The Blood of a Warrior

Kornan of the House of Ondagh, Captain of the bird of prey Qaw'wIj'emvo', stood raptly at attention in the loading dock of the planet Kaloth's only spaceport. Such was Kornan's reputation for sudden bursts of violent strength and an equally erratic temper that no one, Klingon or otherwise, interrupted his scowling reverie. His crew of blooded warriors moved with speed and efficiency to load necessary supplies onto the ship, as their Captain had been intensely irritable for the last several months of separation from his wife and children. Should he suddenly focus his smoldering gaze on some hapless member of the crew, no force on the planet would save that Klingon from an extremely embarrassing tongue-lashing for which no apology would suffice.

So strange was the sight of a technician running towards their melancholy captain that the other men and women ceased their work to stare, grav carts held in place as judicious cover should a bloodbath ensue. The technician's hurried footsteps came up short before his captain, squeaking against the smooth duracrete as he saluted.

“Captain Kornan! A subspace disturbance has been detected less than one thousand kilometers from Kaloth...” His voice trailed off as the slightly glassy look in the Captain's eyes faded, the stiffened neck began to turn, and the powerful hands twitched menacingly.

“Technician!” Kornan barked. “Am I to assume that this situation is beyond the capabilities of my warriors to face on their own, or have you disturbed me for nothing?” The rancor in his words sent base personnel scattering, but the crewman only paled.

“Captain, I-” was all that passed his subordinate's lips before the dock's lighting flickered out, returning only as a dim reddish glow of emergency power. The crackle of intercoms cut through the sudden shouts of alarm, though the next voice to be heard only redoubled the local sense of panic.

“We are the Borg. Refrain from all hostile action. You shall enter into and serve the Collective. Resistance is futile.”

The dock's previously orderly activity rapidly disbanded into a frenzy of fleeing civilians and discarded supplies strewn across the gantry that held the Qaw'wIj'emvo', resembling a hurricane swirling around the grimly silent Captain Kornan. His eyes closed, his clenched fists relaxed at his sides, and the still-frozen technician swore to himself that his Captain had even sighed softly as if in relief. Then Kornan's eyes snapped open and he inhaled deeply, just long enough for his crew to all clap their hands to their heads and grit their teeth.

Smashing his massive fist into the commbadge on his chest, denting the small metal object and sending several commendations pinging to the ground, Kornan howled back, “Cowardly petaQ! Do you insult me by asking that I surrender, or do you perhaps seek to goad me into suicide from the shame of being faced by such pitiful opponents? I, Kornan of the House of Ondagh, answer the call to battle, though it is made by unmanned slaves!” Veins pulsed thickly in his neck, and several men slightly too slow in protecting their hearing slumped to the ground with a thin trickle of blood running from either ear. A stunned hush once again asserted itself in the area, the impending doom of assimilation overwhelmed by the very imminent doom of deserting within sight of Captain Kornan. The soldiers looked to their Captain hopefully for orders, their routine broken both by the emergency and the rekindling of Kornan's battle lust.

“Warriors!” Kornan bellowed, unsheathing the d'k tahg at his side and hurling it towards the dock's intercom. “We have suffered an insult! A slur so vile as to impugn the honor of all our houses, the honor of all children of Qo'noS!” The knife embedded itself deeply in the intercom's wiring with a crackle of power conduits rupturing, cutting off the ominous static. “Assemble on board the Qaw'wIj'emvo' and prepare to fight, for blood and for honor! The first volley goes to our enemies, that we may record this as a matter for warriors rather than nursemaids!” Kornan gnashed his teeth together in delight at the prospect of fighting a powerful foe at a disadvantage. Despite his foolhardy words, he had no intention of sacrificing any of his warriors for a gesture. His ship would indeed take the first volley of fire, but at maximum military speed with shields raised in preparation to wreak havoc inside the enemy formation. The Borg were not to be taken lightly, for all their inability to appreciate a struggle. It had indeed become a good day to die.