His mother had named him Mozinarah Orionoth Clefthoof of the Green Expanse, and his siblings, of which there were many, referred to him Mossy for short. His mother was a Great Matron of the Targ[1] Tribe, and had given birth to many generations of Targ in her lifetime.
They were not unhappy with the Klingons. Long had their tribe served as their pets and companions, but the garden of the Xyrillian ship[2] was too tempting to ignore. It had soil instead of gravel and living plants instead of straw, and after visiting nobody wanted to leave. Even after the flaps closed, plunging the plants and soil into darkness, it was still preferable to the freeze-dried kibble they had grown used to in space. His great uncle, a Targ of great wit and guile, had charmed the Xyrillian computer into allowing them access to the garden space. In return, they were to work with the bees and other plants and insects, to cultivate and consume their own share, in exchange for assisting their new hosts.
However, the migration of the Targs had aroused the Klingons to the presence of the hidden ship[3], and they had come in as far as the garden. Mossy was unsure of what he could do, if he should do anything, and decided to ask the one person he always turned to for advice.
Esmerelda Mozinorionoth Bristleback Clefthoof was an older Targ of great renown, and Mossy was one of her many, many, many children. She was carefully pulling out some pesky but delicious tangle root when she saw him approaching.
“May warm salutations find you in the cold of space, Great Mother of Many Generations!” Mossy began with the usual formalities common with Targs. “Did you know there’s a Vulcan on the lower ramp? I believe he is a warrior. I can smell the rosy[4] blood on his sword.”
“Greetings, exalted young Mossy, honored descendent and favored child. Your greeting warms me in the cold of space. Yes, I smell the Klingons, I smell them falling dead in battle. But there is also the scent of copper in the air. Green blood, Vulcan blood.”
Targs don’t see very well, and many are blind in old age. Their hearing and sense of smell are acute to a degree many described as clairvoyant, and can even detect genetic anomalies in living beings.
The garden was dark, but filled with scent and sound. Their ears and noses twitched with calm interest as the Klingons and a single Vulcan appeared, rising from the metal ramp that led into the center of the garden from downstairs.
*
The catwalk leading up from the spiral ramp shook and rattled. Two Klingons stumbled backward, one already bleeding from a deep cut in the leg, the other clutching his side, but still holding his sword in a guarded position and trying to give his friend cover to escape.
Vurkhen had served two tours with the Klingon warship, which was almost ten years. Today he watched this fearsome Vulcan, and his strange blue eye as he mowed his way through his crewmates. Like any of them, he was looking forward to a warrior’s death.
At the same time, he thought, if only he could live to tell this tale.
The port back to the Klingon ship was nearby, and it seemed like he would have the misfortune of survival.
*
Mossy and Esmerelda watched the scene with calm interest. Several other Targs had also taken notice, and raised their heads from their vegetable beds and flower rows.
“Great and honored Matron,” Mossy said, “are we returning to the Klingon ship?”
“We are not, my faithful and inquisitive son.”
“Will the Klingons keep the garden if they take the Xyrillian ship, Honored Matron?”
“I expect not, oh son, who speaks of the future.”
“Then we should aid the Vulcans and Xyrillians, and forsake our Klingon hosts.”
“Your conclusion is wise, my honored son, and I would counsel the same.”
Throughout the course of this calm and measured conversation, the Vulcan had driven the two Klingons along the narrow path in the center of the garden towards the door the Klingons had used as an access point. Smears of pink and dark green followed them down the steel pathway.
*
The room was still dark, but Selek knew he was in the garden from the smell. Dirt, grass, fresh water, and something else he couldn’t place. It was damp and rank, dug from the deep earth and left in the sun for a day. Pungent but not unpleasant.
The flaps were still closed, but the lights along the catwalk were at his feet, and shining that dull yellow didn’t reveal very much other than what was immediately in front of him. All that was in his field of vision now was two wounded Klingons in a reluctant, stumbling retreat.
Whatever had driven Selek up through the access ramp, which contained several members of the Klingon crew, was ebbing from the various wounds on his body and leaving a trail of distinct footprints along the floor. Blood mixed with sweat started to drip from his temple and past his naked eye.
The lever that would open the flaps was at the end of the catwalk, where there was also a convenient access point. He could not see it yet, but the Klingons knew where it was and he followed them. A blue archway faded into view, activated by their movements, and he took a moment to pull the metal lever on his left side.
The two Klingons stumbled back through steel archway. Selek was still hungry for their blood, and stinging from the heat of fighting. He took a long stride to follow them.
The steel flaps that blocked out the light of a nearby sun began to rise. Heat and light crept into the garden. Insects stirred among the leaves and plants.
A familiar voice cracked over the speaker behind his ear.
“Too far, buddy,” he recognized Ah’zhen’s voice through the speaker. “Take two steps back.”
