Star Trek: ALL - Seven Deadly Sins

by Dayton Ward

  The spine-shuddering report of a security alarm interrupted Kobyk. Pulling out his communicator, Sorkav said, “Report!”

  One of his staff reported a moment later, barely audible over the sound of shouting and violence. “A riot has broken out at Site wa’! We are attempting to pacify now!”

  Kobyk immediately called up the security feeds for Site wa’ on his terminal.

  The cracking station was a giant facility that took large dilithium crystals and broke them down into smaller ones that would fit inside a ship’s engine. This particular station, and the two like it on the other two sites, were Jorvok stations: modular facilities that could be easily constructed, disassembled, and reconstructed elsewhere.

  They were also about three decades out of date, having fallen out of favor following the revolutionary work done by the Science Institute. Most dilithium mines in the Empire used the Mark Soch model from the Institute.

  Kobyk had worked on both systems, and found the Mark Soch to be smaller and easier to use, but also with a proclivity for breaking down on a monthly basis. Once you factored in the time that a Mark Soch was down for repairs, a Jorvok not only produced the same amount per turn, but also was easier for mining technicians to repair, without having to wait for the Institute to send one of their specialists along, since the design was proprietary.

  The other advantage to using Jorvoks was that Kobyk could get them cheap, since they were rarely used, and his own people could effect repairs, so he didn’t have to pay the Institute’s exorbitant fees.

  Of course, the station also was more difficult to operate. Initially, he’d assigned QuchHa’ to them, but that had proven ineffective. Sorkav had been the one to suggest letting only HemQuch operate the station, and things improved somewhat.

  Now, though, there were dozens of QuchHa’ who seemed to have formed a skirmish line, and were throwing rocks and tools and any number of other objects at the Site wa’ Jorvok.

  Still holding his communicator, Sorkav ordered more security to the cracking station.

  “What is that they’re shouting?” Kobyk asked as he tried to adjust the audio feed, but it just sounded like meaningless noise.

  Sorkav bared his teeth in disgust. “That same phrase I just mentioned: malvaq bortaS.”

  Now that Sorkav had said it, Kobyk was able to make out the phrase over the feed.

  As for his brother’s security people, they were not having an easy time of it. Armed only with painstiks, they were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Within a few minutes, their numbers doubled as the reinforcements Sorkav had called for showed up.

  “I warned you that this might happen!” Sorkav said with a snarl. “If my people had disruptors—”

  Kobyk refused to engage in this argument again. “Do you know how much it costs to buy five hundred disruptors? Besides, the prospect of your people getting their hands on disruptors is not a pleasant one.”

  “Their brutality is what makes them good security.”

  “Yes, and as long as it remains brutality, all is well. But I prefer that I be the only one to have the power of life and death over the workers I’m responsible for. As it is, my cost-cutting measures have only staved off the difficulties meeting the quotas. If this keeps up, we’ll be shut down!”

  Sorkav’s reinforcements started to turn the tide, as the painstiks started to be effective against the crowd. Plus, once a good number of workers fell to the ground in agony, the others started to disperse.

  Snorting, Sorkav said, “Typical QuchHa’. Backing down from a fight like cowards.”

  Kobyk stared at his brother. “Why expect any different? It’s not as if they’re Klingons. In any case, brother, keep these petaQpu’ in line. I will not have our production slowed by this!”

  Kirrin felt his stomachs sink at the sight of the line leading to the shuttle.

  He was already running late by virtue of the random search that had been performed of the barracks where he and the rest of his section slept. Kirrin had no idea what they were looking for, but whatever it was, they didn’t find it.

  Now they were doing intensive scans of everyone who approached the shuttlebay. Which meant a line.

  Kirrin had already missed the first shuttle to Site wa’. In retrospect, he wished he had skipped the morning meal. But without a raktajino in the morning, he was useless for the rest of the day, and the section chief didn’t especially appreciate that.

  The person in front of him, a Klingon Kirrin didn’t recognize, muttered, “We’re going to miss the shuttle at this rate.”

