by John M. Ford
Kahless closed his eyes against the accusation. “No,” he insisted. “Molor killed them. Molor!”
“Not Molor,” said Morath. “You!”
The outlaw couldn’t listen to any more of the man’s libels. Raising himself to his knees, he gathered one leg underneath him, then the other. Staggering over to his s’tarahk, who had been gnawing on groundnuts by the side of the trail, he pulled himself onto the animal’s back.
Somehow, he sat up and took the reins in his hands. “Go,” he told the s’tarahk. “Take me away from this place.”
The beast began to move, its clawed feet padding softly on the ground. But after a while, Kahless heard a second set of clawed feet behind him.
With an effort, he turned and saw a haggard-looking figure in pursuit. It was Morath, sitting astride his own s’tarahk, only his eyes showing any life. But they accused Kahless as vigorously as ever.
The outlaw turned his back on his pursuer. Let Morath dog my steps all he likes, he thought. Let him follow me day and night. If he keeps at it long enough, he can follow me to Gre’thor.
Nineteen: The Modern Age
Alexander eyed the lanky Klingon standing not two paces away from him, armed with a wicked-looking bat’leth. A bar of light from a hole in the cavern roof fell across the Klingon’s face, throwing his knife-sharp features into stark relief.
The boy moved sideways, placing a milk-white, tapering stalagmite between them. The scrape of his feet on the stone floor echoed throughout the dark, musty space. Chuckling to himself, the Klingon followed, shifting his weapon in his hands to allow him more reach.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” the Klingon rasped.
“I go where I please,” the boy piped up, though his heart wasn’t really in it.
Without warning, his adversary struck in a big, sweeping arc—one meant to separate Alexander’s head from his shoulders. Somehow, the boy got his bat’leth up in time to block the blow.
The cavern walls rang with the clash of their blades, just as if this had been a real place and not a holodeck recreation. Alexander’s opponent made a sound of disgust in his throat, just as if he were a real being and not an amalgam of electromagnetic fields and light projections.
Quickly, the boy moved to the other side, taking advantage of another stalagmite to buy himself some time. But, enraged by his failure to deal a mortal wound, the Klingon moved with him.
“You were lucky that time,” he growled.
“We’ll see about that,” Alexander countered.
But he knew the Klingon had a point. The boy wasn’t concentrating as hard as he should have been. He was too distracted, too concerned with events outside the program.
Even his retorts to the warrior’s taunts seemed hollow. And usually, that was his favorite part of the exercise.
Alexander had received the program as a gift from his father on his last birthday. Of course, birthday gifts were a peculiarly human tradition, but Worf had grown up on Earth and was familiar with the practice.
“Tell me,” his father had asked, “is there anything in particular you would like? Something from Earth, perhaps?”
The boy had shaken his head. “What I want,” he’d said, “is another bat’leth program. I’m kind of getting tired of the one in the town square. I mean, it’s so easy once you get the hang of it.”
That seemed to have surprised his father. But it also seemed to have pleased him.
“I have just the thing,” he told Alexander. “And you’ll find it a lot more difficult than the one you have now, I assure you.”
He was right. This one was a lot more difficult.
Actually, it was an adaptation of a program Worf himself had used when he first arrived on the Enterprise. Of course, a Klingon had been inserted in place of a Pandrilite and it was restricted to Level One, whereas Worf had bumped it up to Level Three at times. But otherwise, it was pretty much the same.
For instance, if his adversary’s bat’leth connected, it would hurt like crazy. All the more reason, thought Alexander, not to let it do that.
The Klingon struck again, this time coming from above. Anticipating the move, the boy stepped to the side and launched an attack of his own—a swipe halfway between the vertical and the horizontal.
It wasn’t the best countermove Alexander had ever made. Far from it, in fact. But fortunately for the boy, his opponent had overextended himself.
Before the Klingon could withdraw again, Alexander dealt him a nasty blow to the left shoulder. If an adult’s strength had been behind the blow, it might have made a bloody ruin of the joint.
As it was, it didn’t even pierce the Klingon’s body armor. But it did make his arm twitch—an indication that the boy had done some damage after all. Gritting his teeth, the warrior switched his bat’leth to his other hand.
Alexander was about to try to capitalize on his enemy’s weakness when he saw an irregular pattern open in the stone wall. Of course, that wasn’t going to stop the Klingon.
He launched another assault, this time one-handed. Still, it was every bit as vicious as the first. The boy stepped back and nearly tripped on a stalagmite, but managed to keep his feet. And somehow, he deflected the attack.
Then, before he could be pressed any further, a voice said: “Freeze program.”
The Klingon stopped moving. Alexander noted how much less threatening his adversary looked frozen in midmaneuver.
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Riker, stepping through the opening. Behind him, one of the ship’s corridors was visible. Bright, austere, and streamlined, it provided a jarring contrast to the subterranean depths of the cavern. “I just thought I’d look in on you. See how you were doing, you know?”
The boy looked at him. “I guess.”
The first officer indicated Alexander’s bat’leth with a tilt of his chin. “You’ve gotten pretty good with that thing.”
