The market was a thick press of bodies, and Renard couldn’t relax – not for herself, and not for the rest of the away team for whose safety she was responsible. Too many faces, too many weapons glinting from under jackets or hanging at hips or slung over shoulders, too many directions trouble could come from. And Pentecost didn’t care enough, she thought, paraded through the press like she owned the streets, with Hargreaves her wide-eyed shadow. That left Renard to hold the perimeter. Watch for trouble.

Dako’s was a sturdy lockup, the entrance through a prefabricated shell built against the blackened husk of an old refinery. At the door, Pentecost paused to study the sign, then inside with a squint.

Inside could have a myriad of threats, but outside certainly did. ‘I’ll watch the door,’ Renard offered. ‘Ensure nothing comes to join us.’

Pentecost gave a knife-flash of a smile. ‘Enjoy the dust,’ she said, and sauntered in with Hargreaves at her back. Renard just hoped the young helm officer would know her job inside was to watch for trouble, not gawp at the experience of it all.

But her job now was to trust them, and fulfil her role: watching. She lingered with her back to the bulkhead, hands loose at her sides, casual but with her phaser in easy reach.

Here, where the stores and storage units spanned the old industrial buildings, the streets were wider. It gave her more to watch, but also meant threats had more ground to cover before they reached her. A pair of Orions bartered at a cart piled high with conduit lengths; a Klingon youth lounged on a crate, idly spinning a knife he cared for more than the passers-by. Two freighter crew in the rough, scuffed jackets she expected of spacers walked by focused only on their cargo hauler.

She saw everything, noted everything, weighed everything. Most of it was nothing. Most of it was always nothing – until it wasn’t.

And then it wasn’t.

It began as a murmur, a ripple of motion from down the street. Someone shouted, rough and desperate, and a figure burst from between two stalls: a Klingon, ragged and in patchwork armour, forcing his way through the crowd. He shouldered past scavengers and traders, sprinting – bolting.

Fleeing.

Renard had her hand on her pistol just as two more Klingons followed in his wake, armed with blades and disruptors, a glint of good armour under ragged cloaks. Where the first man had fled, they pursued, forcing the crowds apart, the shorter of the two barking instructions she couldn’t make out in the hubbub but that made locals rush away. The other raised a rifle, levelling it down the street, and Renard flinched, hesitating. She would never consider opening fire on a road like this. Not if she cared about bystanders.

Then the runner tripped, sprawling in the dust, and rather than open fire, the two hunters pounced.

The bigger Klingon slung his rifle and grabbed their prey, flipping him onto his back in the dirt, pinning him down. The shorter advanced, barking oaths in his own language, and planted his boot in the man’s gut, once, twice, thrice.

The hunted Klingon grunted, moaned, went fetal, but still wasn’t let go. Snarling, the hunter doing the shouting grabbed him by a strap on his chest and pulled him up to slam his fist into his face. There was a crunch, the breaking of a nose, a sputtering of purple-hued blood. Then another blow, and another –

Before Renard knew what she was doing, she stood before them, phaser drawn but hanging low, voice level and clear. ‘That’s enough.’

The bigger Klingon, the one holding the man down, was grinning, eyes alight with their pursuit, their brutality, but did look up at that, wrong-footed enough by the sudden appearance of Starfleet to hesitate. The other looked up, lip curling in a snarl, fist still holding a handful of his prey.

‘What’s this to you, Starfleet?’ the one who’d delivered the beating snapped.

‘Nothing,’ she admitted levelly. ‘But if you mean to kill him, do it. If you’re just going to beat him like thugs in the street, this isn’t justice. It’s sport. Hardly a show of honour.’

He shoved his prey back in the dirt, his bigger companion planting a boot on the defeated man’s chest to pin him. But the Klingon who squared up with Renard, while less of a slab of mountainous muscle than his friend, still had nearly a head of height on her. A vicious scar split his left eyebrow; a thinner old wound at the right side of his mouth tugged at a perpetual hint of a smirk.

‘Starfleet’s presuming to tell us what honour is?’

Renard met his gaze coolly. ‘Starfleet presumes to know the difference between a fight and butchery.’

The scarred Klingon stepped back, jabbing an accusing finger at his quarry. ‘This one is a traitor an’ a coward an’ -’

‘And he is mine.’ A voice boomed from down the street. Renard hadn’t realised that the crowd had stilled, all eyes on the confrontation, until her gaze snapped away from the scarred Klingon to the speaker.