Selek could feel his head getting light, but he managed to take two careful steps backward, his sword carefully held in a guarded position.
One of the Klingons lay on the floor, holding his leg. The other sank to one knee as Selek backed away.
The airlock door closed, and the Vulcan disappeared. They heard a hiss as the ship uncoupled.
The Vulcan was gone, and the Xyrillian ship with him. All that was left was a muddy imprint of his foot on the metal catwalk.
*
Captain Ah’zhen was roused from sleep by the computer, as she expected, but she was surprised by the urgency of the computer’s voice.
“Status report!”
“I’ll debrief you later.” The computer’s voice chirped. “Right now, you need to get upstairs. He’ll bleed out unless the medics reach him in time.”
Ah’zhen knew what she meant immediately.
“Where is he?”
“The garden, by the access portal.” Ah’zhen was already moving and barely heard the computer’s voice continue, “Just follow the trail of green blood.”
*
Strips of white light began to move and rise along the steel catwalk. There was a beeping sound, and the emergency beacons along the floor slowly faded, their sensors triggered by the light of a yellow star outside. Mossy watched the door close, and carefully walked toward the Vulcan, who was hanging on to his sword with one hand and leaning heavily on the steel railing with the other.
Mossy slowly trotted towards the swordsman carefully, better safe than sorry after all. He was likely still dangerous.
The Targ breathed deeply.
It was difficult to get past the rank odor of copper. Mossy envisioned a sea of dark green at the edge of a moonless night, a moving ocean of sand and lava on a hot and dry desert planet. A Vulcan indeed, but there was something more, beneath the smell, and within the marrow of the blood. Mossy listened closely, and he could hear it before he caught the scent; a line of steel cutting across space from the arms of a young star, a burning mark that was dipped in water and became a mass of clouds and rain.
A planet of iron people, powered by water and steam.
He had heard of them, but could he be one? A Terran? He couldn’t wait to tell his mother!
Mossy was startled out of his thoughts when the Vulcan, or Terran, fell to one knee. He was still holding his sword and seemed to be admiring the greenery and warmth that was now clearly visible all around him. Then his eyes fell, and he seemed to notice the Targ for the first time. Mossy was standing next to him, easily within arm’s length.
The Vulan-Terran reached out and gently put his hand on Mossy’s snout.
“You must be that smell,” the creature said, a strange smile on its face. “Are…there…vegetables?[5]”
The Targ did not sense fear or pain, but only a tranquil, quiet gratitude.
“Bags,” he mumbled, “Vegetables. Beautiful.”
The hand slipped away, and Vulcan-Terran slumped over on his side, unconscious on the catwalk.
Mossy snorted, unsure of what do next.
Then he heard a strange sound by the steel archway. A light, metallic, tapping, and what sounded like a voice. He trotted over to investigate.
*
Ah’zhen told the computer to set Evade/Retreat Plan #4, taking them away from the Klingon ship at a zippy Warp 3. She sent a team that included her second in command to the bridge to see that it was carried out. The power was coming back, and they would need some evasive manoeuvres once the Klingons figured out what had happened. The scanners clearly showed Selek in the top level, in the garden most likely, but he had stopped moving. His vital signs were still on the tracker but getting weaker. Luckily, there was a service hatch underneath the access point, and that’s where they were heading now.
The top of the shaft was dark, however, and the hatch was not opening.
She hit the computer’s intercom. “I need this hatch open.”
“I’m trying to bypass the systems that the Klingon’s cut to get in here,” the computer replied. “They gutted the hydraulics on each side. There’s a release but it’s on the upper floor.”
Ah’zhen gritted her teeth. Someone would have to go around and up the ramp. She checked Selek’s vitals. They were fading.
She opened a channel and yelled into the intercom speaker.
“Do we have anyone in the garden?”
*
Rising out of a succulent plot of clover and dandelions was a round, metal plate. On the bottom of it, near Mossy’s right hoof, was a smaller metal circle. It was flashing with green light, a regular rhythm like a heartbeat, and Mossy could hear noises on the other side of it. He knew, just from the sound, that these were the ship’s residents and therefore, the growers of this garden.
Their news hosts, in their new home, and he was honoured to be the first Targ to welcome them. He stepped on the green circle.
It clicked, and the metal disc rose and opened.
[1] A small to medium sized pig-like animal commonly kept as a pet in Klingon culture. They’re adept at caring for gardens and are historically used to clear farms and crops of invasive plants, insects, and pests.
[2] Xyrillians keep gardens on their ships for recycling air and fresh veggies, especially Dutara root.
[3] Xyrillian ships rely mainly on defensive powers, like cloaking devices and stealth technology, and carry few weapons.
[4] Klingon blood is pink. This is why Star Trek VI is rated PG13 instead of R.
[5] This is a reference to when Selek and T’Nedara first met.
