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

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  The first order of business was to test the disruptors. Wol unholstered hers and attempted to fire it at a bush.

  Nothing happened.

  “Qu’vatlh, ” she muttered. “It seems that the concern about disruptors was justified.”

  “You mean,” Davok said with a sneer, “the officers were right?”

  G’joth laughed. “It does happen occasionally.”

  “We’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way,” Wol said. “Stations.”

  Davok and G’joth took up posts on the far side of the road, with Wol and Krevor holding position where they had materialized, and Goran placing his mountainous self in the dead center of the road. Can’t get much more secure than that, she thought.

  Wol expected very little from this campaign. Once they took the first city, the Gorkon would break orbit and get a message to General Talak. The general’s fleet would come and finish the job the Gorkon started, and then they’d move on to the next place. If there is a next place. In truth, Wol had hoped for a worthier foe than a group of primitives to have to conquer. True, their world provided many natural defenses. Apparently the area surrounding the planet not only prevented the Gorkon from using subspace communication beyond a certain range, but also disruptors and torpedoes—the former would not fire and the latter’s explosive capabilities were neutralized. But that didn’t bother Wol, as it just meant the ground troops were even more important.

  She removed the hand scanner from her belt. Unfortunately, it worked no better than the disruptors. “The scanners aren’t functioning, either.” Then she smiled. “It would seem that we truly shall have to depend on our instincts.”

  “Good,” Krevor said with a grin.

  “This will make an interesting addition to my poem.”

  Wol shone her shoulder lamp on her subordinate. “Poem? An hour ago, it was a novel.”

  “Novels are tedious.”

  “Especially your novel,” Davok put in, causing a snicker from Krevor.

  G’joth shrugged, ignoring Davok. “I was thinking about it on the way down here, and I realized that the themes I wished to convey would work better in a poem. Besides, a writer needs a challenge, and constructing an epic tale in verse is a far more worthy endeavor than attempting to do so in—”

  “Quiet!” Krevor hissed.

  Even as Krevor spoke, Wol smelled it, too. Unfamiliar scents were approaching. The only thing Wol knew for sure was that whoever it was was covered in fur. Some form of animal life, she thought, remembering hunts from her younger days on the grounds owned by the House of Varnak.

  Wol readied her mek’leth. Next to her, Krevor unsheathed her d’k tahg. Wol noted that the other woman’s blade was undecorated and worn, just as Wol’s own was. The joys of being a Houseless provincial—you take whatever d’k tahg you can get. “Proper” Klingons had their own personalized weapons. Wol had had to relinquish hers when her father cast her out….

  Three furred bipeds leapt out of the bushes straight at Krevor and Wol. They wore no clothing as such, though several straps, pouches, and belts made of animal hide decorated their persons. They had pointed ears atop their heads, long snouts instead of noses, with lipless mouths at the ends of those snouts that covered teeth as sharp as a Klingon’s and long tongues. Their fingers—three fingers and a thumb per hand—ended in sharp claws, as did their padded feet.

  As soon as they were visible, they howled. Even as Wol raised her mek’leth in defense, she heard howls from all around her. This is a coordinated attack, she thought even as one of the creatures swung a weapon at her. The metal blade clanged loudly against her mek’leth. She parried, shoving her opponents’ blade downward, even as another of the creatures attacked with a similar blade.

  Wol had never seen a sword of this like. Its blade curved upward from the hilt to a much sharper degree than that of her mek’leth, initially angling out from the hilt and then around into a deep crescent shape. That crescent then split in two, with one blade going straight upward, the other continuing to form the rest of the crescent. Each of the two blades ended in a V formation, granting the sword four points with which to attack.

  Even as she elbowed the second creature in the stomach with one arm, she brought her mek’leth down on the first. However, the creature parried with the ease of a master sword wielder.

  Now Wol wished she had brought a bat’leth. These creatures’ two-bladed swords were as long as a bat’leth blade. Wol had fought mek’leth-to-bat’leth against single foes and won, but never against two. I need to even the odds.

