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lit by wall torches. The effect was decidedly medieval, yet the stones had an artificial sparkle and gloss along their edges.
    “Welcome to the House of Korath, admiral,” Miral said, speaking firmly and loudly, to establish beyond doubt that Janeway was to be accepted here.
    “I love what he's done with the place.” Janeway's voice echoed.
    The Klingon to Miral's left suddenly erupted,
“Guv'ha gor! Nu'Tuq mal!”
    Miral snapped to him and barked,
“P'Tak! Gaht bek'cha tuq mal gun'mok!”
    The Klingon fixed his hands into a set of claws at his sides, but otherwise made no other threats. Miral skewered him to some silent promise, then approached Janeway without either of the guards.
    “What was that about?” Janeway asked. She had picked up a couple of words, though the delivery said more.
    In the torchlight, Miral's one-quarter of Klingon blood seemed to show more in the soft brow ridge on her forehead than it did in ordinary light. Or perhaps the effect of this place was simply working on Janeway's imagination.
    “He said your demeanor was disrespectful.”
    Janeway glanced at the Klingons. “I hope you told him I didn't mean to be rude.”
    “I told him if he didn't show
you
more respect, I'd break his arm.”
    With a little chuckle of admiration, Janeway shook her head. “You're your mother's daughter.”
    Miral beamed, but managed not to smile. That might've been taken by the Klingons as a sign of weakness at this juncture. “Korath's waiting. We should go in.”
    So much for small talk.
    The girl started to lead the way through the caverns, but Janeway put out a hand. “Sorry, but this is where we part ways.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You're dismissed, Ensign.”
    “Admiral, I really think—”
    “I can take care of myself.”
    Miral pivoted to face her. “With all due respect, I've been working on this for six months!”
    “And you've done an exemplary job. But it's over. Understand?”
    Miral Paris had grown up on the decks of a starship, aboard which Kathryn Janeway was the captain, the all-powerful benevolent dictator who kept their small segment of the universe safe and even on its keel. All things had to be approved by the captain. All problems lay at the captain's feet, all dangers and threats kept at bay by the captain's resolve. There was nothing short of hero worship in the girl's eyes now, coupled soundly with a desire to gain the approval and trust of this monumental paragon before her.
    She still wanted to go.
    “Yes, ma'am,” she said anyway.
    Janeway couldn't help but empathize. Passings of the torch were sometimes hard to swallow for those doing the passing, especially when the torch went to a higher authority who hadn't done the footwork. The girl had done her job, better than most and with fewer questions. Possessiveness over an assignment was one of those things Starfleet encouraged, and generally it went along with plain old human nature—and Klingon nature. Miral had all that going for her. She wanted to finish what she had started.
    But Kathryn Janeway had set herself upon this course single-handed and she meant to finish it alone. All these other untidy ends had to be shunted aside. She could be considerate later, if things worked out.
    “I happen to know your parents are anxious to spend some time with you,” she suggested, being deliberately vague and even condescending. If Miral resented this enough, the girl would get off this rock and take herself out of the equation as a possible target or hostage. “Take a few days' leave,” Janeway added. “Go and see them.”
    Few people truly understood the tenuous nature of dealings with Klingons more than those with Klingon blood, Klingon rage surging through their veins, however removed. The surge of temper, of passions and determinations; involuntary drives of single-mindedness were sometimes indescribable. Miral Paris, unlike her mother, B'Elanna, rather embraced the mystique of her ancestry, but that was because she had