“Yes, sir, I do.” She outlined G’joth’s proposal. “Permission to contact the ship so Bekk G’joth can verify the readings.”
Ga-Tror spoke, then. “I thought your—tools did not work on our world?”
“Our small hand scanners do not,” Vok said, “but the Gorkon sensors are powerful enough to cut through the interference.”
“If you say so.” Ga-Tror did not seem to understand, but since the Children of San-Tarah had no technology as such, he was unlikely to any time soon. “What I do not understand is why Captain Klag does not simply slay this one who behaves so dishonorably. Challenge him to fight in the circle.”
If only it were that simple, Wol thought.
“That would be best,” Vok said, “but it will probably not be feasible. Talak and the captain will probably never actually face each other.”
Ga-Tror’s mouth seemed to hang open for a moment. “How is that possible? How can they fight if they do not encounter each other?”
Vok seemed to struggle, so Wol came to his rescue. “They will face each other in space.” She pointed up. “Above the skies.” Then she remembered the marine combat. “Similar to how your people fought ours on the sea.”
“Ah, so the Gorkon is like a wind boat, and you fire weapons at each other from a distance?”
“Yes.”
Ga-Tror looked away. “I do not understand, though—can Captain Klag not call out a challenge to Talak, or board his ship?”
“Possibly, but Talak may not accept it. And our ships are enclosed—we have to communicate through technology.” Wol was starting to get a headache. They may be great warriors, but suddenly it is as if I am speaking to a child.
“I still do not understand. Why can’t he just call out to General Talak?”
Vok laughed. “That would hardly work in a vacuum.”
“A what?”
“In space, it’s a vacuum.” At the Fight Leader’s blank look, Vok added, “No air.”
Ga-Tror laughed at that. “Don’t be absurd. How can there be no air? The air is the air.”
Vok opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked helplessly at Wol. How do you explain the vacuum of space to a species that has never left its homeworld?
“You will have to trust us,” Wol finally said. “Once you go above a certain level, the air grows thinner. Have you never climbed one of the mountains?”
“Some have.”
“And they’ve had trouble breathing as they get higher up, yes?”
Ga-Tror seemed to be growing impatient. “What does this matter?”
Wol was having trouble with that one herself, but she wasn’t the one who had started this conversation. “For the moment, it doesn’t. But there may well come a time when you will find yourself traveling off San-Tarah. You should know what is out there.”
Ga-Tror looked Wol in the eyes. “That will never happen. We have all we need on San-Tarah. What possible reason could we have to leave it?”
Angrily, Wol asked, “Do you truly think we are your last encounter with—with beings from another world?” She wondered if Klingons were this foolish before the Hur’q invaded Qo’noS, plundering the Homeworld and taking their sacred treasures. That invasion led to the Klingon Empire’s eventual domination of the stars, for they swore they would never be so defeated again. “Open your eyes, Ga-Tror—we are the first you have met. Others will come. Stories of your prowess will spread, as will tales of your world’s riches. Even if we are victorious and drive away Talak’s forces, others will come someday. You must be ready for that, and to be ready, you must know what the universe is like outside your world.”
The Fight Leader looked away. “Perhaps we must, but that is not my concern today, nor will it be tomorrow. I am the Fight Leader of the Ruling Pack, and my duty is to prepare our people to fight.”
Vok laughed and slapped Ga-Tror on the back. “As is mine, Ga-Tror, as is mine. We will save the philosophy for our victory celebration!” Turning to Wol, the QaS DevwI’ asked, “Is there anything else, Leader?”
“Not at the moment, sir.”
“Then take your squad to the ridge and join the third and twelfth in their drills until G’joth’s information comes back from the ship. And Leader?”
“Yes?”
Vok grinned. “Well done. We will win this battle yet!”
Worf, son of Mogh, stood in the center of the workout room at the Federation Embassy on Qo’noS and tried to clear his mind.
