Approach

Posted on Sun Oct 12th, 2025 @ 6:10am by Lieutenant JG Sakkar

1,215 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Peril at the Unification Accords
Location: U.S.S. Villarrica, en route to Barisa Prime
Timeline: MD008 / 0423

The butcher greeted Sakkar from behind his counter. "Live long and prosper," he said in a friendly tone, although Sakkar could sense malevolence. The butcher's white smock was stained green. He wiped his hands with a damp, filthy rag, then used his sleeve to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "Don't worry," he assured the Vulcan.

That earned a frown. "I do not worry," Sakkar said. He found this place distasteful. Who had brought him into a butcher shop? He searched for the exit. His breath quickened. Now he noticed that there were all manner of knives and cleavers adorning the walls. All were blood-stained.

"Here, take this," the butcher said. He reached into his refrigerated locker to retrieve something. Sakkar knew what it was without looking. "No," he said with a firm edge in his voice.

The next moment Sakkar opened his eyes. He sat upright in bed. There was no sound except for the low thrum of the environmental system. The only light was from the LCARS display on his desk computer a short distance away. Outside the small window the stars rushed by at warp speed. With a deep breath he refocused himself, finding tranquility in logic.

"Time?" He said as he turned and planted his feet on the floor.

"Zero-four-twenty-three," the computer replied.

Sakkar arched his back and slowly moved his head in a circular motion. Then he moved his hand down his bare thigh, feeling the demarcation line at the knee where real flesh had been grafted with biosynthetic flesh. "Lights."

Soft illumination bathed the room. Sakkar stood and headed for the shower, peeling off sleep clothes as he went. An hour later he left his tiny, one-man cabin.

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The USS Villarrica, a passenger transport working for the Federation Diplomatic Corps, proceeded on course for Barisa Prime. Most of the passengers were people who had been invited to the summit: journalists, historians, attachés of various specialties and their assistants, observers from other planets, and so forth. The usual litany of people who hung on the periphery of such events. Most were excited to go, as it meant lots of soirées to attend, both formal and informal. Big diplomatic events like these always had parties to go along with them. Plenty to drink, plenty to eat, and plenty of interesting people with whom elbows could be rubbed. 

Not that there wasn't already a lot of that happening, Sakkar noted under raised eyebrow. They were three weeks out of Babel, five-hundred seventy-four passengers and eighty-one crew packed into this ferry without much to do. Three of the six holodecks aboard had already gone down for maintenance due to high usage. Card games and drinks were the next diversion for most. Still others spent their time mingling on the observation deck with its spectacular transparent bubble dome. Many passengers had gotten to know each other well. 

It wasn't so with Sakkar. He was more of a cipher to the others, keeping mostly to himself. He was not being unsociable. At least not in an unhealthy manner, his logic assured him. As the only Vulcan aboard he found himself accosted by persistent reporters for his thoughts on the summit. "Pardon, sir. You look Vulcan. What do you think of this historic occasion? Is it the right path for your people?" Sakkar preferred to keep his opinions on the topic quiet. He was merely a junior officer in Starfleet reporting to his new duty assignment. He did not wish to see his thoughts emblazoned across FNN and the other outlets just as he was introducing himself to his new captain. So he politely declined any comment. Other passengers had also asked him in the course of normal, friendly conversation. They, too, got nothing meaningful out of him. Many were from non-Federation worlds, and Sakkar was not certain of their agendas. Better to remain tight-lipped on certain matters. He was a relatively unimportant person, and so were his opinions. It was logical. 

The Villarrica's pavilion deck was an open, atrium-style communal area that went up four stories. Early every morning the galley staff set out an attractive breakfast buffet here. There were plenty of tables and seating areas for passengers to socialize, although at this hour it was all but empty. As Sakkar entered he saw only two other people sitting and eating by themselves. Neither paid any attention to him. He made his way to the buffet table, intent on getting a bowl of gespar and a cup of spice tea. 

"Par'Mach'kai," a husky, seductive voice said behind him. Sakkar turned. He already knew whose voice it was. "Colonel B'Qala, good morning," he said in an even tone. He reached for a bowl and began serving himself.

Colonel B'Qala was the Klingon Minister-Counsellor for Political and Cultural Affairs. What that meant, Sakkar did not know. Why she was traveling aboard a Federation ship instead of a Klingon one, Sakkar did not know. Why she had been dispatched to Barisa Prime, Sakkar did not know. What he did know, or at least had heard, was that there was already an official delegation of Klingon observers there. Perhaps she was a late addition? Sakkar could have asked, but felt it prudent to keep this woman at arm's length. Since meeting him she had taken much delight in tantalizing him with promises of brutal Klingon pleasures. What she saw in him, Sakkar did not know. Perhaps it was merely a game to provoke an emotional response from him? So far she had not.

B'Qala approached and stood beside him, perusing the various food offerings. "You rise early today, my beguiling one. Perhaps your bed was too cold without me?" She grabbed a plate of her own, but could find nothing appetizing, as usual. She scowled in dismay. 

"As do you," Sakkar replied, ignoring the flirtation. "Or was it that you haven't slept at all, and were up all night again drinking blood wine with your subordinates?" Like any good mid-level bureaucrat worth their sense of self-importance, B'Qala traveled with her own retinue of secretaries and consular specialists. Like her, and most Klingons for that matter, they were often raucous and ready to get grogged up.

"No. No more of that," B'Qala said, shaking her head. "We're almost at our destination. It's time to focus...and plan." With a low grunt she settled on a few strips of bacon and a serving of Saurian vhloigua on toast. What she wouldn't give for real Klingon food. 

Sakkar paused. Plan for what exactly? Plan what to wear to the Federation embassy reception? Or plan a way to sabotage the summit negotiations? The possible answers were myriad. He resisted the urge to ask her at first, however, sensing that it might be a ploy to lure him into deeper conversation. He had avoided much of that with her so far. 

Then again, if there was some nugget of information that might be noteworthy to Intel, then would it not be advisable for him to find out more? "Would you care to join me?" He asked, gesturing to a nearby table. "You can tell me more about your work in the Imperial Diplomatic Corps. I would find it most stimulating."

B'Qala's face brightened with a crooked sneer. "For you? Anytime!"

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