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

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “Yes, but they’re officers. They spend their time on the bridge pushing buttons. I’d expect foolishness like this to be a challenge for them. You notice that none of the troops on the wind boat were hurt.”

  “Actually,” Wol said, “Bekk Moken from the twentieth died.”

  “Well, then he’ll be the laughing stock of the Black Fleet,” Davok said. “Of all the ways to get into Sto-Vo-Kor…”

  G’joth sighed. “Davok, you’re spoiling my concentration.”

  “What could you possibly be concentrating on? Even if they started the second the sun came over the trees, those primitives can’t possibly have come this far yet.”

  “I’m concentrating on my song.”

  Goran shot G’joth a look. “I thought it was a novel.”

  “No, it was a poem,” Krevor said.

  Archly, G’joth said, “I have found that the epic poem is overrated as a form of self-expression.”

  Wol laughed. “It will be a lIm’rIq before long.”

  Krevor frowned. “A what?”

  “It’s a type of human poem—a short form, only five lines. I heard one—during the war. They don’t translate very well—it depends on rhymes in order to be appreciated.”

  “Five lines?” Davok said with disdain. “Typical of humans—everything of theirs is too small.”

  Krevor, however, noted that Wol hesitated. She wondered if she heard this human poetry at a time other than during the Dominion War. Frankly, Krevor was surprised that Wol had had any congress with humans. There was very little interaction during the war between ground troops among the different militaries. The only human she’d had any extended contact with in her life was the aide to Ambassador Worf when she served as the latter’s bodyguard.

  “Humans are small, it’s true,” Wol said, “and they can be incredibly fragile, but they’re not weak.”

  “There are some humans who are able to overcome their weaknesses.” Davok sounded grudging as he admitted this fact. “But they are not the majority.”

  “Ah,” G’joth said, “and you’ve done an extensive survey of all humans, have you?”

  “I’ve seen enough of them. I fought them at Ajilon Prime. It was before the war, when they abrogated the treaty because they were too squeamish to support our just invasion of Cardassia.”

  Chuckling, G’joth said, “As usual, you refuse to let facts get in the way of shooting your mouth off. We abrogated the Khitomer Accords.”

  “With reason!” Davok snapped. “We should never have renewed that treaty. Humans are soft, they have their precious replicators that allow them to live a life of ease, and they die far too easily. I know, I killed dozens of them at Ajilon, and they all screamed like old women.”

  G’joth looked toward Krevor. “Actually, he only killed four humans at Ajilon—though it’s possible he’s killed dozens of old women, and just got them confused.”

  Krevor laughed. “And yet, without those fragile, squeamish soft humans, we would have lost the war.”

  “Oh, so you believe the propaganda, then?” Davok said disdainfully. “That does not surprise me.”

  “Propaganda?”

  Shaking his head, Davok said, “It never takes long for the new chancellor to wipe out the memory of the old. Gowron wasted no time in singing his praises at the expense of K’mpec, and Martok did the same with Gowron. Everyone speaks of the great deeds Martok committed as general, but it was Gowron who gave Martok his orders, he who led us down the path to victory. Martok simply took the final few steps, yet now he claims that he and the Federation, and even the Romulans, won the war together.” Davok spit. “It was the Empire that kept us in the war. When the Breen entered combat with their weapon, it was the Empire that held the line. Even the defense against that weapon came from the Cardassians. Humans were useless, little more than cannon fodder.”

  Krevor couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The last nine weeks had proven Davok to be a malcontent, but she hadn’t thought of him as actively stupid until this moment. Still keeping her eye on the forest in front of her, she said to Davok, “And what of the troops who died at such disasters as Avinall VII? That was ordered by Gowron. Or the victories that were led by the Federation?”

  Davok sneered. “Yes, well, a Houseless fool like you would fall for those lies, wouldn’t you?”

  Whirling around, Krevor unsheathed her d’k tahg with her right hand in a fluid motion. She still held her mek’leth in the left. “If I am a Houseless fool, Davok, what does that make you? On the Gorkon, after all, we are equals.”