  A qutluch, the traditional weapon of an assassin, flew through the air past Wol’s ear and lodged directly in the second creature’s throat. Davok had a qutluch that he claimed he took off someone who tried to use it on him years ago.

  Making a mental note to thank Davok later, Wol turned her attention to the first attacker. They stood facing each other for a moment, Wol’s shoulder lamp shining directly into her enemy’s face.

  Wol stared into the creature’s eyes.

  No, not a creature. For one thing, no mere animal could have crafted so impressive a weapon.

  For another, the eyes that looked back at Wol were those of a warrior born who was prepared to do whatever it took to defeat Wol, just as Wol would not rest until her foe was dead.

  I said I wanted a challenge, Wol thought, baring her teeth. “Today,” she said, “is a good day to die!”

  The alien said something in its language.

  Wol then attacked.

  The bloodlust rose within her as she leapt at her foe, mek’leth swinging ahead of her. They had taken away her honor, her family—all that was left to her was this.

  Her foe did not limit its attack to its weapon. Claws, teeth, legs, all were used in service of its goal: to kill her. She, in turn, was bigger and had better protection. A glancing blow to her arm was absorbed by her gauntlets, where a like blow from her drew blood from her opponent.

  Wol had no idea how long the fight had gone on when her opponent finally disarmed her. As her mek’leth went flying across the road, Wol grabbed for her foe’s snout, then pulled the jaws apart, screaming her fury to the heavens as she did so. The alien tried to slice her torso open with its sword, and did succeed in drawing blood this time, but Wol was determined to score a victory. She yanked the alien’s head backward, and heard the glorious snap of bone.

  The alien went down, dead.

  Wol turned and growled, looking for a new enemy to take on, but saw that the rest of her squad also stood victorious. Davok bled from a wound in his cheek, G’joth’s left arm hung useless at his side, and Krevor now walked with a pronounced limp. Only Goran seemed unscathed.

  “They fight well,” Goran said.

  Wol’s shoulder lamp illuminated ten alien corpses bleeding on the road and off to the side. Five of them lay at Goran’s feet. Davok walked over and extricated his qutluch from the neck of the one he’d killed.

  “Vok to all squads. We have met with resistance in the first city. We need to fall back and regroup.”

  The bloodlust dimming as her rational mind once again took charge, Wol opened a channel. “The main road is secure, repeat, the main road is secure.”

  “Well done, Leader. Sixth, remain to cover our regrouping—take as many of them as you can. Fifteenth, keep the road secure. Twentieth, set up a base camp one qelI’qam outside the first city. All other squads, head for that base camp. Take as many of these alien petaQ as you can! Qapla’!”

  “We are running from battle?” Davok snarled. “This is madness! These creatures are—”

  G’joth interrupted. “If Goran hadn’t taken out five of them so quickly, those ‘creatures’ would have killed us all, Davok.”

  More howling sounded, mixed with the cries of Klingons as they fought. “The fighting is moving this way,” Wol said. “Take positions.” Then, remembering that Goran’s position was the middle of the road, she added, “Goran, go with Davok and G’joth—we have to keep the road cl
ear.”

  Soon, Klingon warriors, led by QaS DevwI’ Klaris, started to run down the road, occasionally with aliens hanging off them or attacking them. Many were bloodied, some were badly wounded. Even as they passed, some of the aliens leapt from the surrounding shrubbery to attack, but Goran took care of those.

  Wol heard movement behind her. She unsheathed her d’k tahg and threw it at the noise, which was from within one of the shrubs on the side of the road. “Hold station,” she instructed Krevor, then went to retrieve her weapon.

  The blade had lodged in the torso of one of the aliens. Covered with black fur, much of which was now matted down with blood, the alien slashed at Wol as she came closer, and muttered something in its tongue.

  Ducking the swipe, Wol swung her mek’leth at the alien’s throat—

  —only to have it blocked by the alien’s arm. The blade cut into fur and flesh and bone, blood spurting all over the shrub, the alien, and Wol herself. Though it wounded the alien further, it also, in essence, disarmed Wol, as her enemy then pulled its arm back, the mek’leth still lodged therein. Even as it did so, the alien reached down and swung upward with its sword, which had apparently fallen to the side.

