Thirty Years Later...
OKL'HMA! Failed! I have smashed my craft, and now I flee to live!
Die here? In rows of weeds and seeds? This is no way to die! Suliban! The savage pawns must not have what I know. Escape is not cowardice! Run!
Thus he ran from the smelling wreck of a noble craft that had carried him so far, whose flawed intakes he had not been able to mend in time. The wreck would distract them. It was Klingon to its core and it would serve till the end, spewing a curtain of smoke to hide him in the stalks.
Who was on this planet? Who had made the stalks into rows as tidy as a ...