Strange New Worlds 8

by Dean Wesley Smith

  The wreckage in the middle of the clearing, though, maintained most of its structural integrity. A shuttle—a Federation shuttle. Humans.

  At least it was not a Starfleet shuttle. The color scheme on Starfleet was white with a minimum of trim colors and identification marks. This one still displayed mostly white, but garish curves and curls of contrasting colors sprawled across the hull, and something had been painted across its side in some large letters that Gorkon did not recognize.

  His fist clenched on his spear as he moved in. This world might be one of the disputed worlds under the Treaty of Organia, but Klingons were developing it, not humans. They might have a right to be here, but they would not establish themselves, not if Gorkon had his way.

  Still more than ten paces away from the shuttle, Gorkon had one leg over a downed trunk when the hatch of the shuttle popped open and a single humanoid stepped out.

  Judging from the way his jaw dropped, the humanoid seemed surprised to see Gorkon.

  Sitting astraddle a log was not the imposing image he wanted to portray. He slid off the far side and drew himself to his full height before he started on the last few paces to the shuttle.

  The intruder raised his hand and stepped toward him, saying, “Don’t! Radiation. I don’t think it’s safe.”

  Federation Standard, of course. It was not his strongest language, but the word “radiation” set him back. A Klingon can fight almost anything in the universe but the invisible killer. Gorkon stepped back until a fallen tree blocked his path.

  He spoke with a commanding tone to establish his Klingon dominance.

  “Human. You are not welcome here. Go back where you came.” Gorkon’s memory tickled at him. “From. Where you came from.” A simple language mistake, but mistakes do not enhance a warrior’s image.

  The humanoid twisted his head, displaying a patch of spots that ran up his neck and into his hairline. He pointed at the spots with a finger. “Trill. I am not a Terran. My name is Torias Dax.”

  He was a tricky humanoid. Within minutes, Gorkon found that somehow he had promised to guide the Trill to the closest base where a subspace radio could be found. Something about how he owed the Trill for warning him about the radiation, about how dishonorable it would be to leave a stranded traveler alone in the woods, and about how helping the Trill would improve his claim on the planet.

  Gorkon knew he was not stupid; he had survived the purges on Qo’noS that the chancellor had instituted. Many Klingons had not. Yet this, this Trill spun words about his head, and he found himself playing guide for a two-day trek across the wilderness, back to his holding.

  To make matters worse, Torias Dax chattered all the way, sometimes noting interesting things in the forest but mostly complaining about poor maintenance that stuck him with a faulty shuttle. He repeatedly cursed the bad luck that put medical radiation sources on his shuttle when it did crash. It seemed to Gorkon that his companion found fault with almost everything. Someone or something designed the entire universe wrong, according to Torias Dax.

  Gorkon thought about warning the Trill about the bantag. On the other hand, perhaps the bantag would eat the alien and the forest would at least be quiet again. Perhaps then he would be able to gain some sense of peace.

  No, after the shuttle crash and the way they were thrashing their way through the underbrush, the bantag had probably moved beyond the far mountain range, thinking itself in the way of a stampede of something large and multitudinous.

  They topped a narrow ridge, giving them a view across the valley floor.

  “Those hills over there. That’s not where we are going, is it? You didn’t build on top of one of those hills for the view, did you?”

  Definitely something very loud, in any case—perhaps it would be easier to just kill the Trill. The option did not seem like an honorable path, since he had already given his word to take him to the radio.

  The chattering stopped abruptly and Gorkon turned to find Torias Dax bent over, vomiting.

  “What is wrong with you?” Gorkon asked.

  The Trill waved his hand and his body heaved a few more times before he spoke. “Must be the radiation. I had no idea how much of a dose I took—the instruments were pretty badly mangled. But symptoms coming on this fast can’t be good.”

  Gorkon nodded. “I recall my training; the sooner signs of the sickness appear, the more serious the exposure is.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you think it is fatal?”

  “I don’t know.” He retched again. “If this keeps up, I might hope so.”