  “We may both be bekk s, Krevor, but if you truly believe that we are equals—”

  “I am your Leader, Davok,” Wol said sharply. “And I too am Houseless. I know that we are not equals, that, in fact, I am your superior. You would do well to remember that.”

  G’joth, who was grinning ear to ear, added, “Besides, Davok, it’s not like you were born to the House of Kazag.”

  Unsheathing his own d’k tahg, Davok said, “I earned my place in Kazag!”

  Krevor weighed the benefit of finding out how Davok came to be part of a House he was not born into against the detriment of having to listen to him tell it. He was probably still noble born, she thought with an envy that shamed her. Krevor was the unwanted daughter of an unworthy woman. A harlot from the Old Quarter of the First City, Krevor’s mother left the bulk of the task of raising her daughter to her fellow whores and thieves. The only person who ever treated her as anything other than a burden was one of her mother’s clients, a Defense Force soldier. For all she knew, that soldier was her father. When she reached the Age of Ascension, she left the Old Quarter—for which her mother was probably grateful—and enlisted. It had taken many years, but she had proven her worth on the battlefield more than once.

  Now, having risen to a squad of the first among QaS DevwI’, she knew that this would bring her more glory still. If she lived, they would sing songs about what she and her shipmates did this day; if she died, she would go to Sto-Vo-Kor, a fate she would never have given herself hope to achieve in her formative years in the Old Quarter.

  Nothing Davok could say about her status would change that.

  “Quiet!” Wol said suddenly.

  “I will not—” Davok started.

  “I said, quiet!” Wol repeated in a shouted whisper, and Krevor knew why: the enemy was approaching. She picked up the scent of six—no, seven of the aliens approaching from above.

  Immediately, Davok sheathed his d’k tahg and took out his qutluch. The scent of the enemy came from the north, and so Krevor moved around to stand by Davok, as did Wol. They spread out a bit to cover the maximum ground but still form a phalanx that the San-Tarah would be hard-pressed to get through. Wol also motioned for G’joth to stand his ground, just in case.

  What intrigued Krevor was that the San-Tarah were coming through the trees—but she knew this only from their scent, not from any aural clues. They moved silently through the branches, not disturbing them any more than the wind did. They know their territory.

  Perhaps they did not know about Klingons’ superior olfactory capabilities. But then, she realized after a moment, why should they? The ones who learned of it during the Gorkon crew’s initial attack did not survive to share that intelligence, and Krevor doubted that the captain would tell them of it now.

  Good, she thought, the bloodlust rising within her, let them charge into their destruction.

  “Eyes ahead,” Wol said, “we want to be ready for their frontal assault.” Wol grinned. The San-Tarah wouldn’t be able to understand the words—there were no translators on the field of battle—but the aliens would think the Klingons were expecting a ground assault.

  The scent grew closer; Krevor dared not look up to see if they were in sight, for that would give away their deception, but she knew they were close.

  When they were close enough so that Krevor knew she would be able to see them if she looked up, Wol cried, “Davok, now!”

&nbs
p; Davok threw his qutluch into one of the trees. A second later, a black-furred San-Tarah fell from one of the branches, the assassin’s dagger protruding from its head.

  Five of the remaining six aliens leapt down from the trees, howling in unison, their moment of surprise gone. Two headed toward Krevor, one straight for her, the other on an approach that would put it a few paces in front of her. Not concerning herself with the other one at first, she waited until the last second, then ducked backward and swung her d’k tahg in an arc toward the alien’s neck. The blood spurted outward, covering Krevor’s own face, even as her enemy fell to the ground, writhing in agony as the life poured out.

  The smell of freshly spilled blood assaulted her nostrils, and she gave in to the fires within.

  This, she thought as she turned and faced the other San-Tarah, who unsheathed one of those curved swords of theirs from a back harness, is what I was meant for.

  She parried the San-Tarah’s sword thrust with her mek’leth, then tried to go on the offensive. Her enemy was skilled, however, and would not allow her to do so—at first. Krevor focused her bloodlust, and kept only one thought in her mind: Kill the enemy. Within minutes, she was pressing forward, putting the San-Tarah on the defensive, before finally exploiting a weakness in one parry that allowed her to disarm the alien.