  Wol tried to fall back, dodging the attack, but her enemy was too fast, and the removal of her mek’leth too sudden. The straight blade sliced into her belly, followed quickly by the curved blade cutting her side.

  Fire lit her entire torso, but the pain only gave her focus. Again, the battle lust rose, and she welcomed it. The blood roaring in her ears, she screamed to the heavens and lunged for the alien.

  Peculiarly, the alien did not follow up its attack, nor resist Wol going for her throat. Wol had been throttling it for several seconds before she realized that her foe had already died—a bit late, but the d’k tahg finally claimed the alien’s life.

  Clutching her wounds with her left hand, she retrieved first her d’k tahg, then her mek’leth with her right and resheathed them.

  She looked down at the furred alien. I do not know if there is a place in Sto-Vo-Kor for your kind—but if there isn’t, there should be. After the Dominion War, this was almost a privilege. Jem’Hadar fought because they were bred to. Cardassians and Romulans fought out of a sense of duty to their country. But these people—they didn’t fight just because they needed to, but because they wanted to. There was a joy to their combat that was almost Klingon.

  The Leader returned to her post at the road, arriving just as Krevor sliced the throat of an alien that was attacking two wounded troops. From the city, she could hear howls. Are they cries of victory? she wondered.

  Vok was, unsurprisingly, the last Klingon to come through, just as Klaris had been the first. A warrior’s first duty was to fight for the Empire, but the QaS DevwI’ were additionally responsible for the welfare of the troops. Just as Klaris would take command of the twentieth as they secured the new base camp, Vok would make sure that everyone who could move got out safely, and that those who could not would not be taken prisoner. If he had left the city, it meant that there were no living Klingon souls left behind.

  Or, if there are, they won’t be for long. Wol noted that no members of the sixth came down the road.

  “Move!” Vok cried as he gestured for Wol’s squad to go ahead of him. As one, Wol, Goran, Krevor, Davok, and G’joth ran down the road, following the other troops.

  Davok muttered, “I still think this is cowardly.”

  “Did you say something, Bekk Davok?” Vok asked.

  “He said nothing,” Wol said, glowering at her subordinate. She also instantly regretted speaking. It was taking all her energy to make her legs work. Her left arm clutched her torso hard—she was half-convinced that if she let go, she’d fall in twain.

  Vok did not pursue the matter. “You did well, Leader. Securing the road permits us to regroup and contact the Gorkon. Obviously, we will need more troops,” he added dryly. “These are no mere primitives.”

  “No, sir,” Wol said, clenching her teeth. The road was now taking them uphill. “They are true warriors, in the spirit of Kahless.”

  “Bah,” Davok said. “They are overgrown targs with fancy swords. We have just grown soft from months of inactivity. I say we go back and show them the true mettle of Klingon warriors.”

  Wol closed her eyes for a moment, assuming that Davok’s time in her squad—and in this life—had just been severely curtailed, but Vok just snorted. “You may say what you wish, Bekk. However, since you are merely crew, I am free to ignore your words for the mewlings they are.”

  Before Davok could say something else stupid, they arrived at the base camp: a large clearing in front of a cave opening, bordered by several rocks and boulders. Wol thought, The twentieth’s scouts did their jobs well. The clearing had only one, uphill approach, and was very easy to defend. Two lamps had been set up to provide enough illumination to see by, so Wol shut off her shoulder lamp to preserve its energy cells; the rest of the squad followed suit.

  Wol presumed that the base camp would get only temporary use. True warriors did not defend for very long.

  One large tree overhung the clearing, and Wol saw Moken, a soldier from the twentieth, seated on one of the branches, serving as a lookout.

  Klaris approached Vok. “Base camp is secured.”

  “Good.” Vok opened a channel on his communicator. “Vok to Gorkon.”

  “Klag.”

  Vok proceeded to give a report on the troops’ inability to secure the first city. When he finished the report, he added, “They fight like Klingons, Captain.”

  “Then they can die like Klingons. We will beam down forty additional squads to your position. I want that city taken, Vok, and their leaders brought before me.”

