But then the generator failed. K’Zin immediately ran out of the house to tend to it. She did not allow the violent winds to carry her away as she repaired the generator, battered by the elements all the while. She stood her ground long enough to fix the generator, activating the force field, and saving the crops. Only moments after the equipment was functional, the enormous funnel plucked K’Zin from the ground, carried her off, and battered her against a rocky ridge. Had she not acted as she did, she would have lived, yes. But in that case, her family would have had nothing, neither for themselves nor for market, and they would have starved. K’Zin’s death was as proud as any warrior’s, and she accrued as much honor as any soldier who falls in noble combat. That humble farmer understood that Klingons never let their enemies dictate the terms of battle.
Warriors know that while their hearts beat, battles do not end. And though warriors may stumble, an honorable warrior truly falls only once.
* * *
1. The ngeng roQ is now extinct, though bones have been found in the bottom of the oceans of Qo’noS. It was amphibious, and a full kellicam long. In fact, some believe the measurement was derived from the size of the ngeng roQ.
2. Generally, Klingon officer ranks are translated into their equivalent Starfleet ranks. Those who survive and succeed in officer training begin at a rank generally translated as “ensign,” followed by “lieutenant,” “commander,” and “captain.” Shipmasters are given one of the latter two ranks, “commander” for smaller vessels, “captain” for larger ones. The one exception to the Starfleet-analogue rule is that “general” is used for the equivalent of a Starfleet admiral. Enlisted soldiers are given the rank of bekk, along with opportunities to be promoted to the ranks of “leader” and beyond that to QaS DevwI’, which literally means “the one who guides the troops,” the equivalent of an Army sergeant.
TENTH PRECEPT
GUARD HONOR ABOVE ALL.
“Honor is what separates Klingons from the beasts of the field.”
—KAHLESS
Kahless tracked Morath down to the shores of the Bazho River. For twelve days and twelve nights, brother fought against brother in desperate combat. They used no weapons, fighting only with fist and foot.
DICTUM: THE HIGHEST PEAK
WARRIORS MUST CLIMB. WHEN THEY CREST THE MOUNTAIN OF HONOR, ALL IS PLAIN: THE PITFALLS AND PERILS, THE SHEER FACES AND DEAD DROPS. EVERY POSSIBILITY OF SUCCESS AND FAILURE. THE WAY IS CLEAR. THOUGH IT WINDS AND DOUBLES BACK, THOSE AT THE TOP CAN SEE IT AS THOUGH IT WERE LIT WITH FLAME. THIS IS THE ADVANTAGE HONOR BESTOWS: A CLARITY OF VISION, A BEARING UNSHAKABLE AS THE ROOTS OF MOUNTAINS. THE HONORABLE SEE. THEY UNDERSTAND. ALL IS BEFORE THEM, SPREAD OUT LIKE THE TUMBLED LAND BELOW TOWERING PEAKS. SCALING THE CLIFFS DEMANDS STRENGTH, WILL, AND COURAGE, AND IT EXACTS A TOLL OF SWEAT AND BLOOD AND PAIN. BUT STANDING AT THE UTMOST HEIGHT OF HONOR, A WARRIOR HAS CONQUERED DEMONS.
WARRIORS AND TRUTH
There are many components to honorable behavior, but the foremost of these is truth. All aspects of honor derive from honesty. A liar cannot truly be honorable, for where is the honor in deception?
Battle reveals a warrior’s true self, and in many ways, lies are not possible in battle. When warriors fight, they reveal their inner selves. The purity of warfare allows nothing else. A true warrior knows that the battle does not end until death, and so combat is a lifelong pursuit.
If combat is the only lasting condition, then the warrior’s true face must be the same. There is no place in combat for deception. A true warrior accepts no deception in any aspect of life. Deception is a heavy stone.
Children lie all the time, for they are young and do not know better. Kahless spoke often of his own youth, of growing up with his brother Morath. When they were young, they would play at fighting each other in the manner of children. Once, in their fighting, they broke a valuable sculpture that had been in their family for longer than anyone could remember.
