I.K.S. Gorkon Book Three

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Ryjjan’s eyes traveled up and down Wol’s body. “You can expect me to call in that debt very soon.”

  Wol sighed. She had expected something like that. Ryjjan had been more subtle than Koxx—he could hardly not be more subtle than the ensign—but she had noticed his interest in her. Wol preferred her bedmates shorter and with more body mass, but she supposed she could live with sharing a bunk with him for one night. Perhaps he’ll surprise me.

  “I’ll have one of my bekks take care of it,” Ryjjan said. “Where should I have it sent?”

  “The mess hall. My squad is waiting there.”

  Ryjjan nodded. He was about to activate his communicator when Wol said, “Ryjjan, a question.”

  “What?”

  “Why have you been hoarding those barrels, anyhow?”

  He smirked. “I’ve been waiting for a special occasion.”

  Wol frowned. “Our victory at San-Tarah didn’t qualify?”

  Sneering, Ryjjan said, “Hardly. Oh, our battle there was necessary, and honor was on our side, but we were fighting our fellow Klingons in a battle to save a species who will only be jeghpu’wI’. That is not what I would call special.”

  “I suppose.” Wol didn’t agree, but she could see Ryjjan’s point. “I look forward to the bloodwine.”

  Grinning, Ryjjan said, “And I look forward to the payment.”

  Gripping the bat’leth tightly in his hands, Klag moved through the underbrush, his boots sinking slightly into the loose dirt.

  The scents were muddled in this overgrown jungle. An ancient mining station was located nearby, and the fumes from its primitive workings interfered with any attempt at gaining an olfactory picture of one’s surroundings. Klag found himself reduced to depending on sight and sound only.

  Not that he wasn’t up to the task of finding and defeating his foe. He was a Klingon warrior, a member of the Order of the Bat’leth, captain of one of the finest ships in the fleet.

  A rustle in the bushes to his left caught his attention. But no, he thought after a moment, that movement is too minimal to belong to a being the size of my enemy. It is probably a small animal.

  Besides, his foe was too canny to be that obvious.

  The bat’leth Klag held in his hands was an ordinary one that he had replicated. Good weight, good size for his hands; it was completely adequate as a weapon. It certainly was sufficient for the task he engaged in today: to win the battle, and to do so while wielding a bat’leth.

  Once, that would have been no challenge at all. Klag was as skilled with the bat’leth as any warrior, and more than most. Then came the Dominion War and the Battle of Marcan V. It was there that Commander Klag lost many things—his beloved ship, his hated captain, and his good right arm—but gained a label: hero. He slew several Jem’Hadar and one Vorta on the plains of Marcan V after he had lost his limb, and paved the way for victory in the Allicar Sector.

  His reward had been the captaincy of the Gorkon.

  Slowly, he moved out from the underbrush and took up a position behind a thick tree. Still, he heard and saw nothing. The only smell was that of the smoke that belched from the mines.

  Then the clouds cleared away, bathing the area in bright sunlight. Klag saw a glint of metal in the bushes to his right, and then he knew he had his foe. Though he saw no other evidence, nor heard anything, the glint was unmistakably the sunlight reflecting off the metal of a blade.

  After the war, Klag came to realize that he was less of a warrior with only one arm, and so had the arm of his recently deceased father grafted onto his body. But, although Dr. B’Oraq had successfully attached the limb, she could not make it function. That would come only with hard work.

  At first, Klag had been unwilling to do the work, assuming his prior proficiency to be enough to carry him through. He made a fool of himself during his drills with his bodyguard, Leader Morr, his own position as captain preventing Morr from telling him what he needed to hear: He was not improving. Not that it mattered, as B’Oraq did tell him that, but he did not listen.

  No, it took a humiliating loss to the leader of the Children of San-Tarah to disabuse Klag of that notion, and he’d spent the weeks since departing San-Tarah pushing himself to achieve the same level of skill he’d once had with the bat’leth.

  Coming out from behind the tree, he crouched down and started moving swiftly in a direction parallel to where he had seen the glint. I will not reveal that I have seen my enemy until the last second.