  “That won’t happen,” Kirrin said with confidence. “After all, they’re delaying us for the new security measures. They’ll delay the shuttle too.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” the other Klingon said.

  “What’s this all about, anyhow?”

  Now the other Klingon turned around. He was QuchHa’, like Kirrin, with receding hair, a wispy mustache, and a long scar under his left eye. He was regarding Kirrin as if he were insane. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

  “To what?” Kirrin was illiterate, so he couldn’t read the bulletins, and the section chief always told them about anything important anyhow. He had remained assigned to duties that did not require him to read anything. Eventually, he planned to save enough wages to pay for an education. It wasn’t much, but at least it would increase his options.

  The Klingon with the scar said, “You don’t know about Malvak?”

  Shrugging, Kirrin said, “I’ve heard some mutterings about someone with that name, but I haven’t really paid attention.”

  “Malvak spoke out about Krov being killed. Sorkav—that filthy toDSaH—” The Klingon spit on the floor at that. Kirrin didn’t blame him; nobody liked Sorkav. “—he ruled Krov’s death an accident.”

  “So?”

  “His throat was cut and he was stabbed in the back! How is that an ’accident’?”

  The person behind Kirrin said, “I heard he was decapitated.”

  “In any case, Malvak said that Gahlar killed Krov. But Gahlar’s a ridge-head, so nothing happened.”

  “Typical,” said the Klingon behind him.

  “So Malvak took revenge on Gahlar and killed him. Then Sorkav actually paid attention. After all, it matters when ridge-heads die.”

  The man with the scar’s voice had a bitter tone that Kirrin had heard before. “It does matter more,” Kirrin said. “After all, they’re true Klingons. We’ve been infected with Earther filth.” He said the words with little emotion—it was what his parents had taught him from birth, that their ancestors had been poisoned by Earthers. It was why the Empire remained at war with the Federation—though there was currently a treaty—and would continue to be until the Empire finally conquered them.

  Kirrin had no illusions about his life. He knew that his greatest hope was to be a marginally useful cog in the great wheel that was the Empire. As a low-born QuchHa’, that was the best he could hope for.

  The scarred man spit again, this time at Kirrin’s boots. “I do not accept that. We are Klingons—our blood comes from the same ancestors. We follow the teachings of Kahless the same as any ridge-head.”

  The line had been slowly moving forward as they spoke, and now they were within earshot of the guards who were checking the workers. One said, “Quiet, back there!”

  Scar-face turned to face the guard. “Or what, ridge-head? You’ll kill me, too, like you killed Malvak?”

  Now the guard stomped toward them, painstik in hand. “I said, be quiet! Do not make me tell you a third time, QuchHa’!”

  The Klingon then unsheathed a d’k tahg. Kirrin had never seen a real d’k tahg before. Cheap knockoffs, sure, but one like this, with the actual emblem of a noble House on it—that was something he never thought he’d live to see.

  “I am Makog, son of Chrell, and I challenge you to—”

  The guard reared his head back and laughed heartily before turning to face his fellow guards. “Look at this! This pe
taQ thinks he’s in the Defense Force!” Then he turned back and shoved the painstik into Makog’s belly.

  Makog screamed and doubled over in pain, dropping his dagger.

  Leaning in, the guard said, “Challenges are for Klingons—not the likes of you.”

  Removing the painstik, the guard straightened and said, “Take him to detention. He’s obviously one of the agitators. We will interrogate him and learn who his fellow conspirators are.”

  Kirrin and the others went silently through the line after they took Makog away.

  Just as Kirrin was next in line to be scanned, the shuttle engines activated with a mighty roar and the platform rose toward the surface airlock. “That’s our shuttle!”

  “You’ll have to catch the next one,” the guard said.

  “There is no next one!”

  Making a mock-sad face, the guard said, “Oh, too bad. It would seem that you’ll have to miss the day’s work—and the day’s wages.”

  “But it’s not our fault!”

  Slapping a fellow guard in the belly with the back of his hand, the guard said, “Can you believe this? He whines like the Earther he resembles. At least his comrade had some iron in him.”