Though born on this world, Worf grew up in the Federation after his family was massacred at the outpost on Khitomer. Chief Sergey Rozhenko—an engineer aboard the U.S.S. Intrepid, the first ship to respond to Khitomer’s distress call after the Romulan attack that claimed four thousand lives—and his wife, Helena Rozhenko, raised him on the farming world of Gault and later on Earth. When he was old enough, Worf applied to Starfleet Academy and became the first of his species to serve in that august body.
Slowly, he began the forms of the mok’bara. An ancient Klingon martial art, the mok’bara reduced combat to a series of forms that purified the mind and purged the spirit. However, his movements were awkward this morning, the forms sloppy.
Worf had looked forward to serving the Federation as his father had, and in repaying the debt he owed to Starfleet.
What he had not expected was paperwork.
The word was a misnomer. Like many human terms, it was imprecise and based on an outdated model. In times past, such tedium was recorded with ink on wood pulp called paper instead of electronically, but the term remained in the lexicon even with its original meaning long having grown obsolete.
When he reported to the Aldrin as an ensign a decade and a half ago, Worf soon wished that the concept were as obsolete as the term. It never ended: reports that had to be filled out, logs that had to be recorded, sensor data that had to be double-checked. He entered the Academy with dreams of glory and honor. He soon learned that the path to glory and honor was paved with an endless pile of padds.
With each increase in rank and responsibility, that pavement became thicker. When he was promoted to junior-grade lieutenant, he became a bridge officer on the newly commissioned Galaxy-class Enterprise. The honor of serving on the vessel that was crowned the Federation flagship was great; so was the amount of paperwork.
As he rose in the ranks—full lieutenant and security chief on the Enterprise, lieutenant commander and strategic operations officer on the space station Deep Space 9—that only increased. Eventually, he grew accustomed to it, accepted it as part of his duty. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage of opportunities for glory and honor to go with the tedious elements, from the first contacts with entities like Q and threats like the Borg on the Enterprise to being at the forefront of the Dominion War on DS9.
However, after the war, the Federation Council had offered him the posting of ambassador to the Klingon Empire. It was a job uniquely suited to Worf—he had his feet in both worlds, was a citizen of each nation, and was a hero in both as well—and one that enabled him to carry on for a fallen loved one. K’Ehleyr, the first woman he ever loved and the mother of his son, had been in that position when she died, and Worf thought of no better tribute to the memory of that magnificent woman than to continue her work.
Worf had succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. He aided Martok in consolidating his power base after the war, solved a crisis on taD, served the Federation well during a variety of incidents, helped smooth relations between the Klingon Empire and the Tholian Assembly when a past atrocity of the latter against the former came to light, and received great accolades for his presentations on the face of the galaxy in the wake of the Dominion War during the recent conference on Khitomer. Along the way, he occasionally participated in battle—against the false Iconians during the gateways crisis and against the mind-controlled minions of Malkus on Narendra III—to name but two such instances.
None of which mitigated the sheer tonnage of paperwork that his ambassadorial role entailed.
The door chime rang. He growled, and bellowed, “Enter!”
The doors to the small, featureless room parted and Worf’s chief aide, Giancarlo Wu, came in. Wu had been serving at the embassy for the past eight years, and had proven invaluable. His organizational skills, patience, and ability to work easily with Klingons had been the primary reasons why Worf had not run screaming from the ambassadorship months ago.
“I’m sorry for interrupting, sir, but your wall is beeping.”
Worf frowned. “My wall?”
“I believe that the beep is emanating from your Order of the Bat’leth medallion, sir.”
After being inducted at Ty’Gokor two months ago, Worf had placed his medallion on the wall of his office at the embassy. He liked having the reminder of the honor where he—and his staff—would see it regularly.
But if it is beeping…
Without another word, Worf left the workout room, Wu at his heels. Several people passed him in the hallways, and gave him an odd look—the ambassador rarely moved through the hallowed halls of the embassy in his white skintight mok’bara shirt and pants and bare feet—but if the signal was what Worf thought it was, he would soon be called to battle.