Morath and Kahless both agreed to tell their parents that their pet targ was responsible. Their parents believed the story, for the targ was wild and often had the run of the house. Callow youths that they were, they were proud of their deception, and relieved at having avoided their parents’ wrath.
Later, when he matured, Kahless realized he had made the wrong choice. But children are expected to make bad choices. If they do not, they do not learn to become adults. Who doesn’t fail will not learn.
Kahless once said that children’s mistakes are perfect, for they serve an honorable purpose. Children’s false steps eventually take them away from the path of illusion and selfishness and onto the road of honor.
Only those who understand their failures for what they are can learn from them, however. Making the same mistake more than once shows a paucity of reason.
THE TWELVE DAYS’ BATTLE
When they were adults, Morath, not having learned the lessons of youth, told a lie and took credit for a battle he did not win. In fact, he lost the battle and retreated rather than stay to finish the fight and die honorably.
Kahless was disgusted, and he condemned his brother for dishonoring his cause, their family, and the very notion of proper combat. Seeing how angry his brother was, Morath fled from his wrath.
Giving chase, Kahless eventually tracked Morath down to the shores of the Bazho River. For twelve days and twelve nights, brother fought against brother in desperate combat. They used no weapons, fighting only with fist and foot. Every time Kahless caught up to his brother or got the better of him, Morath retreated, compounding his dishonor a hundredfold.
It was not merely that Morath lied, but that he refused to admit he had lied, and then ran when confronted with it. He added links to the chain of his lie and bound himself with it. His one lie started a sequence of events that led to a twelve-day battle with his own brother, and it could have been avoided by simply telling the truth.
Nothing is simpler than the truth. For an honorable Klingon, speaking it is an impulse impossible to resist.
ON REASON AND HONOR
When Kahless said that honor was what separated Klingons from the beasts of the field, a young man named Kropar replied, “That is ridiculous. What separates us from the beasts of the field is that we are capable of reason.”
Kahless regarded the youth with amusement. “Does not the ramjep bird avoid the talons of the trigak by flying high above the tree line, where it cannot be caught? That is the act of a rational creature.”
Kropar was not deterred. “We are tool users.”
“That is mere biology,” Kahless countered. “The position and use of our thumbs is not what makes us Klingon. What makes us Klingon is that we’re aware of concepts such as honor. A klongat has no conception of honor. It knows only that it must survive. Everything a beast does, from the rankest chuSwI’ to the grandest khrun, is solely in the service of survival.
“But we are Klingons. We are more than simply beings who eat to survive so we can eat another day. We understand and extol the importance of truth, honor, and courage. And that is why it is imperative that we build our lives upon those concepts. Unless we do, we are no different from beasts.”
Without truth, there is no honor. Without honor, we are not Klingons, but only tool-wielding animals with no power to shape our world, to conquer space, or to rewrite the history of our time.
K’RATAK’S COMMENTARY
With this precept, the last of them, every strand of Klingon warmaking and honorable behavior is knotted together, as all the precepts lead to this. Choosing your enemies, striking quickly, facing your enemy, seeking adversity, revealing your true self, destroying weakness, leaving nothing until tomorrow, choosing death over chains, and dying standing up all lead to this precept.
Some would argue—indeed, many have—that this is the only precept in qeS’a’ that matters. If you behave honorably, if you tell the truth, if you put honor before everything else, then all the other precepts will flow naturally from that as blood flows from a Klingon’s
heart.
Perhaps most importantly, if a Klingon gives his or her word, that word is sacrosanct. When a Klingon has promised something, it will be done. A Klingon’s promise is made of duranium: steadfast, irrefutable. A Klingon’s promise is fundamental. It is axiomatic.
When storytellers speak of the Dahar Master Kang, they always discuss his battles against the Starfleet vessels Enterprise and Excelsior or his battles alongside fellow Dahar Masters Kor and Koloth against T’nag at the Korma Pass or the trio’s lengthy campaign against Qagh the Albino, who killed all three of their sons.