Alexander knew it was less than the truth. His friend was just being kind. “Not as good as I’d like,” he said.
Riker regarded him. “In that case, maybe I can help.” He looked up at the ceilingful of stalactites. “Computer. I’d like a bat’leth, appropriate size and weight.”
A moment later, a blade materialized in his hands. He hefted it, then nodded his satisfaction and eyed Alexander.
“Ever heard of anbo-jytsu?” he asked.
The boy shook his head. In fact, he hadn’t heard of it. And more to the point, he had no idea what it had to do with his combat program.
The Klingon named Majjas sat in his heavy, carved chair against the far wall of his central hall, his white hair glistening in the light from several tall windows. He smiled beneficently.
“This is quite a day,” said Majjas. “Not only do I have the pleasure of meeting the Emperor Kahless and renewing my acquaintance with the sons of Mogh, though that would be honor enough. I am fortunate to have beneath my roof the esteemed Arbiter of Succession.”
Picard smiled back. It wasn’t just the slightly ironic twist the Klingon put on the word “esteemed” that elicited the human’s admiration. It was the fact that Majjas had not waited for his wife to make introductions, but had glanced at each of his visitors in turn and identified them all without the slightest hesitation.
Not bad for a blind man, the captain thought. Especially one without a VISOR to rely on.
Apparently, Majjas had lost his sight several years ago in a weapons-room accident on a Klingon bird-of-prey. The scars that wove their way through the flesh around both his eyes bore mute testimony to that—though it was difficult to see the man’s eyes themselves, slitted as they were and hidden beneath large, bushy white brows.
Kahless must have been surprised by Majjas’s feat as well, because he grunted approvingly. “I see the stories about you are true,” he remarked. “Majjas, son of Eragh, is as canny a warrior as ever served on a Klingon ship—and your blindness has not changed that.”
Of course, Picard mused, the old man would have had warning of
their visit. Kurn would have seen to that before he took them off Ogat in his private vessel. But still, to know each of them by their footsteps—or perhaps their scent—was certainly an accomplishment.
Majjas chuckled. “The Mogh family is coming up in the world,” he jibed, “to be traveling in such distinguished company.” Leaning closer to Kahless, he added: “For the record, I do not care in the least whether the scroll is authentic. I, for one, will always believe in the Kahless of legend. Now,” he continued, leaning back in his chair, “what sort of impulse has brought you to my humble abode?”
No sooner had Majjas completed his question than a quintet of females emerged from a back room, carrying trays full of decantered drink and brazen goblets, and writhing gagh in bowls of supple, red m’ressa twigs.
The captain couldn’t help noticing how beautiful they were. In a savage way, of course.
“My daughters,” said the old man, his smile broadening—though from his tone of voice, it was clear even to Picard that Majjas would have liked a strong son to go with them.
As one of the trays was placed in front of him, the captain poured himself a goblet full of black Klingon wine—but declined when offered the gagh. He had eaten on the way here, after all.
Worf was the one who finally answered Majjas’s question. “You have been a friend of my family for years,” he told his host. “Since before Kuru and I were born.”
“Since before your father was born,” the old man interjected. “And a difficult birth it was.”
Worf grinned. “I stand corrected, honored host. Since before our father was born.” He paused. “I remember my father saying no one knows armaments like Majjas—regardless of whether they are daggers or disruptor cannons, phasers or photon torpedoes.”
“Your father did not lie,” the old man agreed. “That’s what comes of serving on a Bird-of-Prey all one’s life.”
As Picard looked on, Worf’s smile disappeared. “I am glad to hear that,” the lieutenant said. “We need such expertise on our side.”
“Your side?” Majjas echoed. “Then am I to understand you’re at odds with some other House?”
“With someone,” Kahless interjected. “Though it may be a great deal more than a simple conflict between Houses.” He glanced meaningfully at the old man’s wife, a slight woman with sharp features. “Perhaps this is something you alone may wish to hear, Majjas.”
Their host shook his white-maned head. “My wife and my daughters—young as they are—are more than ornaments in this hall. You will not have occasion to regret your trust in them.”
Kahless inclined his head, to show his compliance with Majjas’s terms. If the old man couldn’t see him, at least his wife could. Then the clone went on to describe all they’d learned—starting with his observations at Tolar’tu and ending with the bloodshed at the academy on Ogat.
By the time he was done, Majjas was scowling in his wispy, white beard. “You are dealing with cowards,” he concluded, “and worse. But I see what you mean—this is more than a feud between Houses.” The muscles in his temples worked, evidence of his determination to help. “What service may I perform for you, my friends?”
The captain watched as Worf opened the pouch on his belt and removed its contents, then placed them in their host’s hands. Examining the metal fragments with his fingertips, Majjas harrumphed.
“Pieces of a bomb casing,” he announced. “No doubt, from one of the firebombs your enemies set off at the academy. And what is it you wish to know about these pieces?”
“We were hoping,” said Picard, “that you could provide us with some clue as to their manufacture. Preferably, something that might lead us to our enemies.”
Our enemies, thought the captain. It was a phrase any ambassador in the Federation would have frowned on. However, it seemed eminently appropriate at the moment.
