I.K.S. Gorkon Book One: A Good Day to Die

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Talak spoke now in a dull monotone. “Come forward, Klag, son of M’Raq.”

  Pride swelled within Klag’s chest as he moved to the stage. He and Worf exchanged a nod as they passed each other.

  From its sheath in his back, Klag pulled out the mek’leth with which he slew many Jem’Hadar and one Vorta on Marcan V. As he walked up the steps, he locked his eyes with Martok’s one eye, and the chancellor looked back on him with the respect of a fellow warrior.

  “Glory to you and your House.” Martok placed the pin among the medals on Klag’s floor-length cassock. It shone brightly.

  Klag turned around to meet the cheers of the crowd. Again, B’Oraq gave her vocal approval, as did Worf. Klag saw, to his joy, B’Edra raising her mug in appreciation.

  Then he turned to see Dorrek—who had turned his back on the stage.

  In truth, he thought, I expected no less.

  When he rejoined Worf and B’Oraq, the latter handed Klag a mug of bloodwine. “Let us drink,” the doctor said. “To Worf! To Klag! To the Order of the Bat’leth! To honor!”

  They slammed their mugs together and drank heartily.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Me-Larr stood facing his foe in the circle.

  His foe had a simple task: to draw blood before the first sun set. Me-Larr’s was equally simple and related: to prevent his foe from doing so. If either of them violated the borders of the circle, that person would be banned from any form of combat or hunt for two seasons.

  Me-Larr’s foe was naught but a cub, a brown-and-black-furred youth named Em-Ran. His pack felt that Em-Ran was ready to join the Great Hunt. The Ruling Pack had disagreed; Em-Ran’s pack challenged the ruling, as was their right.

  Intrigued by the cub’s audacity, Me-Larr had personally accepted the challenge. It was not necessary—indeed, many thought it a foolish risk. But Me-Larr felt that there was no true danger to him. At best, it was a pleasant diversion. At worst, Em-Ran would succeed in drawing first blood, in which case there would be no doubt as to his worthiness to join the Hunt.

  Em-Ran lunged in a clumsy manner. Me-Larr batted the attack aside as if the cub were no more than an insect buzzing about his snout.

  But then Em-Ran kicked at Me-Larr with his legs even as he fell backward. Me-Larr avoided this attack as well, but it showed forethought on the cub’s part. He knew that his move was predictable, and used that to his attempted benefit.

  However, Me-Larr did not become head of the Ruling Pack of the Children of San-Tarah by falling for such foolish attacks.

  To Em-Ran’s credit, he made fewer foolish attacks. He had the speed of youth, as expected, but he also knew to use all the weapons at his disposal: both arms, both legs, his claws, and his teeth. Indeed, at one point, he had almost succeeded in winning the contest by biting Me-Larr’s shoulder, but Me-Larr was able to grip the cub’s jaws, holding them open. He then threw the cub aside in an attempt to get him to stumble out of the circle. However, Em-Ran recovered enough to avoid that fate, thus keeping the fight going, and indeed he leapt right back at the older San-Tarah.

  Me-Larr smiled. He had expected this to be an amusing diversion at best, but Em-Ran was proving to be worthier than that. The cub was relentless, never giving Me-Larr a moment to think. Not that much thought was required—Me-Larr’s, after all, was the reactive posture. The onus was on Em-Ran, but he wore it well.

  As the first sun lowered toward the horizon, Me-Larr’s breathing grew more labored. True, he was the greatest fighter among the Children of San-Tarah, but the days when he would be considered a cub were long behind him, and even great fighters have limits. Em-Ran, however, seemed to have none, as his latest attack—diving for Me-Larr’s legs in the hope of tripping him—was as ferocious as his first.

  After Me-Larr kicked the cub to the side, Em-Ran coiled for another attack. Before he could employ it, however, drums sounded from nearby. Me-Larr whirled his head around to see that the first sun had taken its place behind the mountains.

  “The challenge has ended!” cried Ga-Tror, the Fight Leader of the Ruling Pack.