But my favorite story about Kang is one that’s almost never told. He served as first officer on the Krim’s Run under Captain L’Kaln. That vessel was assigned to Kromrat, a small colony under regular attack by depredators. Kang beamed down to the surface of Kromrat, and gave his word to the colonists—primarily farmers—that the Krim’s Run would not bombard from orbit, damaging their farms.
The depredators made their first attempt on Kromrat, and the Krim’s Run failed to stop them from beaming down to the planet. Angered by this setback, L’Kaln ordered orbital bombardment. Kang insisted that the strategy was ill-advised, that that would destroy the very farms they had come to protect. That did not move L’Kaln, as he considered the farms of little interest to the Empire. He claimed they had other methods of obtaining food, and they did not need weaklings who chose tilling soil over wielding a blade.
The first officer then tried to appeal to his captain’s honor: Kang had given his word they would not bombard from orbit. To a true Klingon, that should have been enough. However, L’Kaln’s only response was that Kang was a fool to make such a promise, and besides, they were only farmers. A word given to a warrior is inviolable, the captain insisted, but a word given to a farmer? Meaningless.
L’Kaln did not understand the point of honor. Klingons tell the truth to protect their own honor, not that of the people to whom they are speaking. It does not matter if one’s word is given to warriors, farmers, opera singers, or jeghpu’wI’, or even to enemies. If a Klingon makes a promise, that should be the end of the matter. A Klingon’s word locks the door.
Worse, there was no reason to bombard from orbit. Kang saw that L’Kaln simply wished the assignment to end, regardless of who was harmed in the process.
Realizing that L’Kaln did not understand honor, Kang challenged his captain. They fought on the bridge of Krim’s Run, each armed with a d’k tahg. Their battle was fierce, but the outcome was never in doubt, for Kang had honor on his side, and L’Kaln had nothing but cowardice. When L’Kaln lay dead at his feet that day, Kang declared himself captain. This started him on the road that led to his becoming one of the most respected warriors in the Empire. Kang has captained many vessels: the Doj, the SuvwI’, the Voh’tahk, the Klolode, the K’tanco, the HaH’vat, the Sompek, and many more. And he led them all with far greater honor and courage than the warrior from whom he rightfully wrested command of Krim’s Run.
Then there was Captain Kadi of the Death’s Hand. Kadi was ordered to conquer the planet of Mizaria. But when he arrived, he found a planet of pacifists. The Mizarians did not fight back and offered no resistance to the Klingons, surrendering immediately. Strictly speaking, Kadi’s standing orders were to bombard the surface until the Mizarians could be induced to surrender. But instead, they capitulated immediately.
Kadi’s first officer insisted that they carry out their orders, but—while Kadi would gladly plant the Klingon flag there—he would not needlessly kill beings who would not fight back.
There is no honor in killing a foe who simply waits to die.
It is truth that leads to honor, honor that leads to victory, and victory that leads to strength. We are Klingons, and we are always strong, and that strength comes from our honor. As long as we continue to follow these precepts, we will continue in our position as the victorious guardians of honor.
When Kahless lived, he knew of no other beings in the universe. The Klingon Empire barely covered the majority of Qo’noS. But now, thanks to Kahless’s teachings, ours is one of the mightiest empires in the Galaxy, a force to be reckoned with. We are feared by our enemies and respected by our allies, and we control many worlds.
And it is because we guard honor above all.
AFTERWORD
If you have read through this entire volume before coming to this afterword, it will perhaps surprise you to learn that I did not read qeS’a’ until I was well into adulthood.
Over the last several decades, I have become an authority on qeS’a’. This is not the first edition I have annotated, though it is by far the most extensive, and I have given many a talk on the book. Yet, while most highborn Klingons, and indeed many a lowborn Klingon as well, read the book not long after their Age of Ascension, I did not. My parents thought little of the book, and did not encourage me to read it. Father described the book as a “relic of a bygone age, useful for clerics, perhaps, but not for modern Klingons.” And Mother was even more succinct: “If I want the wisdom of Kahless, I’ll read the sacred texts, not some anonymous idiot’s interpretation of them.”