  One thrust of the mek’leth later, the alien lay dead on the ground, bleeding from the chest.

  Krevor had turned to find a new enemy when a projectile struck her from behind. She stumbled briefly, and found herself splattered with blood. Looking down, she saw the projectile roll along the ground, and realized with a start that it was Davok’s head.

  Looking up, she saw one of the San-Tarah standing over Davok’s decapitated body, blood matting its gray fur, its sword stained with the bekk’ s blood.

  Whatever his flaws, Davok was her comrade, and she would avenge him, or die trying. Screaming, she leapt onto the gray-furred alien, tackling it. Even as they crashed to the ground, her enemy tried to swing its sword at her, and succeeded in cutting through the arm of her uniform, though not flesh. But the smell of Davok’s blood only served to fuel her anger, as she plunged her mek’leth into the alien’s chest.

  She looked up. Three of the five who had leapt from the trees were dead. The other two sparred with G’joth and Wol, while Goran stood his ground in the circle. Wol seemed to be holding her own, so Krevor moved to aid G’joth.

  As she did so, searing pain flared through her back—two blades sliced into her from behind. In one motion, she grabbed the hilt of her d’k tahg and unsheathed it, then thrust backward with the point at whatever was standing behind her. The tip of the blade struck something. Again, the pain flared as the blades were removed from her back.

  Embracing the pain, allowing it to give her focus, Krevor turned around and faced her foe: a brown-and-white-furred San-Tarah with her d’k tahg hilt protruding from its belly. The sixth one, Krevor realized. It must have leapt down from the trees.

  The d’k tahg did nothing to slow the alien down, as it attacked Krevor with impressive speed. Krevor parried the sword thrust with her mek’leth, then swung her blade toward its neck. The San-Tarah parried, and thrust downward, almost disarming Krevor, and bringing one of the sword’s blades perilously close to Krevor’s blood-soaked head.

  Krevor reached up and grabbed the end of the blade with one gauntleted hand. The edges bit into flesh, but she was beyond caring about such trivialities as pain now. She yanked the blade out of the surprised hands of the San-Tarah and cast it aside.

  Her enemy did not remain surprised for very long, instead attacking frontally. It leapt at her, tackling her, sinking its teeth into Krevor’s neck as they fell to the ground.

  The smell of her blood, the alien’s blood, and Davok’s blood intermingled with the matted fur and hot breath of her foe. Krevor screamed out in rage and joy and pain even as she stabbed the San-Tarah in the side with her mek’leth.

  In its death throes, the San-Tarah tore a large chunk of flesh and muscle from Krevor’s right shoulder with its teeth.

  Blood covered Krevor from head to toe as she threw her dead foe off her with her left arm—her right arm was now utterly useless. She saw that Goran was now fighting two San-Tarah at once—and that both G’joth and Wol were down, possibly dead.

  Krevor had no idea how much of the blood was her own or was Davok’s or the San-Tarah’s. It didn’t matter, really. She knew that she would die soon. But she would take as many of her enemy with her.

  Today is most definitely a good day to die.

  Grabbing the San-Tarah’s own two-bladed sword from the ground with her left hand, she charged at one of the two trying to get past Goran’s massive form to the circle. Her thoughts as she decapitated the San-Tarah were not of the whorehouse where she was born, nor of the disdain of those around her as she worked her way through the ranks.

  She thought only of Sto-Vo-Kor and the glory that awaited her as she died in battle, as a true Klingon.

  Goran snapped the neck of the last of the seven San-Tarah who had attacked.

  “Wol to Vok.”

  Krevor turned to see that Wol had managed to get up, though she bled profusely from a wound in her right leg.

  “Vok.”

  “We have encountered seven Children of San-Tarah who attempted to claim the prize. They have failed, but we have taken losses. Davok is dead, G’joth may well be soon, I’m wounded, and Krevor is halfway across the River of Blood.”

  Angrily, Krevor said, “I can stand my post, Leader.”

  Wol smiled. “Of that I have no doubt, Bekk.”

