Demands of Honor

by Kevin Ryan

  After all, since it was in Federation space, the planet had strategic value in addition to the dilithium under its surface. Whatever game the empire was playing, it smacked of deceit and dishonor—the kind of dishonor that had swallowed his brother Kell.

  Not all dishonor was so large, however. Much that he had seen in recent days was petty, like the disputes between the Duras’s Klingons and the crew. These fights were numerous and over small issues. It was one thing for Klingons to test themselves against one another, but pointless bickering was something else entirely. Duras’s crew complained about everything and were almost always the ones who started the conflicts.

  And they almost always significantly outnumbered the Klingons they were bothering—like now. Six of the councillor’s guards had two of the D’k Tahg’s mess officers backed into a corner. Karel did not have to ask to know what the problem was. Duras had come on board with his own food stores. The food was much better than what Klingons on a warship usually saw.

  The councillor had intended the food solely for himself and his Klingons, but Koloth would not hear of it. Without consulting Duras, he had ordered the food mixed with the ship’s stores and rationed evenly between both the crew and Duras’s guards.

  Duras had been angry. In fact, angry had been an understatement, but Koloth had not cared. Surely, the captain had suspected that Duras wanted him out of the way and did not mind antagonizing the councillor. A Klingon such as Koloth was either fearless or a fool.

  Karel had served with him long enough to know that Koloth was no fool.

  “What is this?” Karel demanded, his voice booming.

  “A simple dispute that is no business of yours,” the leader of the contingent of Duras’s men said, turning around to face Karel. The Klingon had murder in his eyes. Over food? Karel wondered, shaking his head. Karel knew him. His name was Rouk and he had previously made the mistake of crossing Gash.

  The wound from that encounter was still visible on Rouk’s forehead. Now it looked as if Rouk had gone looking for easier prey, and better odds for himself.

  Gash had been under orders from Karel not to kill any of Duras’s men unless it was absolutely necessary. The ship would be better off without most of them—and certainly without Rouk—but it was not worth the trouble it would cause with the councillor. Of course, Karel did not fear the trouble, but he recognized that a prolonged dispute with Duras would distract both him and Captain Koloth from guarding against whatever Duras was planning when they arrived at the planet.

  And Karel’s blood told him that the councillor was planning something. For that reason, Karel dismissed the notion of killing Rouk himself, as satisfying as that would have been.

  “I said this is no business of yours,” Rouk said, scowling at Karel. Obviously he still thought he had the advantage over the mess officers and Karel.

  Karel did not flinch. “As first officer, everything that happens on this ship is my business.”

  “I have a legitimate dispute with these impudent targs,” Rouk said, gesturing to the two mess officers. Karel knew both Klingons and was pleased to see that they were not intimidated by the larger Rouk and other guards. The mess officers were smaller than Duras’s men, and most of the D’k Tahg’s crew for that matter—which was, of course, why they were mess officers.

  Kahless had taught that a warrior’s body was just a shell. His true worth came from his blood and his heart. Karel smiled and said to Karn, the smaller of the two mess officers, “Are you willing to settle this dispute now?”

  “Yes.” Karn spat.

  Karel watched Rouk’s reaction to Karn’s enthusiasm and saw a moment of doubt in the larger Klingon’s eyes.

  “Then the rest of us will give you room,” Karel said to Rouk. Then he gestured to the other mess officer and to Rouk’s men, who looked to Rouk for a signal. The larger Klingon nodded, unable to do anything else. Clearly, he had not intended single combat, even with a much smaller foe, but he could not admit his cowardly intentions in the open.

  Karel and the other mess officer took a position on the wall near Rouk’s men. Karel decided he did not want them far from his sight—or his reach. When they were in place, Karel said, “Bekk Karn, do not kill him unless he forces you to.” The mess officer looked disappointed, and Karel noted with satisfaction that Rouk was watching the exchange with more doubt now. He obviously understood that Karel and Karn knew something that he did not. Whatever he’d expected when he’d come into the mess looking for trouble, this was not it.

  Karn did not give him long to consider the change in his fortune. With only a grunt of warning, the smaller Klingon launched a combination of strikes at Rouk that drove the Klingon backward into one of the tables. Rouk was able to deflect most of the blows, but Karel could see that at least one had connected solidly with the side of Rouk’s face.

  Finally, Rouk turned to one side and twisted away from the table behind him. He staggered back and steadied himself. Then, when Karn launched another attack, Rouk was better prepared, striking out with his own hands.

  Karel immediately recognized Rouk’s style of fighting as one of the most basic taught to military trainees. Against most enemies, it was quite effective, relying on power and intimidation. But Karn had become proficient in the Klingon fighting art of Mok’bara. In fact, he had been one of Karel’s best students.

  Rouk landed one solid blow on the side of Karn’s head, but it only seemed to make the smaller Klingon angrier. Karn launched another attack that sent Rouk reeling backward over a table. Rouk’s companions now looked not just confused, but shocked. They started to move toward their leader, but Karel grabbed one roughly and pulled him backward. Karel could see they wanted to enter the fight and had no doubt that they would do just that if he were not there. Of course, an honorable Klingon would never have allowed companions to help him in single combat.

