by John M. Ford
“Where is this Sto-Vo-Kor?” asked a woman.
Kahless thought for a moment. Then he pointed to the evening sky, where the stars were just making their presence felt.
“There,” he said.
Then he pounded the center of his chest with his fist. The impact made a satisfying sound.
“And here,” he said.
Last of all, he pointed to his temple. He left his finger there for a moment.
“And here,” he told his people. “That is where you will find Sto-Vo-Kor.”
Inwardly, he chuckled. Such a cryptic answer. If he was lucky, they would puzzle over it for a hundred years to come.
There were other questions, other pleas for him to stay, other blessings heaped on him. But he didn’t stop to respond to them. He just walked east from the citadel, taking strength from their clamor.
Vorcha-doh-baghk! they cried. Vorcha-doh-baghk Kahless!
All hail! All hail Kahless!
It was easy for him to go. They made it easy. With their adulation to lighten the pack on his back, Kahless the Unforgettable carved his name into Klingon history.
At least for a while, he thought. No one knew better than Kahless that nothing lasts forever.
Thirty-seven: The Modern Age
Night had fallen in the city of Navrath, but the pinkish cast had remained in the sky. In the courtyard of what had been Unarrh’s house until just a few moments ago, Picard and his three companions watched Gowron hold their computer chip up to the light of a coal-filled brazier.
It was strange to see a symbol of modern technology in such a stark and primitive-looking place, under such a primal, foreboding sky. But somehow, the smile that reshaped Gowron’s face seemed even stranger.
The council leader did not often display a sanguine expression. It spoke volumes that he did so now.
“Empty?” Gowron echoed, eyeing Worf.
The lieutenant nodded. “Empty,” he confirmed.
“Completely,” Kurn added for emphasis.
“Though no emptier than Unarrh’s head.” Kahless laughed—wincing at the pain his quip brought on, but determined to ignore it.
Gowron’s eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle it out. “But you did visit the relay station, did you not?”
“That we did,” the captain agreed. “And we downloaded the accumulated data, just as we described. However, the computer files were damaged in the melee. The parts we were interested in were wiped out, obliterated—though we didn’t discover that until it was too late.”
The council leader grunted—a sign of admiration, apparently. “Then it was all a deception. You had no incriminating evidence at all.”
“However,” Worf remarked, “Unarrh and the others didn’t know that—so they provided the evidence themselves.”
“Indeed,” Gowron commented. He looked at the chip again. “And this is your only copy of what you downloaded?”
“It is,” the lieutenant confirmed.
“Good,” said the council leader. Dropping the chip in the dirt at his feet, he ground it beneath the heel of his boot. “Defense Force data is still Defense Force data. It is not,” he remarked pointedly, “for public consumption.”
Gowron might have dismissed them at that point. But he didn’t. Apparently, he wasn’t done with them yet.
“Needless to say,” he remarked, “there is still a great deal of work to be done before we can identify the rest of the conspiracy—some of which may be closer to home than I would like.”
“Needless to say,” the clone echoed.
“However,” said Gowron, “I want you to know you have my gratitude for what you have done. My gratitude and that of the Empire.”
Picard grunted softly. Gratitude wasn’t something one associated with the council leader either.
Kahless elbowed Worf in the ribs. “Tell our esteemed companion the Empire is quite welcome. However, its council leader could have ended this a long time ago, simply by heeding its emperor’s concerns.”
Gowron gazed at Kahless. But if he was angry, he didn’t show it. In fact, the captain thought he saw a hint of admiration for Kahless there, no matter how well the council leader tried to conceal it.
“Perhaps,” said Gowron. “Perhaps.”
“Well,” Picard interjected, “Lieutenant Worf and I would love to stay and chat. Unfortunately, we have other duties—that’s the way of Starfleet. And Governor Kurn has been good enough to offer us a ride to the Neutral Zone.” He eyed the most powerful Klingon in the Empire. “I’m glad everything worked out, Gowron.”
The council leader inclined his head ever so slightly—a sign of respect. “No more glad than I am, Picard.”
With that, Gowron crossed the courtyard and exited through the gate in the wall. The captain watched him go, knowing the man still had his share of battles to fight. One could not sit where he sat without looking over one’s shoulder now and then.
Picard just hoped the pressures surrounding Gowron would never turn him against the Federation. The last thing he wanted was to cross blades with the son of M’rel.
For a moment, the courtyard was silent except for a rising wind. Then Kahless spat on the ground.
“He has the tongue of a serpent,” said the clone. “If I were you in the Federation, I’d be wary of Gowron’s gratitude—almost as wary as I would be of his enmity.”
