Fortes Obdurant

[NDak 0]

The hot air of Dumok’azen tore through the air, the coarse, abrasive sand splattering the unexposed portions of Destorie’s face. As the louder, more assertive native started to explain the basic rules of combat, he stood motionless, his thoughts wandering to the Klingons, the disruptors pointed at his team, and a certain Governor’s aide who’d failed to mention that the natives wanted you to go through a peace-negotiation to meet, and that said same aide, had neglected to even bother to tell them he was coming -- an accidental oversight, of course. Making a note about said aide, Destorie returned to the ‘ritual combat’ that lay before him.

 

He could, of course, scheme a way out of this; of that he had little doubt. He could also ask any one of the D’heno or Koga to fight in his place. That, however, would undoubtedly taint his honor with these savages and if they were going to end this without bloodshed, they needed to respect him. It was clear that they didn’t have the higher brain order functions required to fear him, or at least his position and as much as he wanted to simply wipe them off the face of the planet, doing so would be exceptionally expensive in the long run. Bringing in prison labor was expensive, and the harsh climate meant higher than normal labor turnover (and by turnover, he meant fatalities), it was, afterall, the sole reason these miscreant, sub-Rihans had been allowed to continue to survive. Evolution, it seemed, had a way of working like that.

 

Frowning, at least mentally, he continued to consider his options. Runaway, let someone else do the fighting, or take his chances of losing an undoubtedly rigged fight with a bunch of Klingon asses. Hell, even if he did win, he had very little faith in the natives to keep their word and let he and his team leave. None of those were particularly good options. In fact they all three carried considerable risk to him, the mission, and his crew; yet it was his responsibility to make a decision. It was good fortune, he supposed, that he’d brought a medic with him. In a fair fight, he felt confident that he or Koga could win a fair fight against any Klingon. They were both exceptionally skilled in hand to hand combat and had been sparing partners for years; Koga would certainly have an upper hand against the Klingon, but then there was the question of honor.

 

Honor. He almost spat out the word outloud. What kind of honor did these people know? He’d come offering peace and they’d taken him hostage. They’d colluded with god knew who to attack innocent civilians in the mines and processing plants who were just doing their jobs and now they wanted him to fight what he assumed to be an escaped Klingon prisoner in some sort of ritual gladiatorial contest?

 

Technically these foul, miscreant dwarfs weren’t worthy to challenge him to an honor fight, let alone their escape Klingon pets. By that logic, there was little wrong in sending his ringer, the former Imperial Champion, to fight in his stead. However, he seriously doubted if the locals would see it that way. In fact, he rather assumed they would see it as a sign of cowardice, one he’d not be able to overcome.

 

Bringing his full attention to the present he once more considered his family motto as his countenance hardened and his resolve solidified.

 

The bold endure.