  “We are close to our goal,” Vok said, “but I will send two soldiers back to you. Well done, Leader. I knew I could count on the fifteenth to hold the line.”

  As Wol cut the connection, Krevor asked, “What of G’joth?” Unlike his friend, the aspiring writer had been a comrade in more than just arms to Krevor.

  The Leader limped over to G’joth’s form. “He still lives, but he is not conscious. He’ll need to transport back to the Gorkon.” Then Wol made her way to where Davok’s head lay, right beside one of the dead San-Tarah. Wol got down on her good knee, checked Davok’s eyes, then screamed to the heavens.

  Krevor and Goran both threw their own heads back and joined in the scream. Krevor found her voice failing her, even as the numbness spread from her right arm to her entire chest.

  “I’m sorry,” Goran said.

  Turning to face the giant, Krevor asked, “Why?”

  “I might’ve been able to save Davok, but I had to stay here.” Goran sounded almost sad.

  Wol walked over to the circle, using her bat’leth as a makeshift cane. “You have nothing to apologize for, Goran. You followed orders, and did your duty. If you had helped Davok, one of the other San-Tarah may well have claimed the prize.”

  Goran smiled, apparently happy from the reassurance from his Leader.

  Krevor’s vision swam, and not just from the blood that was now dripping into her eyes. I will hold the line, she thought, forcing herself to focus. More San-Tarah could come at any moment, after all.

  “You have done well, Krevor,” Wol said. “It has been the greatest of honors to serve with you.”

  “Thank you, Leader,” Krevor said. “I—I feel the same.”

  “I do not speak those words lightly,” Wol added. “I have known many great warriors in my time.” She hesitated. “I was not always as I am now. Once I was Eral, daughter of B’Etakk of the House of Varnak.”

  A part of Krevor’s mind registered surprise at this revelation. The rest of her mind was occupied with trying to figure out why she could no longer smell the blood. It was everywhere, after all, she should still be smelling it….

  She managed to get out the word “What—”

  “What happened to me does not matter. What does matter, Bekk, is that I have met beings from dozens of species, and I have seen Klingon society at its highest and lowest. Today, you have reminded me that th
e true heart of a warrior has naught to do with where that heart was born.”

  Krevor wanted to thank Wol for the words, but she couldn’t make her lips work. Even Wol’s voice was starting to sound almost hollow, and Krevor’s vision grew worse.

  Looks like we go to Sto-Vo-Kor together, Davok, she thought, and as she died she wondered if he’d be as argumentative in the next life as he was in this….

  B’Oraq looked over the scanner readings for Rodek just as Klag entered the medical bay. Rodek was the only patient left—the other survivors of yesterday’s disastrous sea battle had been discharged after treatment that took only a few moments once B’Oraq had access to working modern tools. Te-Run had transported back down to the planet after standing uncharacteristically quietly and with her tongue literally hanging out of the side of her mouth while B’Oraq worked on Rodek. The Child of San-Tarah never actually admitted that she was wrong about Rodek’s prospects, but clearly Te-Run was astonished by the fact that the gunner would live.

  “Report, Doctor,” the captain said.

  “Lieutenant Rodek is stable. I’ve repaired the damage to his heart and his head, but he is still unconscious. At this point, it’s just a matter of if and when he wakes up. What disturbs me is these readings in his hippocampus and the evidence of surgery.”

  “Oh?”

  B’Oraq looked up at Klag. “The readings in his hippocampus are odd. I suppose it relates to the amnesia.”

  Klag nodded. Rodek had been in a shuttle accident near Bajor four years earlier that cost him all his memories prior to that moment. “What about the surgery?”

  “It looks like his crest has been altered.” She shrugged. “It’s not unheard of, but usually not in officers from strong Houses. Usually people only get this kind of surgery to disassociate themselves from their family.”

  “I doubt that is the case here,” Klag said with a snort, not sounding overly concerned. “You may ask him about it when he wakes up, if you wish. What of the others?”

  If he’s not going to care, no reason why I should. Though I am curious. In any event, the doctor had, as the humans said, bigger fish to fry. “Kurak, Leskit, and Kornan are all fit for duty.”