor. She wasn’t offended by the peaty aroma, in fact Jeanne found it attractive. Not at all like the Vulcan racial smell which she found too acrid for her taste.

“This way,” Knossos rasped, gesturing toward a hatchway.

Now in his element, Knossos’ manner was once more fully the Klingonian alpha male. Jeanne didn’t mind, sexually secure and the sister of two older brothers, she’d never been afraid of male energy nor its manifold forms of display. She stepped out of the transporter kiosk and followed the general through the dimly-lit, somewhat humid and warm corridors of the bird-of-prey. The ship’s artificial gravity also felt stronger than the earth-normal to which the Starfleet officer was accustomed.

As she concentrated on keeping up with her long-legged escort, Jeanne could clearly hear the low-frequency hum of the ship’s energizers on standby. Power conduits, pipes, and maintenance consoles were affixed to the otherwise unadorned bulkheads. The vessel was a working warship of the Empire and it had no pretensions of being anything else.

“I see the Klingon reputation for minimalism is well-earned,” she commented.

“Aye, we prefer function over decoration, lacking the Human need for non-essentials.”

“Yes, with such stark and Spartan aesthetics, no wonder your people think we’re decadent. And I see the Klingon reputation for bluntness is no myth either. You didn’t make a friend with Mec Cuin, or Major Kira for that matter.”

The general gave a derisive snort. “I find I’m not trembling at the thought of having the Bajora as adversaries. As to Kira, from what I can gather from her files, she’s confused. The major seeks to become a man, thinking that by taking on the mantle of a male she will gain the strength to overcome her insecurities. A neurotic,” he said, his tone contemptuous.

“I’ve also noticed that she pretends rage to cover the shame she rightfully should feel for herself and her defeated people. Frankly, I don’t have any respect for a race who allows itself to be conquered, to lose their planet, and must become a client-state to the Federation to gain protection under Starfleet. Weaklings. They have no honor.”

She digested his words in silence as they strolled down the corridors. Klingons passed by, giving Jeanne frank stares of curiosity. Several of the woman displayed deep scowls at seeing her in the company of the general but none said anything untoward to her. In fact, most of the men and women gave her nods of open greeting.

People are the same wherever you go, she thought. Xenophobia was not part of Jeanne’s mental make-up.

The general stopped before a plain unvarnished panel in the matte finished bulkhead. “Open,” he growled, and the panel slid aside. He stepped through the doorway and Jeanne followed. The door shut behind them and for the first time they were alone.

The cabin was lit by the light of a single, slender black candle set in a tarnished pewter holder on a long waist-high shelf attached to the wall. Knossos moved to the shelf and used the slender candle to light a set of thick and squat candles, their light suffused the room in a mellow orange glow.

Jeanne looked around. A few long shelves, made of wood with metal brackets, lined all four walls. One of the shelves held the bleached skull of a humanoid on a short pedestal. It wasn’t possible for her to tell just from the bone structure the skull’s race and she didn’t really want to know. A rug of some sort of animal-skin stretched over most of the bare metal floor. A wide cot sat in one of the corners of the austere cabin.

Knossos put the black candle back into its holder on the shelf. He touched a console and the cabin was full of the sound of drums, then he picked up a small stoneware bottle before turning back to his guest.

“The music is the overture from the opus, ‘Klingon Heart’. A modern piece. A favorite of mine.” And he flashed his charming smile again.

Knossos walked up to Jeanne, threw the stopped bottle on the cot behind her, and without further ceremony took the Earth-woman into his arms. His rough hands slid down her short dress to the wide flare of her hips, then over the roundness of her generous butt, the flesh warm beneath the material. Jeanne stared up into his deep brown eyes as he leaned down his head, his dreds draping his broad shoulders, then they kissed.

His tongue parted her lips and Jeanne moaned quietly as she avidly sucked it into his mouth. Knossos hands ceased to merely heft her bouncy cheeks. He pushed his fingers under the short hem of her dress, dragging them across the blue cloth of her panties stretched tight across her yielding bottom. He caught the thin elastic waistband in both hands, tugged, snapping the band. The underwear fluttered slowly down her thighs, drifting down to the ankles of her service boots.

His calloused hands felt like fine sandpaper on the sensitive skin of her exposed cheeks. Jeanne grinded against him, whimpering as his abrasive hands moved over her. The round cheeks began to warm, as if lightly spanked. She moaned soulfully, feeling herself dampen as the kiss was finally broken and he withdrew his tongue from her yielding mouth. As she panted, catching her breath, Jeanne heard Knossos sniff loudly and knew he had detected her heightened sexual arousal through her musk. While still embracing her, he undid her dress, letting it slide off her round shoulders to fall to the floor.

Knossos’ coarse hands, after a lifetime of fondling Klingon females, instinctively sought the prominent knobs of Jeanne’s vertebrate. He was momentarily taken aback by the smooth curve of her back.

Earth girls are different, he thought with an unvocalized chuckle.

He placed both his large hands on her shoulders and exerted pressure. After a moment’s resistance, still in her boots, she stepped out of her clothes and walked backwards until her calves touched the cot. Sinking down to the simple bed, her lover standing between her wide open plump thighs, her impressive breasts pleasingly jiggled in the candlelight. Jeanne held that position for long minutes as Knossos took his time divesting himself of his boots and armor. Her green eyes avidly took in his exposed form, the many and varied scars which scored and pitted his shoulders, pectorals, and double-row of abdominal muscles.

Damn, how many battles has this man seen,

she wondered, feeling herself grow wetter still.

How much pain has he endured and how much has he inflicted?

Then he removed his trousers and Jeanne saw an impressively long and fat dark brown cock hung heavy between his muscular thighs. Her lips slightly parted as her tongue flicked over them, watching the wide glans throb from beneath its dark hood of foreskin. The woman’s coral nipples began to ache as they grew hard from her watching the stiffening knob and pole.

Naked, Knossos gave her another of his arrogant smiles and leaned over her. He retrieved the small stone bottle from the cot, uncorking it. “This is graywood oil,” he said, by way of explanation.

Tipping the bottle, a thin thread of transparent ocher oil ran from the tight neck onto the pale mounds of Jeanne’s breasts. She started slightly, her hands going instinctively to her porcelain skin. Where the oil ran over her skin it began to grow pleasantly warm.

“Rub it in,” Knossos said, his deep voice a soft rumble in the closed cabin.

Jeanne obeyed, smearing the warming oil over herself. Her ponderous breasts began to gleam, bouncing back the candlelight, while the oil continued to spread its liquid warmth. Knossos poured more oil into a palm, placed the bottle on the deck plates and knelt on one knee in front of Jeanne’s parted legs. He flattened his palms together then ran them along the woman’s thighs, smearing the lubricant.