Pentecost stepped past Renard without slowing, offering Kovor the kind of smile she’d normally wear in a bar on shore leave: polite, irreverent, and dismissive all at once.

‘That was colourful, Captain,’ she told the Klingon, nodding back to the square and the crowd whispering around the blood-stained dirt. ‘But I’ve got no business with you. I’ve shopping to do.’ Her eyes landed on a group moving from down the street, a burly cluster of armed and armoured aliens. She’d seen their ilk near the landing pads, local enforcers to keep the peace. ‘And I think you might need to explain yourself here.’

Kovor looked over his shoulder, lip curling. ‘I have every right,’ he growled to himself, then glanced back to her. ‘Shop well, Federation. We will talk once I have brought these dogs to heel.’

It was enough to clear her path. She gave Renard a quick nod and a glance to the door for her to resume her post, and ducked back into Dako’s lockup.

The air inside was cooler than the dustbowl outside, but thicker with the scent of rust and oil. This was a cavernous remnant of a refinery, lined with shelves of half-dismantled consoles, twisted hull plating, bins of wiring and conduits. In the back, one whole nacelle coil leaned against the stained wall.

‘Where were we?’ she said brightly.

The thick-armed and scarred Klingon called Dako stood waiting for her behind his counter, exactly where she’d left him when the noise outside had drawn her attention. Where the warriors of Captain Kovor were worn but sturdy, well-equipped behind their scars, Dako looked like his best fighting days were behind him.

‘You wandering off mid-talk,’ he pointed out.

‘Ah, yes.’ Pentecost snapped her fingers. ‘You were telling me what the locals drag in.’ Her eyes shot to meet his. ‘And I was waiting for you to stop pretending it’s all scrap.’

He grunted, but his gaze flickered towards a stack of crates on free-standing shelves, most scrawled with reference codes she couldn’t identify. Then she spotted it through the gap, lying behind the shelves: wreckage mostly exposed under tarpaulin, the curve of metal casing in sight, and faded Starfleet lettering across it.

Pentecost’s pulse quickened, but she kept her tone casual as she straightened. ‘And that one?’

Dako shifted. ‘Dead weight. No use.’

‘I have a soft spot for dead weight and useless things,’ said Pentecost in a sing-song voice, setting off towards it. ‘Go on. Show me.’

With a huff, he followed her and pulled the tarp back. In the dim lighting, the dull sheen of alloy glinted, different compositions and metals to the mostly-Klingon salvage surrounding her. Starfleet. Mid-22nd century. A computer core, stripped out and left to gather dust. A serial number matching the Glenmore.

Pentecost crouched, fingertips brushing the metal with reverence. ‘And what good’s it to you?’

Dako snorted. ‘None. Got hauled in with some other old Federation junk six months ago, but I could use them components and platings. This thing’s not dead, but it’s locked up with old encryption codes. What do I want with two hundred year old computer bits or data records I can’t even access? It’s a glorified box.’

Behind Pentecost, Hargreaves’s breath caught. ‘Captain, we’d have the encryp-’

‘Boxes, I can use,’ Pentecost said, cutting the young lieutenant off as she straightened. She was failing the first principle of negotiation, letting on just what a treasure trove this could be. Navigational records, combat logs, sensor sweeps; a chronicle of whatever happened to the rest of Eurus-7 before the Glenmore met her fate. ‘What’s your price?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Depends on how badly you want it.’

‘I need a historical paperweight. Come on, Dako, you couldn’t sell this to anyone else. It’s been sitting here for months, useless. You want to keep tripping over it?’

He worked his jaw, and she thought she had him. Then the door creaked open.

The footsteps were heavy as Captain Kovor strode in, the warrior Ash’rogh and his even more mountainous companion flanking him. Behind followed Renard, her gaze both furious and helpless as Pentecost looked to her, before turning back to Kovor.

‘Wanted to join my shopping trip? A girl likes diamonds, you know, Captain…’

Kovor ignored her. His warriors stayed near the door, alongside Renard, as he prowled forward, eyes landing at once on the ancient plating of the computer core. ‘Components.’