  But Rouk, like his leader, was not an honorable Klingon.

  The large Klingon came up from behind the table with a small knife in his hand. It was not a proper blade, more of an assassin’s weapon—a dishonorable tool for a coward’s job. Rouk looked comfortable with it in his hand.

  Though he was somewhat unsteady on his feet, the blade clearly gave him confidence. He lunged forward, leading with his blade. It was a clumsy attack and Karn was too skilled for it. He struck down on the blade hand even as he sidestepped the blow. Leaving one leg in Rouk’s path, he shoved his adversary downward.

  Rouk went down quickly, losing his hold on the knife. Even as he slid forward and crashed headfirst into the legs of another table, Karn dove forward, rolled, and came upholding Rouk’s knife. Karel had to fight the urge to remind Karn not to kill Rouk, but he held his tongue. If he had to repeat a clear order to one of his warriors, that warrior had no place on the ship.

  Karn kneeled over Rouk and reached down with one hand to turn the Klingon over so that he was faceup. Rouk was stunned, but not so much so that he did not see the knife and recognize the feeling when it was pressed to his throat.

  Karel stepped forward and said, “Rouk, is this settled?”

  Rouk looked in fear from Karel to Karn. He seemed surprised to still be alive.

  “Is it?” Karel asked again.

  “Ahhh…yes…it is settled,” Rouk said, his voice uneven.

  “Karn?” Karel asked.

  Karn looked down on the Klingon under his blade and asked him, “Will you accept without complaint the same rations as every other Klingon on this ship?”

  Rouk looked up as if he didn’t understand. When he saw that Karn was serious, he nodded and replied, “Yes.”

  “Will you clean up the mess you have made in this dining room?” Karn asked.

  Without hesitating, Rouk said, “Yes.”

  Karn leapt to his feet and answered the first officer, “Then I am satisfied.” Looking back down to Rouk, he held up the knife and told him, “I will keep your child’s toy. It may be of use in the kitchen.”

  Karel nodded to Karn an
d then turned to Rouk’s Klingons and said, “You are dismissed.” When they hesitated, he said, “Your companion does not need your help for his work.”

  The Klingons left the room. Karel waited a moment to make sure that Rouk would not do anything foolish, then left the dining room. Karel realized that the honor and hope of the Klingon Empire was in that cook. And Karn was not unusual on board the ship.

  Since Koloth had taken command, Karel found that the spirit of the crew had greatly improved. Unlike many officers and leaders, Koloth did not find ways to pit his subordinates against each other. As a result, the crew kept their energy focused on their jobs and on defeating the empire’s enemies. It was a good policy for training and maintaining good warriors, but more dangerous for Koloth himself.

  So many commanders kept the crew at each other’s throat because it kept them from challenging their authority. It was an effective way for a captain to stay alive, but it was terrible for operational efficiency.

  On the D’k Tahg, the crew had flourished under Koloth. And Karel had to admit that as first officer he had had something to do with the improvement. Already, the ship’s crew had beaten many long-held records in simulations and war games. It was an example of what Klingons could do if they focused their efforts and conducted themselves honorably, staying on the path of Kahless.

  Like Karel, Koloth was a follower of Kahless the Unforgettable. And while most of the crew did not know that, they saw the results—warriors learned best by example. Yes, there was hope for the empire, hope for a future of glory and honor. Hope that it would recover from the kind of dishonor that had swallowed Kell.

  However, for the empire to live out its promise, it first had to survive. And survival was by no means certain if it proceeded with war with the Federation. The same dishonorable leadership that had put Karel’s brother on a dishonorable path had put the empire on the path to war.

  At the moment, Karel realized that he would serve the empire best by getting some rest. He had finished another double shift and had much to do tomorrow to make sure the ship was ready when it reached its destination.

  He checked in on the bridge and then headed back to his quarters. A message was waiting for him on the computer terminal.

  Hitting a button on the console, he saw the title of the message and was immediately alert. “News from home,” it read. Taking a quick glance at the rest of the message, he saw innocuous information about the weather and some agricultural reports. He did not even bother to read it. Instead he reached for a data tape he had put aside. Placing the tape into a slot in the console, he waited for the decryption program it held to do its work.

  As Karel waited, he felt his blood nearly boiling. In a moment the information he had sought and paid dearly for would be his. He would know who had sent his brother on a mission of deceit and treachery—to live among humans, to hide his true face, and to strike them from behind.

  A few moments later, the message changed. It now read, The identity of the Klingon you seek is highly guarded. The Blade of the Bat’leth program has become a political orphan with most records of it purged. However, I have learned that the same Klingon was responsible for the mining operation on a planet in the Federation. Apparently, this was also a failure.

  That was it. No further information. Karel knew more than he had known before, but not much. He still did not know the identity of the bloodless Klingon who had stripped his brother of his true identity and put him in an impossible situation to start a battle with an honorable foe who should not have been an enemy.

  It did not surprise Karel that the same Klingon was responsible for the reprehensible operation on the planet to which they were now headed. A Klingon who would sacrifice a whole planet of brothers would not hesitate to send a few Klingons to live among humans and die pursuing a mad plan.