  For the first time since the challenge began, Me-Larr focused his attention outside the circle. Demarcated by a line drawn with a stick in the dirt, the circle sat in a clearing just outside the Prime Village. Most of the Ruling Pack, several members of Em-Ran’s pack, and the inevitable gawkers had all gathered around the outside of the circle to see the battle. Few San-Tarah would turn down an opportunity to see a fight, fewer still to see Me-Larr engage in battle, even in so meager a contest as this. Me-Larr was, after all, the best of them, and any who challenged him would either prove themselves great by defeating the best or at least lose with pride, for against Me-Larr, one would be expected to lose.

  Me-Larr turned to Em-Ran. The cub’s breath was now as labored as Me-Larr’s own. Even the stamina of youth runs out eventually , Me-Larr thought, and hoped that Em-Ran would, if nothing else, learn that on this day.

  “You have failed in the circle,” Me-Larr said, and Em-Ran’s eyes burned with the magnitude of that failure. To have challenged the Ruling Pack was audacious enough, after all. Me-Larr, however, bared his teeth as he continued. “However, you have succeeded in your challenge. Few could last as long in the circle with me, and you proved more than your worth.” He turned to face the rest of the Ruling Pack. “Unless any object,” he said in a tone that indicated he would be very displeased if any did, “then I reverse the Ruling Pack’s decision. Em-Ran will join the Great Hunt!”

  Rousing howls came from the assembled crowd, particularly the other members of Em-Ran’s pack. The cub himself was wide-eyed, his jaw hanging from his snout, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

  “I—I can join the Hunt?” he finally said.

  “That is what I said, Em-Ran.”

  Then he threw his head skyward and howled so long and loud, it echoed off the mountains themselves. After a moment, Me-Larr joined the howl, for at least a bit, before his breath once again left him.

  Where do cubs get all that energy, anyhow? he asked himself, knowing that the older ones had asked the same questions when Me-Larr was young and carving a swath through the ranks of the Children of San-Tarah. He had slain the mightiest beasts, gathered the greatest spoils, and fought the greatest contests. Eventually, he had taken his place in the Ruling Pack.

  In truth, there had never been any doubt that the white-furred cub would eventually lead them all. It had been many generations since any had seen one with his skill, his cunning, his strength, or his compassion. Though Me-Larr himself would be the first to admit that ruling the Children of San-Tarah took no special skills. The land provided more than enough food and raw material for shelter to allow them to live happy lives. The abundance had never shown signs of waning. It left the Children of San-Tarah to hone their arts, to improve their weapons and their skills at fighting. They had no other cares.

  Me-Larr also knew that the day would come when he would become too old, when his breath would give out sooner than expected, and when even being able to predict the attack would not be enough to allow his old limbs to defend against it with any speed. When that day came, he would die proudly, knowing that his life had been led to the fullest, and that another would take his place in the Ruling Pack.

  A horn sounded, heralding the return of the pack that had gone on today’s hunt. A runner approached the circle on all fours, then prostrated herself before Me-Larr just outside the circle, where he still stood with Em-Ran.

  “Great Me-Larr, we have returned with a san-chera fit for a feast!”

  “Then we shall have a feast, for we have another for the Great Hunt.” He indicated Em-Ran.

  The runner stood upright. “I shall inform the pack, Great Me-Larr. The feast will be ready by second sunset.”

  True to the runner’s word, the center of the Prime Village was the sight of a great feast indeed. All those who lived in the village gathered around to pick from the carcass of the san-chera that had been brought do
wn. Me-Larr noted with satisfaction that the hunters had done so with a minimum of damage—the beast died quickly and with no great loss of edible material. It was a fine hunt.

  Fires had been lit all around the village, illuminating the celebration. Shadows of San-Tarah flickered on the huts that made up the village as they ate, drank, danced, and howled.

  As Me-Larr was complimenting the pack-master on the quality of the hunt, another of the Ruling Pack approached him. “Me-Larr, may I speak to you?”

  Excusing himself from the pack-master, Me-Larr turned and said, “Yes, Te-Run?”

  Te-Run stared at Me-Larr directly eye-to-eye. A challenge. “I understand why you allowed the cub to join the Great Hunt. However—”

  Me-Larr exhaled loudly. “However, you’re worried that others will see this as a reason to challenge the Ruling Pack, since we will reverse our decisions even though the letter of the law was not followed.”