  Gorkon turned away, back toward their intended path. They had been making good time, but it would take much longer if the Trill’s illness slowed them down much.

  “We should rest now. We need to do so periodically anyway.”

  The Trill moved a few feet and then plopped down in the dirt. While Gorkon watched, his stomach spasmed a few more times, though by this time his body contained no fluid that came up.

  Between bouts, the Trill stared at him.

  Gorkon glared back.

  “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but what species are you? You don’t look like any race I have ever seen.”

  Probably not, Gorkon thought. “Klingon.”

  “What? You don’t look like any Klingon I have ever seen.”

  Not a surprise, Gorkon thought. The majority of the warriors that ventured offworld in recent decades look nothing like me.

  They resembled the pathetic line that had provided the last three chancellors of the empire. Mutations. Sicknesses. Whatever they were, they threw away all of the traditions of the past—including the quest for true honor—to emulate what they perceived as a superior culture. One that incorporated ruthlessness and complete disregard for the dictates of honor.

  “No, we are not given prime postings with the Fleet, actually no postings with the Fleet. Unless one belongs to a very rich house with its own ships, one never goes into space.”

  “Yes, but the forehead ridges, and that costume. It almost looks like armor.” Torias clapped a hand over his mouth as he spasmed again.

  Gorkon frowned. “It is traditional Klingon clothing. The leather is from an animal that is bred only on Qo’noS, chewed by my sisters to soften it and shape it, then stiffened with the urine of the nak’at.” At the Trill’s look of confusion, he added, “A predator that I killed with my own hands.” He stood. “And, yes, it is armor. Not effective against a disruptor but it will turn a poorly handled blade.” He looked down at the Trill. “Not a blade in the hands of a Klingon, of course.”

  The sun stood higher in the sky. Still not yet local noon. They had many hours of daylight left and could make a good part of the distance back to the lodgement, if they could move quickly.

  Several minutes had passed since the Trill had shown any sign of vomiting.

  “Are you ready? We have very far to go.”

  Torias stood up, a little wobbly on his feet. “Yes. I am still feeling nauseated but I seem to have purged everything that I am going to.”

  Gorkon peered at him. He did not feel himself to be a good judge of aliens, but Torias Dax’s skin seemed to have reddened somewhat.

  “Can you march?”

  The Trill nodded listlessly. “Yes. I am really tired, but I think I need to get medical attention as soon as possible.”

  Gorkon nodded. “Then we march.” He turned and started down from the ridgeline.

  Within hours, the Trill had visibly slowed and his steps had become wobbly and uncertain. At times he seemed to have forgotten where he was. He alternately sweated and shivered, and his face became more and more flushed.

  By the time darkness fell, they were almost halfway back to the lodge. At the pace they were keeping, it would be closer to three days to make the trek, especially if the Trill continued to deteriorate so quickly.

  As the sun set, the air became abruptly frosty and the hot resin smell of the trees changed suddenly to a damp rot smell of mold from the ground. The
clear sky glowed from the number of stars in view. Gorkon tried to locate the two small moons that he had learned about when he was young, but they were tiny, far from the planet, and difficult to pick out of the night sky.

  Glancing down, Gorkon saw the Trill lying on the ground, his teeth chattering. Gorkon would have left him there to die, but honor still drove him to keep his word and deliver the Trill—alive—to the lodge. If he lived after that, then that is what would be. If not, then it would not be his problem.

  He cut branches from some of the trees, leaves still attached, and piled them on the ground. With that task accomplished, he helped the Trill move onto them, and covered the shivering alien with additional foliage. The shivering continued, but the sound of chattering teeth subsided.

  Gorkon gathered wood and lit a fire. The only food he carried was dried targ—chewy, salty, and only slightly more nutritious than the leather of his armor. When he offered some to the Trill, the alien moaned and returned to his shaking.

  Minutes later Torias Dax threw the branches back and stood up abruptly, pulling at the front of his tunic to fan himself. Sweat poured from him.