  As soon as he passed the location of the glint, he unholstered his d’k tahg and threw it to his right in one fluid motion, hoping to wound his foe.

  Then he was attacked from the left.

  His foe was a Klingon, one armed with a bat’leth also. Klag knew that there was only one foe, and that he was cannier than the captain had expected.

  No, it is not canniness to spring a trap that is older than Kahless’s great-grandmother. I am simply the fool who has fallen for it, Klag thought as he rolled with the attack, he and his foe turning over and over again on the grassy ground. His foe had left a weapon in the bushes in order to fool Klag into thinking he was there. Addled and with only one arm, I had more sense against a dozen Jem’Hadar on Marcan V, yet this one Klingon plays me for a toDSaH.

  They ended with his enemy on top of him, swinging his bat’leth down toward Klag’s head. Klag—using his right arm—brought his own bat’leth up in front of his face in order to block the blow. The sound of metal clanging against metal echoed off the flora. Klag twisted his weapon and locked the inner blades of his bat’leth with that of his foe, then he thrust it down and to his left, using his right hand for most of the power of the thrust.

  His enemy’s weapon fell to the ground.

  “Computer, freeze program, erase opponent.”

  The voice belonged to B’Oraq, who, along with Morr, was supervising Klag’s drills.

  As the foe disappeared in a puff of photons, Klag clambered to his feet. The auburn-haired doctor stood before him, clutching the end of the braid that extended past her right shoulder. Morr stood next to her, towering over her, yet looking much more staid than B’Oraq, who carried a fierce mien even when she was relaxed.

  Walking up behind them was a third person, a bekk whom Klag recognized as being a member of Morr’s squad. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

  “My apologies,” the bekk said, and Klag finally remembered that this was K’Varia, “but Dr. B’Oraq terminated the program at my request. Commander Toq has requested that I escort you and Leader Morr to the bridge immediately. You may verify this with the commander if you wish.”

  Klag frowned. This was unusual—Toq could have just called him. “Klag to Toq.”

  “Toq. Has Bekk K’Varia come to escort you, sir?”

  “Yes, he has. What is the meaning of this, Commander?”

  “I will explain when you arrive, sir.”

  Letting out a long breath, Klag said, “Very well. Out. Computer, end program.”

  The holodeck reverted to the simple grid pattern that indicated no simulations were running.

  “It seems it is my lot in life to be irritated by my first officers.”

  B’Oraq laughed. “I believe, Captain, that that is the primary duty of a first officer.”

  “I’m not in a position to judge. I spent my unnecessarily lengthy time as a first officer being irritated by my captain.” Klag spoke with a certain bitterness. Captain Kargan was an incompetent petaQ whose family connections provided him with a lofty position and also made it impossible to remove him from it. Instead, he let Klag, his first officer, do all his leading for him, a state of affairs that remained for almost a decade before Marcan V finally freed Klag from his position under Kargan’s boot.

  However, while Klag stayed first officer of the Pagh for nine years, he was now on his fourth first officer in only nine months on the Gorkon. Klag had gotten rid of Drex as fast as he could, and both Tereth and Kornan had died in battle. The captain had faith i
n Toq based on his stellar performance since the shakedown cruise, but that faith was leavened by the commander’s relative youth. “I wonder now if I promoted Toq too quickly.”

  Smiling, B’Oraq said, “Give him a chance, Captain. I’m sure he has a good reason for his peculiar behavior.”

  Morr and K’Varia exchanged a glance, but of course said nothing. Klag had a suspicion that the two soldiers knew something their captain didn’t.

  Klag stared at K’Varia. “Speak.”

  The bekk gave Morr a quick look, then said, “I would not presume to speak for the commander, sir. He’ll explain it all.” He hesitated, then added, “But I do believe his reasons are sound, sir. Things on this ship are not what they were.”

  Throwing his head back and laughing, Klag said, “Things are never what they were on this ship, Bekk. Change has been the hallmark of the Gorkon since its shakedown. It would be unwise of us to expect otherwise.” He moved toward the exit.

