The settlement of Lanea spread outward from its commercial district in a grid of stone, steel and glass. Mushroom-shaped towers rose from within the tangle. Their slender stems of polished alloy supported broad, marble or glass domes that caught the late afternoon light. Massive structures glimmered with the shifting reflections of passing shuttle traffic. Pedestrian bridges suspended high in the air between them flowed with visitors and workers. Lanea’s size of barely seven thousand residents belied its density. The streets between rows of buildings were wound in tight patterns. Light from above broke into splintered beams against the walls of narrow alleyways. Storefronts were huddled shoulder to shoulder here. Tailor shops with vibrant racks of bright clothing spilled onto the pavement. Steam rose from food stalls laden with alien spices. Voices spoke in low, conspiratorial tones inside of cramped taverns and clubhouses.

The air smelled of warm metal from nearby fabrication blocks mixed with the sharp, organic tang of freshly cooked meals.

Tucked into one of those side alleys was a squat maroon structure. The three floor, stone building carried the blunt solidity of something built to endure. Its front facade faced the narrow lane at a slight angle, as though it had been squeezed into place between its two taller neighbors. Frosted glass panels softened the glow within. Above the door, the sign bore the name ‘Marg’ah’s’ in bold Federation script. A line of curling Klingon letters beneath translated to: Eat well, be strong.

Dust softened the amber light that spilled from heavy overhead fixtures inside. The shape of the light fixtures were lost in the dim gloom of the high ceiling. A few pockets of red illumination gleamed from light strips embedded within the edges the large, round tables. Each one was crafted of dark, well-worn wood. The tall chairs were constructed of brushed metal with only the thinnest padding on each seat. The subtle, culturally Klingon challenge invited guests to linger only if one’s endurance matched their appetite. The far wall was dominated by a relief of a Klingon B’rel in flight. Its sharp angles were half-hidden in shadow. The room’s scent was a layered blend of charred meat, pungent spices, and the faint metallic tang of bloodwine.

Commander Marlon Smythe sat with his back to the wall. The position gave him an unbroken view of his surroundings. His dark skin caught the low light in warm tones. Honey-brown eyes tracked the few patrons that moved between tables. Buzzed black hair was trimmed to a fresh low fade, tight against his scalp.

Across from him sat Lieutenant Commander M’kath. His skin bore a similar deep mahoghany tone as Marlon’s. The Klingon’s sandy-brown hair was drawn back into a long ponytail. His facial hair was sculpted into three distinct barbs. His mustache was separated by a gap that formed two spiked shapes, sharp on their inner and outer edges. A diamond-shaped goatee angled down vertically between them.

M’kath’s broad hand curled around a goblet of bloodwine. The heavy scent of it mingled with the plate before him. He’d ordered a specific variety of a well-known Klingon food known as bithool gagh. The serpentine creatures piled high on top of each other. This species of gagh was known for their appendages. Each had small legs and disproportionately large feet. Tiny toes wriggled as they tried to climb out of M’kath’s bowl. Their slick bodies shifted with movement every time the security chief tried to stick a Qo’nos-style dining prong into them. He speared a few in one decisive motion before lifting them toward his mouth.

“You know,” M’kath began between bites, “I am grateful we had Lieutenant Ruiz at the helm that day. I still wonder how she flew the Brawley so aggressively.”

Marlon sliced into his targ flank steak. The rich, savory scent rolled up from his plate. He chewed, swallowed, then set his fork down with a small smile. “She’s something special, that Ruiz. Captain Raku taught us an old trick, one Bajoran freighter commanders used to swear by.” He took a sip of his warnog. The crystal-clear Klingon beer sent a bubbling warmth down his throat and into his stomach. “You turn down the ‘flight assist’ settings. The program normally keeps your course perfectly shaped, nice and stable. Horizontal. With it turned down, you let gravity start tugging at the ship. It’s especially strong when you’re close to a planet, like we were. It lets you cut angles you couldn’t otherwise pull off.”

M’kath drank deeply from his goblet with thirsty gulps. He set it down with a thud when finished. “That explains the targeting sensors. They were rotating in ways I have never seen before. Lieutenant Ruiz was flying in three dimensions while Vaadwaur computers expected a horizontal plane.”

“A lot of training,” Marlon began, “keeps pilots locked into predictable head-on vectors. It’s somewhat safe and efficient on the engines. But the real reason those tactics are used is because they’re much easier to calculate. That makes it exactly the kind of thinking an enemy expects.”

M’kath’s lips curled into something between a grin and a thoughtful frown. “The Brawley targeted mostly the dorsal and ventral fore sections. The Orions kept their attention in a more traditional approach. They forced them to split their defenses while we came in from above and below.”

Marlon lifted his glass in acknowledgment. “It’s no coincidence the Votaragh got through the shields and struck their bridge. Every piece of that fight was about drawing them into a truly multidimensional battlefield. By the time they realized it, the trap had already closed.”

The Klingon took another bite of gagh and chewed with deliberate satisfaction. “It is strange,” he said as he paused. “I often think of the Brawley. I never thought I would look back on my time aboard a California-class with pride.”

Marlon smiled faintly. “The Fourth Fleet is all about the crew. It doesn’t matter if the ship is a Nova or a Sovereign-class. Every vessel has a place. Each mission pushes the galaxy a little closer to what the Federation stands for.”

M’kath grunted in agreement. His massive hand lifted the goblet again. Around them, the low murmur of conversation filled the space. Their sounds were punctuated by the occasional clatter of plates from the kitchen. A pair of older Klingons argued amiably at the far table. Their laughter carried under the steady hum of the establishment’s air recyclers.

Marlon leaned back and took another drink of warnog. The warmth lingered as he cut into his steak once more. “This place reminds me of some of the older bars back on Vega Colony. Those were the kind where the furniture outlasted most of the regulars.”

“That is why Marg’ah’s is still here,” M’kath said as he gestured to the thick, worn tabletop between them. “It endures like the stories told within its walls.”

Outside, the shape of passing pedestrians were seen as shadows that moved along the frosted windows.

M’kath pushed his plate aside and topped off his goblet from a fresh bottle of bloodwine. He raised it slightly, expression sober. “To the IKS Votaragh, lost with all hands while striking down an Underspace manufacturing depot.”

Marlon lifted his own glass. The two men met each other’s eyes for a long moment before drinking.

M’kath set his goblet down gently. His voice was quieter as he spoke. “I hope Sto’Vo’Kor is treating them well. May their feast never end. May their victories echo beyond time.”

The gentle burn of the warnog spread through Marlon’s chest as its bitter taste lingered. “To the Votaragh,” the executive officer echoed. The sound of their metallic cups meeting chattered a sharp clink.