‘A box,’ said Pentecost with a flourish. ‘We’re on an archaeological expedition. This will be fine in a museum, but nothing more.’

But Kovor turned to Dako, lip curling. ‘Is this true?’

Dako flashed her an apologetic glance before straightening under the wilting gaze of an imperial captain. ‘This is old, 22nd-century Starfleet technology. Components are intact. With the right access codes – which they think they have – it might contain information of value.’

Pentecost scoffed as her gut tightened. ‘Like what? Records about areas we’ve since charted? It’s two hundred years old.’

Kovor didn’t answer her, but she could see her denials fail to land, like sword-blows deflected off his intricate armour. ‘If Starfleet finds value in this relic,’ he told Dako, ‘then so do I.’

‘Hold on -’

‘Of course, Captain,’ said Dako at once. ‘A gift. For House of Mokvarn.’

‘A gift?’ Heat rose in Pentecost’s chest. The first was an inconvenience. This was an insult. ‘You just told me it was worthless!’

Kovor turned at last, gaze level. ‘It is, to me. But not to you. Which means I am given the gift of seeing Starfleet sweat.’ He lifted a hand towards his two warriors, barked an instruction, and they advanced on the massive component. ‘Unless you explain why you want it.’

Pentecost ran her tongue over her teeth. Then she smiled. ‘You’re right. We got off on the wrong foot here. I’m Captain Pentecost, USS Tempest. We are on a mission of archaeology and exploration. We’d heard about this place, Breaker’s Quay, opening in the Skaleri Sector, and thought we’d investigate what scavengers had picked up now the House of Pvarn -’

‘A lie,’ said Kovor simply. ‘Starfleet would not come here on such a maybe.’

Her nostrils flared. As the two warriors had advanced – now in low discussion on how to best haul a massive piece of computer storage equipment – so had Renard, moving to flank her.

‘Not a lie; you interrupted before I could explain,’ Pentecost lied. ‘We’re looking for Starfleet Task Group Eurus-7, lost in this region in the 22nd century. Likely in combat with imperial forces. This computer core is from the site of an early skirmish, but we don’t know what befell the rest of the unit. I think it contains data that’ll tell us the rest.’

Kovor’s eyes narrowed, and she could see him thinking, fighting to summon a recollection. The sick sense of an opportunity slipping out of her grasp began to fade as she wondered what this captain of a nearby house knew of local history. And how much he cared. ‘A battle, in this sector, with Starfleet.’ His brow furrowed deeper. ‘The 2170s.’

‘You know of it?’

‘There are more tales than records,’ Kovor allowed, with a self-conscious edge she suspected betrayed some personal ignorance. ‘But if you wish to know of a people’s past, Captain, you should ask the people.’

She swallowed down fresh anticipation. ‘You have the computer core. I have the codes to decrypt it, find where my people fought your people. The Khitomer Accords entitle the Federation to recover its wrecks. Give me the core, and I will continue the hunt, and share with you – with your House – any of our findings on both our ancestors.’

Kovor was silent for a moment. He looked at his warriors, before grunting, ‘Get a sled, fools,’ at the two, who still stood bickering over the computer core. Then he turned to Pentecost, and nodded.

‘You are correct,’ he said. ‘Without your knowledge, this device is worthless. The Khitomer Accords entitle you to this investigation. I will have this equipment brought to your ship.’

Pentecost grinned, opening her hands. ‘And I will see every shred of data makes it to the House of Mokvarn when we’re -’

‘No.’ Kovor shrugged. ‘You will not share. We will share. Mokvarn and Starfleet. Tempest and Mat’lor. We will dig together.’ He extended a hand, chin rising in a pleased, peremptory manner. ‘And find our ancestors, together.’

She hesitated. There was too much satisfaction in his eyes, and too much open confusion in the gazes of the two warriors beside him. Too much blood left in the dust outside from the man they’d hunted, beaten, and summarily executed.

Klingon eyes. Klingon ways. Klingon space.

She reached out, and his expression flickered with a hint of surprise when she knew to clasp the forearm in a warrior’s grip, not shake the hand like a diplomat. ‘So be it. Together.’