The captain silently noted the similarity between the Klingon’s views and his own. “I will remember that,” he promised.
“On the other hand,” said Kahless, “you have nothing to fear from my gratitude. And I am grateful indeed.” He turned to Worf, to Kurn, and back to Picard. “It was because of you three I was able to rescue the Empire—not to mention the ethos of honor that is its foundation. My namesake would have been proud of you.”
“I think I speak for all of us,” the captain replied, “when I say we were happy to be of service.”
The clone eyed Worf. “I am indebted to you in particular, son of Mogh.”
The lieutenant looked at him. “Me?” he echoed.
“Yes. It was you who made me see the truth—that it is not the myths that bolster belief in Kahless, but rather the idea of Kahless that bolsters belief in the myths.”
Picard smiled. It was an interesting observation, all right. His security officer had developed a knack lately for coming up with the right insight at the right time.
Kahless clapped Worf on the shoulder. “I hope the majority of our people will end up hanging on to their beliefs, despite the scandals inscribed in that damned scroll.”
“I believe they will,” the lieutenant told him.
Now that he had time to think about it, the captain believed so, too. If he had learned one thing in all his years in the center seat, it was that a person’s faith was often stronger than the most concrete scientific fact.
In time, he mused, this entire affair might become a historical footnote, nothing more. And while the name of Olahg would be forgotten, the name of Kahless would be revered for ages to come.
After all, he wasn’t called Kahless the Unforgettable for nothing.
Epilogue
As Worf entered his quarters, he didn’t ask for any illumination. It was the middle of the night, according to the ship’s computer, and Alexander would be asleep in the next room.
The lieutenant smiled to himself. It was good to be back on the Enterprise. As much as he yearned sometimes to immerse himself in his Klingon heritage, it was here he felt most at home.
This was where his friends were. This was where his sense of duty called the loudest and was most resoundingly answered. Even Kahless had been able to appreciate that.
After all, a Klingon could be a Klingon anywhere—even all by himself, if necessary. Nor was it necessary to be raised as one to be one.
Being Klingon was a path one either chose or disdained, a way of looking at things with the heart as much as the mind. It was not always a clear path or an easy one, but it was always there if one
looked hard enough for it.
Suddenly, he heard an intake of breath at the far end of the room. At the entrance to Alexander’s quarters, a shadow moved.
“Lights!” said a voice, before Worf could make the same request.
A moment later, the lieutenant saw his son standing there in his bed-clothes, squinty-eyed with sleep. But when the boy realized who had come in, a smile spread from one side of his face to the other.
“Father!” he cried.
Alexander crossed the room in a leap. Before Worf knew it he was holding the boy to his chest, slender but strong arms wrapped around his neck. The lieutenant grinned as if he were a child as well.
“Alexander,” he replied.
Worf said nothing more than that, just the boy’s name. But it carried all the depths and shades of emotion clamoring inside him.
“I was worried about you,” Alexander confessed.
The lieutenant nodded. “I knew you would be.”
Leaning away from him, the boy looked at him. “Did everything go all right? Is the homeworld okay now?”
“Yes,” Worf assured him. “The homeworld is fine.”
For now, he thought. And for as long as Kahless and Kurn and others like them refuse to let their guards down.
Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “And what about you, Father? Are you okay?”
The Klingon was surprised by the question. “As you can see,” he began, “I am in good health.”
The boy shook his head. “No, I mean inside. Are you okay with what it said in the scrolls?”
Worf’s first impulse was to scold his son for accessing what he had intended to be private property. Then he remembered that he hadn’t left any instructions to that effect, or taken any precautions against Alexander’s prying.
Based on such evidence, Deanna would have said he wanted the boy to see the scrolls. Subconsciously, at least. And he wasn’t absolutely certain she wouldn’t have been right.
“Yes,” he answered, putting the lecture aside for another time. “I have accepted what it said in the scrolls. I am…okay.”
Alexander smiled. “Good. I hate it when you’re unhappy.”
Worf eyed the boy. “Right now, it would make me happy to see you in bed. It is late and you have school tomorrow.”
His son frowned. “Okay. But can you sit with me a while? Just a few minutes maybe, until I fall asleep?”
It was not the sort of request a Klingon child made to his parent. But then, the boy was only three-quarters Klingon.
“Actually,” the lieutenant said, “I was about to suggest that myself.”
As he returned Alexander to his room, Worf basked in the glow of his progeny. That was a part of being a Klingon too.
A very important part.