  “Enemy approaching!” That was Moken from his lookout position.

  Wol whirled around and instantly regretted it, as pain ripped through her wounded torso. She saw one of the aliens, a small one with white fur that seemed to glow in the light of the lamps, running toward the base camp. The alien appeared to be alone and unarmed. Like the other warriors they had fought, it wore no clothing of any kind, save for a belt with a pouch attached.

  “Probably a messenger,” Wol muttered.

  “No doubt, Leader,” Vok said with a smile. “Captain, one of the aliens is approaching.”

  “Keep this channel open,” Klag said.

  “Yes, sir.” To Leader Morr of the first, he said, “Activate translator.”

  Morr acknowledged the order and moved to do so. Idly, Wol wondered if the Leader preferred this ground campaign to his usual duties of guarding the captain’s person.

  The alien arrived just outside the periphery of the clearing, but did not enter it. He reached into the pouch, and placed a round stone disk with some kind of character carved into it on the ground in front of him.

  “What is that?” Vok asked.

  At that, the alien looked up in surprise. “You speak our language?”

  “No, but we have technology that permits us to understand each other.”

  The alien squinted. “What is ‘technology’?”

  Vok laughed at that. “A tool that allows us to speak with you and you with us.” A pause. “You fought well.”

  “As did you. Since you can understand me, I can speak the message the Ruling Pack had hoped to convey. The Children of San-Tarah wish to inform you that your next attack on us will be even more costly for you.”

  “We could say the same to you,” Vok said, baring his teeth. “We did not expect such fierce warriors. Rest assured, you will not surprise us a second time.”

  “No doubt. However, we also wish to propose an alternative. The Ruling Pack wishes to speak with your Ruling Pack.”

  A look of distaste spread over Vok’s usually pleasant features. “You wish to talk peace?”

  Again, the alien—the San-Tarah—squinted. “What is ‘peace’?”

  Many of the Klingons laughed at that. G’joth was among them, and he said to Wol, “I like the
se people more and more.”

  Frowning at the San-Tarah messenger, Vok asked, “You do not wish to end the fighting?”

  “Of course not. The Ruling Pack simply wishes to discuss how the fight may proceed.”

  Vok continued to frown at the messenger. Wol wondered what was going through the mind of the QaS DevwI’.

  Then, finally, Vok said, “Translator off.” After Morr obeyed the order, Vok continued. “Captain?”

  “Tell the San-Tarah that I will meet with their Ruling Pack as soon as they can arrive at the base camp. That is the only place I will agree to meet them. In the meantime, Dr. B’Oraq will beam down to tend to your wounded and I will have the remaining forty squads on standby transport to points surrounding their first city, including two more squads to your position. They are to stand ready, but not attack unless directly provoked by the San-Tarah or given a specific order from you, Vok. And you will not give that order until I say so, is that understood, QaS DevwI’?”

  “Perfectly, Captain.”

  Wol smiled. The captain was no fool. If the San-Tarah wished to negotiate, then Captain Klag would make sure that the Klingons would be speaking from a position of strength. It was one thing to drive off twenty squads who were not expecting great resistance, quite another to drive off almost sixty who were prepared.

  “Inform me when the Ruling Pack has arrived. Out.”

  Once the connection was closed, Vok instructed Morr to reactivate the translator. “Our captain will speak to your Ruling Pack as soon as they arrive here.”

  The San-Tarah’s ears flattened. “Your—your captain will not meet us in the Prime Village?”

  Vok glared at the messenger. “The next time our captain sets foot in your Prime Village will be after we have taken it by force. If the Ruling Pack wishes to speak, they may do so here. If not, then the battle will continue as before.” Then Vok let loose with one of his belly laughs. “It makes no difference to us, Child of the San-Tarah. You brought us this choice, and now we have made it. If you withdraw that choice, then we will attack and destroy you. If you don’t, then our leaders will meet here.”

  A long hesitation, and then the messenger finally said, “Very well. The Ruling Pack will arrive at first sunrise.” Then he ran off back down the road.