  Two failures …

  The Klingon leadership might tolerate dishonorable acts to further the empire’s power, but they would not tolerate failure—at least not for long. That meant that Karel might not have long to seek out his revenge. Until now, he had thought that the biggest obstacle he would face was the coming war with the Federation. If it began, his ability to take his revenge would be limited. For one, he might not survive long, and he would likely not see Qo’noS for some time. And he had no doubt that the Klingon he sought was walking the corridors of power there.

  Now, he realized that he would have to hurry.

  It would help to have Captain Koloth’s advice on this issue. It would also help for Koloth to know the truth about their destination and the planet’s recent history. However, there was no way to do that without telling Koloth everything. Everything about his brother, and everything about Karel’s own mission of revenge.

  The captain was honorable, but this was not his errand, not his fight. Koloth’s help in restoring the honor of the House of Gorkon was too much for Karel to ask. And Karel’s final vengeance might not be in the best interests of the ship. Even an honorable Klingon would differ with Karel in those circumstances.

  No, whatever Karel did, he would have to do it alone.

  Chapter Three

  KRAITH SPACE STATION

  NEAR THE KLINGON-FEDERATION BORDER

  “UNACCEPTABLE,” FOX SAID, standing and pounding the table. “That planet is not even on the list of disputed systems.”

  “Yes, but we agreed to talk without conditions,” the Klingon ambassador said evenly.

  “Then I need to amend our agreement and make it clear that I will not discuss absurd, trifling points that are not worth either of our time.”

  Ambassador Morg looked at Fox in silence for a moment and shrugged. “Very well.”

  Fox took no satisfaction in the minor victory. He knew the negotiations had ended days ago. Since then, there had been plenty of talk, but it had been just words. In the past, he had believed that as long as two sides were talking instead of fighting, there was hope. He still believed that was true. Most of the time.

  But not this time. This was a dull charade where all parties knew the lie that stood between them but didn’t speak it. So the farce continued. They argued forcefully about trade routes, economic exchanges, borders and boundaries, but it was sound and fury signifying nothing.

  The only real thing to come out of these talks was the death of a talented and brave young man who had died in single combat with a Klingon diplomatic aide. Fronde’s death had won the respect of the Klingon ambassador and allowed them to continue substantial talks.

  Fox had believed they were making real progress; he still believed the Klingon ambassador had been sincere. However, making a brief visit back to Earth to report his progress, Fox had returned to the space station to find that the ambassador had been replaced.

  The Klingon in front of him had insisted on starting over. The previous agreement was void, but he wanted to negotiate in good faith. In his many years in diplomatic service, Fox had been lied to by masters. This Klingon was no master. In fact, his heart didn’t even seem to be in the task.

  Admiral Solow had been right, as had his aide—the far too arrogant and far too young Lieutenant West. The Klingons were preparing for war and using the talks as a pretext to stall. Now, Fox was doing the same.

  So each side argued, advocated its positions to buy time to kill each other more spectacularly when war came. Fox had seen many failures in his long career, but none as bitter as this one. And in no negotiation had the stakes ever been higher. Fronde might have been the first to die because of Fox’s failings, but he would be far from the last. And that was only if the Federation won. Loss was too horrible to contemplate, yet it was a real possibility. And the specter of Federation defeat kept Fox at the table, trying to buy Starfleet time to make sure it didn’t come to pass.

  The Klingon demanded a change on procedure for negotiating trade disputes. “Completely unacceptable!” Fox shouted, on his feet again. The Klingons respected strength and anger, even in this mock, fraudulent situation. Fox found that he was
happy to accommodate them.

  Chapter Four

  EARTH

  LIEUTENANT WEST ENTERED Admiral Solow’s office and stood for a moment in silence. The admiral studied his computer viewscreen and gave no indication that he had heard West enter, but the lieutenant had no doubt the admiral knew he was there, so he waited. After about two minutes, Solow got up, acknowledged West with a nod, and said, “Let’s go.”

  Anyone who didn’t know the admiral well would have thought he looked distracted, but West knew better. Solow was incredibly focused on the problems he was working out in his mind. He had no time for petty matters, and it had become his staff’s job to take care of as many details as possible. The admiral needed his concentration. Hell, the entire Federation needed the admiral’s concentration.

  There was no conversation as they walked to the transporter pad. Small talk had completely disappeared. And besides, there was nothing to discuss. Both men had read the reports. And the reports had been clear. The meeting to come was a formality. In other circumstances, Admiral Solow would simply have sent West, or one of the other staff; the person they would be meeting with was possibly the only man in the galaxy that Solow would engage in a discussion that was mere formality.

  “Energize,” Solow ordered the transporter operator, and West felt the beam take him. He had traveled by transporter more times in the last two weeks than he had in his first twenty-three years. The novelty had disappeared.

  West and Solow materialized on the Federation president’s transporter pad on the fifteenth floor of the Palais de la Concorde. Waiting for them was the president’s chief of staff, an Andorian named Shrel, who said, “Welcome,” and led them down the hallway.