  B’Oraq walked alongside him. “You did well, Captain. That thrust led with your right—I think the new limb is becoming as strong as the old. You’re also minimizing use of it, not straining it constantly.” She smiled. “If you had realized this a few months ago, things might have gone differently on San-Tarah.”

  Klag shook his head. B’Oraq studied medicine in the Federation, and from them she had learned the tiresome proclivity for wasting energy wondering what might have been. Done was done; only a fool speculated on what could not be changed.

  Still, B’Oraq is no fool. Quite the opposite. She has been my best advisor since I took command of this vessel. So much so that I am willing to indulge her tiresome speculations.

  “Perhaps,” was all he said in reply. “We will continue our drills tomorrow.” To Morr and K’Varia, he said, “Come, let us see what it is that Toq needs me to be aware of in so mysterious a manner.”

  Chapter Two

  Seven weeks ago…

  Avrik had never been in the government sphere before. Generally, non-strata didn’t go into the sphere unless they were menial workers—certainly never to see the first oligarch, as Avrik was doing today. He had seen the sphere—in truth, many spheres linked by tubes—several times, mostly on the news. It always looked impressive, situated in the middle of the Gorram Grasslands on top of a hill. The sun always rose behind it, causing the sphere to glow as if Doane himself favored the Elabrej.

  Intellectually, of course, Avrik knew that the news usually just recycled the same image of the sun rising behind the sphere, but the effect was the same. When he saw the sphere, he was proud to be a hegemon.

  Seeing the place on the news, particularly with the sun behind it, had not adequately prepared him for the real thing, which turned out to be a massive disappointment. By standing close to it, as he did upon disembarking from the conveyance that brought him and Yer Maskrol, his supervisor, to this meeting, the place lost most of its grandeur. Up close, he realized to his chagrin, it simply looked like just another sphere.

  He had, of course, expected to go through several levels of security. One didn’t go anywhere in the Elabrej Hegemony without going through several levels of security. It was the price they paid for living in an orderly society, and to keep them safe from the separatists. Just this morning, the news reported that the separatists had destroyed a military moon shuttle as it was departing the First World. Not only were two dozen soldiers killed, but so were several civilian workers at the dock. Nobody knew for sure if it was the separatists—at least one aviation expert said it might have been mechanical failure—but the oligarchs seemed to think that the separatists were responsible, and Avrik believed them.

  But if what I saw today is what it appears to be, the separatists will be the least of our problems.

  As the security scanners looked him over to make sure he was carrying nothing dangerous into the heart of the hegemony’s government, Avrik looked over at his supervisor. Only the presence of a stratad individual like Yer Maskrol allowed Avrik to even consider coming here. Indeed, Avrik would have been happy to stay at the office, but Maskrol insisted that Avrik come along, since he was the one who made the discovery.

  It took the better part of an atgret to go through security, as they checked both Avrik’s person and his pouch, in which he carried the recordings he’d made. The process was far longer than the usual, even at Avrik’s own workplace. The space center was a prime target for the separatists, since it coordinated most of the spacefaring activity, as well as for religious fanatics who believed that the extrasolar-vessel program was an affront to the Demiurges. Avrik had thought that the space center’s security procedures were endless, but they were as nothing compared to what he went through here. Then again, as a worker at the space center, his process would be shorter by virtue of his having the proper identifiers. As a visitor here, he was not so fortunate.

  Plus, this was the government sphere.

  When they were finally cleared, they were led by two people, who carried weapons in each of their midlegs, to the inner sphere.

  Avrik was surprised to see that the halls of government looked just like any other office sphere. Simple workstations, occupied by normal people. For some reason, Avrik expected something more—spectacular?

  It doesn’t matter. The important thing is to let the oligarchs know what has happened.

  The armed guards led them to a waiting sphere, complete with hammocks for both of them. “Wait here,” one of the guards said. He then left the sphere; his companion remained.

  Avrik asked Maskrol, “What’s happening?”

