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never really lived among Klingons, but only dabbled in the idea. For her this was still adventure and not a way of life. She was a Starfleet ensign on an undercover assignment. Her ability to speak Klingon without a hint of accent, another gift of genetics, had been an advantage, and even more, Janeway had wanted to give this girl a chance to prove herself as more than just a daughter of the famous
Voyager
crew, just a survivor along for the ride. Everybody deserved that.
    Miral swallowed whatever insult she found in the admiral's dismissal of her at this critical moment, and with fierce self-control she simply nodded and gestured the admiral down the correct corridor.
    There, in the torchlit cavern, Janeway left what she hoped would be the last of her “clan” involved in this new trick.
    The corridors were long, curved, and arid. The air was perfumed, but circulating and cool. Led by the Klingon guards, Janeway passed by several untidy antechambers. She saw no one else moving around.
    Ultimately they turned left, and left again into a larger room with poor lighting, cluttered with incongruous pieces of machinery, some recognizable, others alien contraband. At the center of this jagged junk heap was Korath.
    For a species that considered themselves rebellious, the Klingons did all they possibly could to look alike. Korath was as typical an old-man Klingon as any Janeway had ever seen. He seemed to be going for clichéd image—the long gray hair, uncombed, the exaggerated brow ridge that got more prominent as Klingons aged, the unnecessary body armor and uncomfortable clothing, the sour attitude. He was working on some kind of laser tool to adjust a hand weapon that Janeway didn't recognize.
    The two Klingon guards paused at the entryway. Janeway continued into the lab as if she visited every day.
    Korath knew she was here, but kept working on his toy. After a few moments of time-wasting, he turned the tool off and held up the weapon.
    “A Cardassian disruptor,” he boasted. “I've modified it to emit a nadion pulse.”
    Fine. Can it knit and purl?
    “Impressive,” Janeway bothered to say, unable to think of anything more original. “But that's not what I've come for.”
    “No. You've come for something far more dangerous.”
    In no hurry, he picked up another tool and went on tinkering with his disruptor. If he thought he was really impressing anybody, he'd been in these caves way too long.
    “Where is it?” Janeway demanded. All the deals had been dealt. Why was he stalling?
    “Somewhere safe,” he grumbled.
    Oh, brother. Pseudo-superiority. Did he have to be so bracingly predictable?
    Janeway decided to play the uninspired game for a minute or two. “I went to a great deal of trouble to get you your seat on the High Council. Now give me what you promised.”
    Korath moved to a monitor embedded in the fake rock of the cavern wall and activated it. A rotating graphic of Janeway's personal shuttle, the one in orbit right over their heads, popped on. A little grainy, but accurate enough. At the side of the screen, Klingon text scrolled ceaselessly.
    “I've scanned your shuttle. You've made some interesting modifications.”
    He hit a button, and the graphics zoomed in on a single component.
    “Your shield generator is of particular interest,” he concluded.
    Janeway watched the monitor with a little more pride than she had practiced. “It's not for sale.”
    Korath smiled craggily. “Then what you want isn't available either.”
    “We had an agreement.”
    The old Klingon made a gesture to the two guards and without much theatricality said, “Show the admiral out.”
    She strode back into Korath's throne room and announced, “I've reconsidered your offer.”
    “I thought you might,” he said.
    “I'll give you the shield emitter,” she continued, as if he'd said nothing at all, “but not until I've inspected the device you're offering. To make sure it's genuine.”
    Korath's dark face flushed purple.