  Kirrin knew he could not win an argument with a guard, so he turned to head back to his barracks. If he couldn’t work, maybe he could get some extra sleep, maybe volunteer for night-shift duty to make up for it.

  From behind him, the guard cried, “Hey, QuchHa’, don’t go turning your back on me!”

  Pain sliced through Kirrin’s lower back as he felt the hot, pointed end of the painstik strike his spine. His knees buckled, every nerve ending on fire.

  It wasn’t the first time Kirrin had been on the receiving end of a painstik. In his youth, he’d gotten into trouble with the Guardsmen more than once. Since achieving adulthood, though, he hadn’t. Over the years, it hadn’t gotten any less unbearable.

  Kirrin screamed with the agony that only seemed to increase. When it finally ended, he quieted, but was unable to make his body move.

  “Screams like an Earther, too,” the guard said contemptuously. “Take him and put him with the so-called son of Chrell. They’re probably in it together.”

  As one of the other guards bent over to pick Kirrin up, the miner noticed that Makog’s d’k tahg was still lying on the ground where he’d dropped it. Gathering up every ounce of willpower he could, he forced his left arm to thrust out and his left hand to close around the dagger’s hilt.

  A boot slammed down onto that hand, shattering bones with a snap that echoed throughout the shuttlebay. Again, Kirrin screamed in agony.

  “Nice try, QuchHa’. Take him.”

  A low rumble spread through the workers who waited in the line. Through the haze of agony, Kirrin couldn’t make out the exact words at first. But soon, as the guards hauled him down the corridor, he could make out the words of the chant:

  “malvaq bortaS! malvaq bortaS! malvaq bortaS!”

  “Silence!” the guard cried, but his words could barely be heard. Kirrin heard the chant grow into shouts, heard the stomping of feet as the people charged, heard the screams of pain as the guards used their painstiks, then more screams of pain as the guards were overwhelmed.

  The ones carrying Kirrin dropped him unceremoniously to the ground. All Kirrin could see from his prone position was people screaming and running and shouting, “malvaq bortaS!” and simply pure chaos.

  He also saw rocks flying through the air.

  “No . . .” he croaked. He didn’t want this. He had talked back to a guard and then turned his back on him, so of course he was being punished. If he hadn’t been so riled up by Makog’s nonsense, not to mention missing a day of work, he wouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t worth starting a riot over.

  Then he heard a crack that was considerably louder than that of his bones breaking—then he heard nothing, as his ears popped with a sudden change of pressure.

  Kirrin’s last thoughts were the realization that the dome had cracked.

  Kobyk slugged down his warnog, no longer caring how bad it tasted.

  Sorkav had increased security, but that only seemed to make matters worse. Checkpoints at shuttlebays led to workers being unable to report because they were missing the shuttles. Other workers were imprisoned for minor infractions that used to require only a quick stab of a painstik.

  And the riots continued. With the greatest reluctance, and amid much complaining, Kobyk gave in to Sorkav’s demands—at least a bit—and allowed him to issue disruptors to the highest-ranking security members and to carry one himself. He was able to get a good price for a dozen Defense Force surplus hand disruptors.

  But the riots did not stop. Workers ceased production, or at least slowed it down, graffiti of malvaq bortaS was scrawled everywhere, and violence grew. Worse, because of the riots, the imprisonments, and the missed shuttles, production was at an all-time low.

  Kobyk had been hoping to contain it, but then the atmospheric dome at one of the shuttlebays cracked during a riot, killing a dozen guards, a hundred workers, and a score of maintenance staff. True, the latter were mostly jeghpu’wI’, but they still needed to be replaced.

  Worse, it happened shortly after a convoy ship had arrived to pick up a shipment bound for the shipyards on Mempa II. The ship’s captain filed a report about the riot to his superiors.

  Later that day, Kobyk received the inevitable call from General Korrd.

  Swallowing an entire mug of warnog to steel himself for the ordeal, Kobyk activated the viewer to reveal the corpulent form of the general.