  Maskrol, having already climbed into the hammock, waved her hindlegs. “Don’t worry, Avrik. The first oligarch is very busy. He’ll see us when he can.”

  “Will we even get to see him? I’m surprised they didn’t just send us to one of the other oligarchs.” Avrik got into the hammock as he spoke. His legs had been aching for sogret s, and standing in security for so long was just aggravating them, so he was grateful for the chance to sit.

  This time, Maskrol waved her forelegs. “I’ve already spoken to the fifth and second oligarchs. They were the ones who told us to come here and speak to the first oligarch.”

  That explains a lot, Avrik thought. He didn’t think that a mere Yer could command an audience with the first oligarch just like that. The fifth oligarch, however, made sense; she probably was the one who brought it to the second oligarch’s attention.

  Speaking of whom, the second oligarch entered the sphere. At his presence, Avrik climbed out of the hammock, as did Maskrol.

  “Yer Maskrol, it’s good to see you again.”

  “Same here, Vor Brannik. This is Avrik—it was his department that verified Vor Ellis’s transmission, and also the one that detected the—”

  “Let’s go inside,” Second Oligarch Vor Brannik said quickly, before Maskrol could say the words alien conveyance out loud.

  Avrik didn’t blame the second oligarch for being discreet. This knowledge was very dangerous.

  Unlike the rest of the government sphere, the first oligarch’s office sphere was lavish, decorated with the finest sculpture and a most elaborate mural on the wall. The mural portrayed Doane and Gidding creating the solar system, a perfect re-creation of the mural that also decorated the inner wall of every holy sphere in the hegemony. Avrik spent only a moment noticing this, because his attention was quickly taken by the other people in the room. As expected, First Oligarch Vor Jorg was present, standing inside his rather elaborate workstation, which was made of tree bark rather than the usual metal. Also present were the third and fifth oligarchs, joined now by the second when he escorted Avrik and Maskrol in.

  What surprised and concerned Avrik was the presence of First Cleric Vor Hennak, as well as First Defensor Vor Ralla. If nothing else, he thought, they must be taking what I found seriously, if both the head of our spirituality and our military are here.

  Avrik was now especially grateful for the presence of Maskrol and the fifth oligarch, who were both
of the Yer strata. Being in a room with so many Vors would likely have sent Avrik into a panic. As it was, all six legs were now aching, and it wasn’t the usual aches and pains he lived with every day.

  History is being made here and, Doane help me, I’m part of it.

  Brannik said, “First Oligarch, this is Yer Maskrol, the head of the space center. She’s the one who brought this to our attention.”

  Vor Jorg waved his right midleg in greeting. “I’m pleased to meet you, Yer Maskrol. The space center is doing excellent work.”

  “That is one opinion,” the first cleric said.

  “We’re not here to discuss religious dogma,” Brannik snapped. “There is a crisis—”

  “That’s enough, Brannik!” The first oligarch then waved his forelegs and midlegs with respect. “My apologies, First Cleric, the second oligarch is simply letting his emotions get the better of him. Yer Maskrol, if you please, tell us what it is that you found.”

  Maskrol waved one midleg toward Avrik. “With your permission, First Oligarch, I would like my subordinate, Avrik, to make the report. He is the one truly responsible for this discovery, and can provide the most detailed account. I realize,” she added at the distressed arm-waves her request provoked, “that it is unseemly for a non-strata to give such a report, but given the direness of what has been discovered, I believe that the protocols should be relaxed in this instance. Clarity is what’s of greatest import here, not proper forms.”

  Third Oligarch Vor Anset waved her midlegs with irritation. “The proper forms are what make the hegemony great, Yer Maskrol. I hardly think—”

  Brannik interrupted his fellow oligarch. “If this discovery means what we think it means, we’re going to have to get used to a lot of changes in how we do things.”

  The first cleric let out a puff of annoyance through his windpipe. “Ridiculous,” he muttered.

  “I hate to say it, but Vor Brannik is right,” the first oligarch said. “This once, I’m willing to allow it. Avrik, I give you leave to speak to me. Tell us all what you saw.”