As a good son, I did as my parents bade me. What’s more, when queried as to whether or not I had read qeS’a’, I parroted their reasoning. After all, if it wasn’t good enough for my parents, then it wasn’t good enough for me to waste my time with, either!
It was when I was in the midst of working on my first novel, qul naj, that I was finally convinced to read qeS’a’. I was struggling with a particular scene in which the protagonist, Qovar, has his first confrontation with Morval. One of my childhood friends was K’Nera, who eventually became a ship captain—he was killed in battle against Maquis rebels in the days before the Dominion War—and he recommended that I read qeS’a’, specifically the Fifth Precept. “I believe,” he said, “that you will find it valuable in finding your way through Qovar and Morval’s battle.”
I laughed at K’Nera, and again said what my parents always said. “That book was written when the Empire was nascent. We hadn’t even ventured into space yet! We hadn’t colonized Boreth or Ty’Gokor or any other worlds, we hadn’t developed energy weapons, we were still ruled by emperors, and the only other species we even knew of were the Hur’q. What possible use could such blatherings from ancient times be to me writing about a modern Klingon?”
K’Nera regarded me with derision. “Have you never even read the text?”
“Of course not,” I told him. I scoffed when I did so. “As I said, it is of no use to a modern Klingon.”
“Are the words of Kahless of no use to a modern Klingon?”
I did not succumb to this bit of rhetorical trickery. “That is different. Kahless was divine.”
“Perhaps. But there is wisdom to be found in old things. After all, do we not still fight with the bat’leth even though we have disruptor pistols? Do we not hunt though we have replicators?”
Eventually, I gave in to my friend, partly out of respect for his judgment, and partly because it would end the argument, which had grown tedious. Or, at least, that was what I told myself and him. In truth, I wished the argument to end because he was winning it. I was young and callow, and so I let him win the argument without ever admitting it to him.
I acquired a copy of the book—it was an edition published shortly after K’mpec ascended to the chancellorship—and after I had my evening meal, I sat down with a padd and read the Fifth Precept, intending only to read that and then go to sleep.
Instead, I stayed up the entire night. After reading the Fifth Precept, I went back and read all of it, from First through Tenth, including a re-read of the Fifth, and then I read it again.
I was, to say the least, captivated.
There is a saying among humans that there is no fanatic greater than a convert, and that was certainly the case with me. I went from disdaining a book that I had never read to becoming a fierce advocate, believing it should be read by all Klingons. I started arguing with my friends and family and colle
agues about it. (K’Nera looked on in amusement at most of these discussions.) Many hadn’t read it since their Age of Ascension—many warriors include the reading of it as part of the preparation for the ceremony or the first task to be done afterward—and they found new wisdom in the words that they could not appreciate in their youth.
I even got my parents to read it, and my father grudgingly admitted that the book had its good points. My mother did not—she threw the padd across the room after finishing the First Precept, deriding the text as “utter nonsense.”
To that point, I had written about a third of qul naj, and it had taken me several months to get that far. But after devouring qeS’a’ in a single night, I found myself inspired and filled with even greater purpose. The remaining two-thirds of the novel was finished in two months. K’Nera was correct in the applicability of the Fifth Precept to the first confrontation between Qovar and Morval: Morval showed his true face, and Qovar would do likewise in their climactic battle atop Kang’s Summit. But the influence of qeS’a’ can likely be seen throughout the manuscript.
After I had finished qul naj, and after it had become a success, I toured the Empire, holding gatherings to discuss the novel with Klingons from all over. In every talk, the subject of qeS’a’ came up, and I enjoyed discussing it with people of all sorts. As a highborn Klingon, I grew up primarily around Defense Force personnel and politicians. Touring for qul naj allowed me to meet Klingons from many walks of life, many of whom were not only not warriors, but they had no interest in becoming warriors or even the ability to do so.
However, most of them had read qeS’a’. I was stunned, as I had thought it to be a guide for warriors, not farmers or menial workers or teachers or construction workers or the like. Yet they all found wisdom in the words of qeS’a’.
The Klingon Art of War Page 11