  Watching him for a moment, Gorkon took some pleasure that he did not suffer as the Trill did. Belatedly, a bit of guilt arose in his mind, as he realized that the Trill could have just let him waltz right into the damaged shuttle and that he too, could have been enduring the same fate as the alien.

  “Why are you here?”

  The question startled Gorkon. He had been about to ask the same thing. “My house claimed a large part of this territory, to make it into a hunting domain, and perhaps to breed game animals. I am here as part of the Klingon development project for this world. And you? Why were you flying dangerous radioactives around our world?”

  “Ah. Supplies for the Federation settlement on the southern continent.”

  “What settlement?” Gorkon roared, leaping to his feet.

  “New one. In the last few days. Per the Organian Treaty. Farmers and miners.”

  He had been in the forest for nearly a week, but he would have expected some warning that the cursed Federation was coming. Unless, of course, he had been told and the message was buried in the subspace traffic that he had spooled into storage for later review. He should have known.

  But radiation sources?

  “Why the radioactives?”

  “Treating food. Seal it in plastic and give it a thousand rads. Never spoils.” The Trill stopped fanning his tunic and sat, well away from the fire. “And sterilizing medical waste. Even viruses will not survive a hard dose of gamma.”

  Gorkon stewed for a moment. “Gamma” must be some type of radiation, but he refused to show his ignorance by asking. Probably short-wavelength electromagnetic; neutron radiation would cause too much secondary radiation to be useful for food storage.

  “So, Klingon, why are you here?” The Trill stared at him. “What is your name, anyway? The last time I asked, you just grumbled.”

  Gorkon grunted. “Gorkon, son of Toq, of the House of Makok.”

  “Oh, my. Is ‘Gorkon’ enough?”

  “Yes.”

  Torias fell silent for a short while. “Why are you here, instead of pushing the interests of your house on Qo’noS?”

  Standing, Gorkon turned away from the fire. Admit to running away to save his own life? To hiding his family to save their lives? Not to an alien. Certainly not to a Federation alien.

  “I know more about you than you might think,” Torias said. “You speak Federation Standard. And with only a slight accent. Thus, you are very well educated.”

  Gorkon turned back to the fire. Certainly it must be the air which gave him this chill.

  “And your family is very wealthy. Otherwise, they could neither afford to claim so much land nor use it for little more than hunting.”

  Still, he said nothing. The Trill continued.

  “I am guessing this part, but the gray in your beard and hair suggests you are in your prime, so your children are almost full-grown. But neither they nor your mate are here with you.”

  “How could you…?” Gorkon growled.

  “Your armor shows wear and places where mending has been necessary. You might ignore it if you were alone, but a family of wealth and power would not let you run around like that.”

  The Trill paused for a moment, giving Gorkon a chance to speak, but he said nothing.

  “So, why are you hiding out here?”

  “Shut up.”

  The Trill looked at him, his eyes wide. He sat back into the branches abruptly, lay down, and pulled some of the boughs over himself. Within seconds, the Trill’s teeth started to chatter again.

  Breathing hard and fast, Gorkon tried to calm himself. The Trill is only guessing.

  He must be guessing.

  In the morning, Torias Dax felt better; at least, he said he did. Torias seemed to be back to his talkative self. Up shortly after dawn, the Trill was pacing when Gorkon awoke, so they set out almost immediately. Normally, Gorkon would have erased all trace of himself, but with the Trill alert and ready to move, he did not perform the familiar task so that they could make as much time as possible.

  Gorkon did not miss the bloodiness of the Trill’s eyes and the tiny drop of blood at the outside corner of the left one. This burst of energy would probably not last long, so they must take advantage of the Trill’s strength to cover as much distance as they could.

  Within two hours, Torias Dax staggered in the general direction of their travel, weaving back and forth where the trail allowed it and where the trail narrowed, crashing into brush or almost stepping over the edge of embankments. After a short rest, Dax insisted on going on.