  At that, Te-Run looked downward, withdrawing her direct challenge, though her subsequent words proved that she was not finished with the conversation. “The cub in truth did not meet the criteria for the challenge. By tradition, you should not have allowed his petition.”

  Me-Larr gazed down at Te-Run, whose brown coat was flecked with gray. Only a few more hunts left in her, I fear. Te-Run had been a member of the Ruling Pack since Me-Larr was an infant. She was the smallest of the pack, but she brought a great cunning to her battles—and also to the Ruling Pack, where she served as primary keeper of the traditions and laws.

  Which also means she worries the most. “I’m more concerned about the welfare of the people, Te-Run. The Great Hunt requires that our best hunters participate. It would be foolish not to make use of Em-Ran’s skills.”

  Testily, Te-Run said, “You think I’m not concerned about the welfare of the people? I was in the Ruling Pack when you were still biting your mother’s teat. My fear is that this can do harm to the Ruling Pack’s ability to make pronouncements. If we are laden with contests—”

  “Then we have more opportunities to show our prowess, to practice our skills. We are fighters, Te-Run. If we have the chance to fight, we should take it.”

  Te-Run exhaled. “I suppose so. Still—”

  “Don’t worry, old friend. All we have done today is find another great fighter in our midst. Now is the time to celebrate!” They approached the carcass of the san-chera. “Let us feast!”

  Baring her teeth, Te-Run said, “Yes, let’s.”

  They both leaned in and ripped out a chunk of meat with their snouts. The meat was still fresh and tender, and Me-Larr savored the warm, soft flavor of it on his tongue.

  Nearby, several dozen San-Tarah danced to drum-beats provided by two of the pack who had hunted the san-chera—the duty of providing the music, as well as the food for the feast, was theirs. Me-Larr noted that two females—neither from the cub’s pack—were vying for Em-Ran’s attention. He will have to get used to that , Me-Larr thought. The head of the Ruling Pack remembered the attentions females used to lavish on him when he was Em-Ran’s age….

  CHAPTER THREE

  Martok had called the meeting for High Sun in the amphitheater, which was located only a few dozen meters from Ty’Gokor’s Great Hall. Klag—having sent B’Oraq and the still-insensate Toq back to the Gorkon, and said his farewells to Worf and B’Edra—proceeded there alone.

  In contrast to the dark, windowless hall where the Order inductions had taken place, with directed light casting harsh shadows, the amphitheater was out in the open, the bright light of Ty’Gokor’s sun beating relentlessly down on the rock. The oppressive heat on his metal-and-leather uniform sharpened Klag’s senses, the discomfort heightening his awareness of his surroundings. He appreciated the effect, particularly after a full night of drinking.

  The Great Hall had been constructed inside Ty’Gokor’s largest mountain, built to withstand ground assaults as well as orbital bombardment, a frequent method of attack in the early days of the Klingon Empire’s expansion. Even now, Ty’Gokor was one of the best-defended planets in the entire Empire.

  Similarly, the amphitheater had been carved into one of the nearby valleys that already had the basic formation. From what Klag understood, it was the preferred venue for the productions of Kovikh, one of the Empire’s greatest opera composers of the third century of Kahless. Klag himself had never had much use for opera, but he still appreciated the significance of sitting in the same spot where the first performances of such great works as The Battle of Gal-Mok and River of Blood were performed.

  Eleven other captains joined him, seated in the first row. Klag silently approved. None took an inferior position in a row further behind, and all showed their contempt for anyone who would claim a lesser place by keeping their backs to those spots.

  Klag also noted that Dorrek, when he came out, took a seat as far from Klag as possible while still remaining in the front row.

  Besides Dorrek, Klag knew only one of the other captains—Wirrk, who was a Housemate of Klag’s security chief, Lokor, and commanded the Kravokh. In fact, the captain came to sit next to Klag.

  “What do you want?” Klag asked in greeting.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Captain,” Wirrk said, his wide black eyes constantly darting to the new medal on Klag’s chest, which flashed with reflected sunlight. “Your deeds have been worthy of the songs composed about them. I hope that you find my cousin to be a worthy member of your crew.”

  “More than worthy,” Klag said. “Lokor serves me well.”

  “Do you have any knowledge of what the chancellor has planned for us?”