Martok, who had welcomed Worf into his House years ago, had discussed the return of the Order to its original purpose with Worf. The chancellor felt that part of his mandate as head of the High Council was to help bring the people back to the traditional values that made the Empire great without the detritus of corruption and petty bickering and politics that the Empire had acquired over the centuries. Considering Worf’s own role in having the clone of Kahless installed as Emperor in order to lead the people on that very path, not to mention the aid he had given Martok when a coup was launched against him shortly after the war, he would hardly do other than agree with the chancellor’s reasons. As ambassador, he also felt that the Federation would be better served by an ally that wasn’t being regularly racked with internal strife.
However, he had to admit that he hadn’t expected the call to arms to come so soon.
The beeping assaulted his ears as soon as the door to his office parted. He walked straight to the wall where the Order medallion hung along with his baldric, the medals he’d been given during his Starfleet career, and the pictures of Alexander and K’Ehleyr, his wedding photo with the late Jadzia Dax, and the image of the “Niners” baseball team that Captain Sisko had assembled for a game against the crew of the U.S.S. T’Kumbra. Removing the medallion, he placed it in the workstation on his desk.
“Will you be needing me for anything else, sir?” Wu asked.
Worf had momentarily forgotten that the aide was present. The ambassador almost smiled. Wu was subtly reminding Worf of his presence and allowing Worf to let him know whether or not this communiqué was for Wu’s eyes. In his eight months as ambassador, Worf had found Wu to be honorable, trustworthy, and invaluable. Besides which, Wu, for all intents and purposes, kept Worf’s life running. If he was about to be summoned on any kind of Order business, Wu would need to be aware of it.
“Stay a moment,” was all he said as he activated his terminal and had it decode the transmission.
Worf was hardly surprised that it was Klag who was the first to take Martok’s plea to heart. The Gorkon captain had proven to be a man of singular honor and purpose.
When Klag’s message ended, Wu spoke. “If I may ask, sir—what do you know of General Talak?”
“Very little. Chancellor Martok seems to trust him. However, his actions in this matter are—disturbing. If a Klingon captain cannot give his word to an honorable foe, then of what use is he?”
“I would say not much, sir.”
“So often have I seen this—Klingons abusing power for their own ends. Duras and his Romulan-loving family, Gowron and his ambitions, Koroth and the other clerics at Boreth—and now this.” Worf stood, prepared to jump to action, then stopped himself. And of what use am I? he asked himself. I am no longer a Starfleet officer with a warship at my beck and call. He longed to be able to take the Defiant or the Enterprise into action to assist Klag, but those days were behind him.
Wu rubbed his chin. “Odd thing, this new purpose that the chancellor has given to the Order.”
Frowning at his aide, Worf asked, “What do you mean?”
“Well, the Order doesn’t actually answer to the High Council, does it?”
“No—it acts independently.”
“Which means, of course, that the High Council is unaware of what it does—or why it does what it does.”
Rarely did Worf allow himself to smile. Years of living among fragile humans had taught him to restrain his natural Klingon passions to the point where he hardly knew how to do aught else. His all-too-brief marriage to Jadzia had loosened him up some, and he smiled more now than he ever did in the past.
Wu’s clever reminder caused him to do so now.
Other members of the Order could bring ships to San-Tarah to force Talak and his fleet back to the course of honor. Worf had something they did not: the ear of the chancellor.
“Contact the Great Hall. I wish to see Martok immediately.”
Wu smiled. “Very good, sir.”
Chapter Five
“Report,” Klag barked as he entered the bridge from the aft entrance.
Kornan rose from the first officer’s position. “Long-range sensors have detected ten vessels approaching the star system.”
Klag smiled as he approached the operations and tactical consoles situated behind his command chair. He turned to Leskit. “Position report.”