Tromping through the dust, unstained by dust or sweat, a broad Klingon man in the insignia of a captain marched towards them, straight-backed. His gaze slung disinterestedly over the two warriors, the fallen figure, before landing on Renard with scant little more emotion.

‘I am Kovor, son of Bortak, captain of the IKS Mat’lor, loyal servant of the House of Mokvarn. These are my men.’ A gauntleted hand was directed at the fallen Klingon, a taloned finger extended. ‘And this wretch is a fugitive.’

The two warriors fell back, heads inclining as their captain appeared. The scarred warrior self-consciously pushed his ragged, dusty cloak back, the bigger Klingon aping him a heartbeat later, and Renard could see their rank insignia on military armour, too.

They were not the problem any more, though. She turned to Kovor. ‘Lieutenant Renard. USS Tempest. I’ve no dispute of your jurisdiction, Captain.’

‘Merely our methods? Lieutenant?’ Kovor’s dark hair was pulled back in thick braids, and his armour boasted intricate detailing and signs of fine craftsmanship his men’s lacked. ‘Peldrok is a traitor, a deserter, who abandoned his post in battle. We have pursued him to this world. I told my warriors to hunt.’ His lip curled. ‘They hunted. Rather than face his duty with honour, he ran like a dog.’

The shorter, scarred warrior – though they were all scarred, in truth, Renard noted – scoffed. ‘He ran. Not fast. Not far.’

Peldrok was groaning now, rolling onto his front. ‘Captain,’ he wheezed. ‘I had no choice. We were overwhelmed. There was no honour in dying that day -’

‘I do not listen to the babbling defences of oath-breakers,’ said Captain Kovor in a low, level voice. Then he drew his mek’leth, and his eyes landed again on Renard. ‘This is not your world, Starfleet.’

‘It is not the House of Mokvarn’s, either.’

‘Perhaps not. But he is mine.’ A jerked nod at the deserter, a curl of the lip. ‘I would not deny you your justice.’

Peldrok, fingers grinding in the dust, turned to look up at her, eyes wide and desperate. ‘You’re Starfleet,’ he wheezed. ‘You know not the full story; you wouldn’t let this happen without knowing -’

‘Mewling wretch! Have one last shred of courage to face your end with honour!’ spat the shorter, leaner of Kovor’s two warriors.

‘Ash’rogh!’ At last, Kovor raised his voice, gaze towards his two hunters venomous before it landed on the one who had clearly led this pursuit – til now. ‘Enough.’

Renard ignored them, unable to take her eyes from the desperate, pathetic figure of Peldrok. If he stood, he would be much larger than her, tall and broad, a muscular and powerful Klingon. But now he was nothing but a terrified man clawing at the dirt who didn’t want to die here, on this scavenger’s backwater.

It would be so easy to do and say nothing. She didn’t know if the tension in her throat was words trying to spill out, an objection forming, or the choking sense of inaction. After a beat, she tore her gaze up to fix on Kovor. ‘I…’

‘Lieutenant. Stand down.’ Pentecost didn’t have much of a command voice, normally; she spoke casually, relying on being smart and correct most of the time, and her rank insignia doing the heavy lifting otherwise. In the months she’d served under her, Renard thought this was the first time the captain had spoken out with a charge to her words, that edge that made a subordinate reflexively stiffen.

And it was with the most resentment Renard had ever felt for her that she glanced back at Pentecost, stood in the doorway to Dako’s with a cool, guarded expression. But after a beat, Renard took a slow, deliberate step away from the Klingons, jaw clenched.

Kovor watched, eyes running across their respective rank insignias. He gave a brisk nod, then looked down at the deserter. ‘Peldrok, son of Meh’vah,’ he intoned, voice dropping to a gravelly tone. ‘You are a deserter, an oath-breaker, a traitor to your family, your House, and your Empire. I sentence you to death in the name of Kahless. May Fek’lhr tear you asunder.’

‘I -’

The blade rose. Peldrok gave one last bleat of protest. The blade fell, and with it, silence.

After a beat, the warrior Ash’rogh gave a low chuckle of satisfaction, and spat on the dirt beside the corpse.

‘Get rid of him,’ Kovor said to Ash’rogh and the other warrior, ignoring their jostling as they moved on the corpse. His eyes had risen, ignoring Renard, watching Pentecost now. ‘Captain. You walk Klingon ground now. We should talk.’