Majjas turned the shards over and over in his hands. “A clue, eh? I can tell you this—they’re made of mich’ara, an alloy most often used in heating elements, since it conducts thermal energy so well. But for a time, it was also used in the making of explosive devices.”
Picard nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. “For a time?” he prodded. “But no longer?”
“That is correct,” said the old man. “The practice stopped when cheaper alloys were introduced, which could be applied to the same purpose.”
Worf s eyes narrowed. “Then not every armory would provide our enemies with access to such a device.”
“True,” Majjas confirmed. “In fact, to my knowledge, there is only one. It is on Ter’jas Mor, not far from the city of Donar’ruq.”
Worf smiled as warmly as the captain had ever seen him smile. “The House of Mogh is once more in your debt, my friend. If there were some way to repay you for your assistance…”
Their host shrugged. “You could take me with you,” he suggested.
A silence fell…until Majjas began to laugh out loud in his beard. His daughters looked at one another with relief—the same sort of relief Picard himself was feeling.
“You may relax,” the old Klingon assured them. “I don’t expect you to drag a blind man along. But if circumstances were different, it would be good to strike a blow again for the Empire.” He sighed. “I tell you, I would have enjoyed that to the bottom of my heart.”
“How long will you be staying here on B’aaj?” asked Majjas’s wife, the epitome of Klingon gentility—though she must have already known the answer.
“I regret,” Worf told her, “that we cannot remain here as your guests. Our mission is too urgent for us to delay.”
“Except to finish your wine,” the old man stipulated.
“Of course,” Kahless replied. “It would be dishonorable to do otherwise.” And with that, he drained his goblet.
Worf cleared his throat, causing Majjas to turn in his direction. “There is one other thing.”
“And that is?” the old man inquired.
“I ask that you—and your family—refrain from mentioning you even glimpsed us. After all,” said Mogh’s elder son, “one never knows whom one can trust at times like these. And as far as our enemies are concerned, we are dead.”
“Dead?” repeated Majjas. He laughed some more. “Some would say that is even worse than being blind.”
Kahless stood and put his goblet down on a table made for such a purpose. “I am afraid,” he said, “it is time to take our leave of you now. And if my companions are too polite to hurry out of your hall, I will bear the blame on my own shoulders.”
But he hadn’t offended their host, Picard observed. Far from it. Majjas’s grin was so wide, it looked painful.
“Don’t worry,” the old man told them. “I am not offended, Emperor. Rather, I am honored. Have a safe trip, my friends. It is a dark and dangerous road you have chosen.”
“That it is,” Kahless agreed. And without further conversation, he led the way out of Majjas’s house—leaving Picard and the others no choice but to follow.
Twenty: The Heroic Age
For two days, Kahless drove his s’tarahk mercilessly, pausing only for the animal to munch on grass and groundnuts, and to water itself. Its rider, on the other hand, neither ate nor slept.
His mind had long ago settled into the rhythm of the beast’s progress, avoiding anything so painful as a thought. Day turned into night, night became day, and he barely noticed.
But all the while, Morath was right behind him. He stopped when Kahless stopped and went on when Kahless went on. He didn’t attempt to overtake him, or to speak with him again, only to haunt him from a distance.
At one point, just as twilight was throwing its cloak over the world, Kahless came to a fast-rushing stream. Seeing no way to go around it, he urged his s’tarahk to enter the water. But the beast wouldn’t move.
It dropped to its haunches, then fell over on its side, exhausted. And in the process, Kahless fell to the ground as well.
He looked back. Morath was sitting on his moun
t, saying nothing, making no move to come any closer. Only staring, with those dark, baleful eyes of his. But his stare was an accusation in itself.
Kahless grunted derisively. “Are you still here?” he asked.
Morath didn’t answer. He simply got down off his s’tarahk and let the animal approach the stream. As it drank, Kahless grunted again.
“Have it your way,” he said.
Kahless considered his mount again. The s’tarahk wasn’t going anywhere in its depleted condition—not for a while. The outlaw was tired too. Taking his sleeping mat off the beast’s back, he rolled into it and closed his eyes against the starlight.
It was possible that Morath would kill him while he was asleep. But Kahless didn’t care. It would be as good a death as any other, and he wanted more desperately than ever to end his suffering.
Kahless woke with first light. The sun’s rays were hot on his face and blinding to his eyes.
For a moment, staring at the s’tarahk grazing placidly beside him and the blanched hills all around, he didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten there. For that moment, he knew peace. Then he remembered, and his load of misery crushed him all over again.
A shadow fell over him. Turning, he saw Morath standing there. As before, the younger man accused his comrade with his eyes.
“What is it you want from me?” asked Kahless.
Morath grunted. “I want you to pay for what you’ve done.”
“Pay how?” asked the outlaw.
The other man was silent. It was as if he expected Kahless to know the answer. But Kahless knew nothing of the kind.
With an effort, he got up, his muscles sore from striving against Morath the day before, and limped over to his s’tarahk. The beast looked rested. That was good, because he didn’t intend to pamper it.
There was a pit in his stomach, crying out to be filled. Kahless ignored it. Dead men didn’t eat.