  “Explain yourself, Supervisor Kobyk.” Korrd’s voice sounded like a Sporak driving over broken glass. His crest bisected his forehead perfectly, almost as if it were pointing at his intense eyes.

  “The QuchHa’ have always been a problem, General,” Kobyk lied. In fact, they’d been fine until this nonsense with Malvak. “You know what they’re like.”

  “No, Supervisor—I do not. You are hardly the first mine to report occasional problems with the QuchHa’, but you are the only one to suffer such appalling production and personnel losses. The Organians may have prevented us from finishing our war with the Federation, but that does not mean we can afford to cut back on our shipbuilding efforts.” Korrd leaned forward. “Ships need dilithium, Supervisor. You received this assignment because you promised high production at lesser cost. That is not what I see here.”

  “This is only a temporary setback, General. My security chief has employed new security measures, and once they take effect—”

  “Annh!” Korrd grunted with a wave of his hand. “This requires more than such as you and your fool of a brother can provide.”

  Kobyk winced. “The Defense Force?”

  “Yes. Three ships will be sent to deal with your QuchHa’ problem, expedite the repair of your dome, and supplement your security forces. These will be QuchHa’ ships as well.”

  “General, with respect—I would prefer a ship of true Klingons.”

  “What you prefer is of no interest to me. Let the QuchHa’ deal with their own kind. And then we will reevaluate the command structure of your mine. Out.”

  The screen went blank.

  Kobyk dry-sipped his mug before remembering that he’d finished the warnog, so he threw the mug across the room. It clattered against the wall and rolled along the floor.

  “Fat old fool,” he muttered. The general hadn’t provided a timetable, didn’t say which ships were coming, and threatened his position even if these QuchHa’ were able to bring things to order.

  He had forgotten that the Empire let QuchHa’ into the Defense Force. For that matter, he had forgotten that there were QuchHa’ of noble blood. The Earther disease that afflicted several Klingon worlds a century ago did not discriminate between high-born and commoners.

  Still, surrounded by the rabble as he was, it was easy to forget that some of the noblest Houses had QuchHa’ among them.

  They would be the ones in comma
nd of the three ships that Korrd was sending, and they would likely know how to put their fellows in their place.

  3

  Kor

  Since his days as a youth, Kor had always admired the heroes of the Empire. His father, Rynar, had often taken him to the Hall of Warriors on Ty’Gokor. Because they were of noble blood, they had been allowed in the primary entrance, though Rynar had always been sure to travel in his Defense Force uniform while wearing the sash of office that proved he was of the nobility despite being QuchHa’.

  There, young Kor would look up at the statues that showed the great warriors of history: Korma, Kopf, Sturka, Krim, Tygrak, Sompek, Reclaw, M’Rek, and, of course, the great Kahless himself.

  Young Kor swore that he would one day have a statue dedicated to himself. Rynar had laughed indulgently.

  Another Klingon, a HemQuch, had also laughed, but his was a chortle of derision. “What are you teaching that boy, old man?” he had asked Rynar.

  Before his father could reply, young Kor bleated, “What do you mean?”

  The HemQuch pointed at the statues. “Look around you, child. Do you see any weak-heads amidst the statuary?”

  “Then I shall be the first!” Kor had said the words with the confidence of youth.

  Again, the HemQuch had laughed, but then Kor’s father spoke, having seen the emblem upon the man’s d’k tahg. “Do you doubt, scion of the House of Yorgh, that a boy from the House of Mur’Eq could become a hero of the Empire?”

  At that, the HemQuch had snarled and walked away.

  Kor had grinned like a fool for the rest of the day, for the House of Yorgh was a minor House of little consequence. Kor was descended from the imperial bloodlines of Emperor Mur’Eq. Rynar’s father, also named Kor, had formally changed the House name to that of Mur’Eq after the Earther plague had poisoned all those of the House of Kor and removed their crests.

  Kor’s grandfather would never let anyone forget that theirs was a noble family, regardless of what they looked like. And Kor, who was named for him, knew that one day he would indeed become the first QuchHa’ to be enshrined on Ty’Gokor.