The pilot turned and grinned, his horn-trimmed beard quivering with the expression. “We are holding station at sixty thousand qelI’qams from the most outlying of the subspace eddies.”
To Toq: “The fleet?”
“They have taken up positions within the eddies that should render them invisible to a standard sensor scan.”
Klag hoped that Toq was correct. Captain Daqset had reluctantly agreed to go along after viewing the record of battle, willing to accept that the Children of San-Tarah were honorable foes. He did not, however, swear fealty, which distressed Klag. Still, even with Daqset and the Qovin, they were presently outnumbered two to one. They needed every advantage they could get….
“Weapons?” he asked Bekk Grint. Though Rodek had proven invaluable in advising on the modifications of the probe, by the time the work was done, he was barely able to stand up. At B’Oraq’s strong insistence, he returned to the medical bay to recuperate, though not until he was sure that the probes had been successfully modified into mines.
“Disruptors and quantum torpedoes remain offline, even at this distance from the eddies.” Grint gave his report with the eagerness of youth.
Klag had expected no less, but had been hoping for more. Again, Kurak disappoints me. After a moment, he amended, No, to disappoint me, I must first expect something of her. Something must be done about her. A pity I have come to this realization now, on the eve of battle—and even if we are victorious, we are many light-years from home and a suitable replacement.
Grint continued. “Photon torpedoes are armed and ready. Modified probes are deployed and ready to explode as soon as the honorless cowards enter our minefield.”
“Then we are ready.” Klag approached his chair and, savoring it as he always did, slowly took his seat. Kornan did the same next to him. “When will our foes arrive?”
“Twenty-five minutes, sir.” Kornan checked his status board. “We are now receiving identification of the fleet: One Vor’cha-class battleship, three birds-of-prey, two K’Vort-class heavy cruisers, three Karas-class strike ships—” Kornan looked up at Klag. “—and one Chancellor-class warship.”
Klag clenched the fist that once belonged to his father. “Dorrek. I should have expected Talak to bring him along.”
“That matches General Talak’s fleet, less three birds-of-prey—and the addition of your brother’s ship, sir,” Kornan added.
“N
o doubt the three ships were left behind to finish the job at Brenlek.”
Kornan nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Toq then said, “Sir, you are being hailed—by Captain Dorrek of the K’mpec.”
Whirling around in his seat to face the second officer, Klag said, “I am being hailed?”
“Yes, sir.”
What in Kahless’s name does Dorrek have to say to me now ? “I will take it in my office.” He rose directly from the chair, and stumbled slightly to the right. No one said anything, and Klag managed not to react. “Commander,” he said through gritted teeth to his first officer, “be sure we are at full battle readiness.”
The last time Klag and Dorrek had encountered each other was on Ty’Gokor, shortly after the induction ceremony, when Chancellor Martok had given the two of them, and the other ten captains of Chancellor-class vessels, their assignment to conquer the Kavrot Sector. Then, the last words his younger brother spoke to him were, “there is blood between us, and it will not end until one of us is in Gre’thor.”
So far we have fallen, Klag thought as he entered his office. Once, he and Dorrek were as inseparable as twins, though they were born a year apart. For all the years that they were eligible—from the ages of four to nine—they entered the bat’leth competitions for the young, and in the years they both entered, they always finished first and second.
Once, when Klag was seven and Dorrek six, their great-uncle, an old one-eyed razorbeast named Nakri, took them on a targ hunt. Their father was off serving in the Defense Force at the time. While trying and failing to scent a targ, Dorrek caught wind of a klongat. Such beasts were difficult to kill even for seasoned hunters.
“We should try to bring it down,” Klag had said as soon as he, too, caught the scent.
“It smells very large, brother,” Dorrek said. “And Nakri has forbidden us to hunt anything so large on our own.”
Klag laughed. “We are not on our own, brother—we are together. We are the sons of M’Raq. Is there nothing we cannot do?”
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