  Within an hour he collapsed, unable to walk any farther. Gorkon sat and watched him. His breathing was labored and his color was bad: splotchy spots of red, dark blue bruises where almost anything touched his skin, and cuts and scratches that oozed blood but never quite clotted.

  Despite being at death’s door, the Trill muttered, keeping up a dialogue with himself.

  At one point, Torias asked for water. Gorkon supported his head while pouring water from a flask into his mouth. The Trill’s eyes cleared a bit and he struggled to sit up. Gorkon helped him.

  “You are dying.” Despite his training and his feelings about non-Klingons, he could not but feel some sympathy for the ailing Trill.

  Torias choked and coughed. His spit was pink with bloody foam. “Yes. A day. Maybe two.”

  “I can stop your pain. There is no honor in enduring this sort of agony.” The offer was best made from the standing position, to honor the sufferer, but it did not appear that Torias Dax could even sit up on his own.

  “No!” The vehemence of Torias’s voice surprised Gorkon, bringing on another coughing fit and resulting in more pink foam.

  When he regained his breath the Trill lay back. “I am a Trill. My symbiont is not as susceptible to radiation as my body is. With a new, healthy host to support it, Dax will survive the radiation dose it took. And I will be remembered. I must get to a subspace radio, and hope another Trill host is close enough to make the transfer before I die.” He reached up and clutched at Gorkon’s arm. “You have to get me to that radio.”

  Gorkon pulled his arm away, disgusted. “You have a thing inside you?” Torias shook his head in confusion, and Gorkon realized he had spoken in Klingon rather than Standard.

  Over the initial shock, Gorkon asked, more calmly, “You have a parasite? Does it control you? Why do you not have it removed?”

  Torias smiled wanly. “Not a parasite. Symbiont. We share. Dax knows my thoughts and I know the thoughts and memories of Dax.” Torias looked at Gorkon. “And all of the previous hosts.”

  Growing up on Qo’noS, Gorkon had never thought of himself as sheltered, but this seemed so…unnatural.

  “They all died in their time, but I remember them, because Dax remembers them. They live through Dax. More than one hundred years of life and, assuming this does not end u
p with the death of both of us, I will be remembered for several hundred more. The symbiont must live.” Torias struggled upright again and reached out for Gorkon, who shrank back.

  “You promised,” baiting him with the hint of questioning the Klingon’s honor.

  Gorkon stepped back again. The Trill looked at him with watering eyes as a drop of blood ran down his cheek from one eye. Dax rolled to his hands and knees and tried to stand.

  The third time he fell back to the ground, Torias Dax began to crawl, uphill along the trail that led toward the lodge that was still more than half a day’s brisk walk away.

  Gorkon stood stiffly and watched the dying alien crawl, laboriously, through the rocks and sticks and dirt.

  Hopelessly.

  The Trill knew that he had to die. And still he suffered the pain, trying to save a little bit of himself.

  Can a Klingon warrior show any less courage than this weak alien? The thought taunted Gorkon.

  He loped up the hill, reaching down for Torias and lifting him from the ground. He moved the Trill around to his back and grasped the alien’s arms around his neck. He started to walk.

  By the time they reached the top of the hill, Gorkon knew he would not be able to do this all the way to the lodge, so he took a cord from one of his leggings and tied Torias’s legs together, then ran a strap around his chest and the alien to help hold him in place. The Trill seemed to weigh almost nothing.

  Now Torias only needed to stay alive until they reached the lodge. Gorkon looked at the sky through the branches of the trees. It would be well after dark when their destination was met.

  Even on the verge of dying, Torias talked or, rather, mumbled. Given his position, he mumbled right into Gorkon’s ear, hour after hour.

  At one point he complained about the apparent lack of pain, though it felt as if his limbs were twitching, even though he could see they were not. And his failing vision, foggy sometimes and the world dimming.

  Once, Torias said, “I remember dancing. Always wished I could dance again, but my feet were too big and I could never dance like Emony danced.”