  Smiling, Klag wondered if it was his induction into the Order that made him a target for potential gossip, or simply that Wirrk’s cousin served under him. “I have none,” he said honestly, not bothering to add that he did not even know of this meeting until his arrival at Ty’Gokor.

  “I hope it is some new offensive against the Romulans.”

  “The Romulans are our allies.”

  Wirrk spit in disgust. “For now, for as long as it suits them. They have been our allies before, after all, and much Klingon blood was spilled by Romulan treachery during those times. We would be well to strike before they can do so again.”

  Talak and Martok arrived just as the sun reached its zenith, a bit of promptness that Klag admired. It was a small thing, to commence the meeting right at High Sun as announced, but it showed Martok to remain a man of his word. Recent Empire history showed that not all chancellors were such.

  All twelve captains, who, like Wirrk and Klag, had been talking among themselves, quieted as chancellor and general took to the stage.

  “Welcome to each of you, fellow warriors.” Martok again surveyed the entire crowd, a much simpler task than it had been that morning in the Great Hall. “With the end of the Dominion War, the Federation is blazing a trail of renewed exploration in the Gamma Quadrant—and that is fitting.”

  Klag knew that the Federation had just sent a ship through the Bajoran wormhole on a three-month journey to reopen the Gamma Quadrant to exploration—those parts of the quadrant not controlled by the Dominion, in any case. Klag had been of the considered opinion that, following the victory on Cardassia Prime, the wormhole should have been destroyed. The Gamma Quadrant was more trouble than it was worth. He suspected the primary reason it wasn’t—besides the bizarre unwillingness of the Federation to destroy things during times of peace—was due to its hallowed place in the Bajoran religion. It was allegedly the home of their gods. Klag’s considered opinion on that was that the Bajorans should follow the Klingons’ example and eliminate their gods. They, too, were more trouble than they were worth.

  Martok continued. “But it is not enough. We are Klingons, and we must make our Empire strong again. It would be easy to become complacent—the Dominion is defeated, Cardassia is in ashes, and the Federation and Romulans are our allies, for the moment.”

  That last phrase cause Wirrk to nudge Klag in the ribs. Klag grunted
a reply.

  “But we are also depleted. And that is why we must push ourselves to expand.”

  That led to a cheer from most of the twelve, including Klag—though not, he noted, Wirrk. No doubt he prefers conquest of the Romulans to expansion.

  “While it is true that we were victorious against the Dominion, that does not mean that our battle is ended. We have lost many fine warriors, and exhausted some of our greatest resources. Our best allies, the Federation, are as weakened by the conflict as we—more so, truly, for though they fought well, they are not Klingons.”

  Several grunts of agreement with those sentiments came from the captains, especially Wirrk. Klag did not agree. He had fought alongside humans and other Federation species enough times to know better than to judge them so harshly. He thought Martok had, too, though perhaps he was speaking to his audience, as it were.

  Looking over, Klag saw that Dorrek was another who agreed with Martok’s disparagement. As if I needed more proof that my brother is a fool.

  “Our other allies, the Romulans, are not to be trusted. As long as they abide by the terms of our alliance, we will not take up arms against them—but we will not turn our backs on them, either, nor will we expect that they will be anything but our enemies in the future.”

  Wirrk muttered, “It is not enough.”

  “To compound matters, the Federation feels the need to send aid to Cardassia, further delaying their own recovery. We will not make the same mistake. The Chancellor-class vessels were created in an attempt to improve our ability to fight the Dominion. Now they will be at the vanguard of our new call to glory. The Kavrot Sector is a teeming mass of unexplored space, ripe for conquest. It is here that each of you shall go, seeking out new worlds for us to add to the greater glory of the Klingon Empire.”

  Klag nodded in acknowledgment. He knew that the situation was even more complicated than Martok could say in public. Only a few months ago, Klag had participated in a mission to taD—where he had first met Ambassador Worf—a conquered world that was rebelling against the Empire. Martok had told Klag then that other such worlds were fomenting rebellions of their own, and how they handled taD would reflect on the Empire’s ability to maintain their hold on those territories. It was wise of the chancellor to improve the Empire’s position by finding new worlds to place under the Klingon flag.