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

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Then G’joth laughed. B’Oraq thought it to be a good sound, and was silently grateful to Wol for provoking it. There was an old human cliché that laughter was the best medicine, but B’Oraq had found it often to be the case, even with Klingons.

  “You are probably right, Leader,” G’joth said.

  B’Oraq gave G’joth an encouraging look. He nodded in return and departed the medical bay.

  She then moved on to Maris. The soldier snarled at her. “When can I leave this place? And if the answer is anything other than now, I will kill you.”

  And that’s two. As it happened, there was no reason not to discharge Maris, either. His wounds were considerably greater than G’joth’s, but they were all in the chest and arms, and sitting thrashing about in bed probably wouldn’t make them heal any faster. “We are both fortunate, Bekk—the answer is, in fact, now.”

  “Good.” Maris bared his teeth and growled as he got up, no doubt secure in the knowledge that he had intimidated the yIntagh of a doctor into letting him go. Let him think that, B’Oraq thought wearily. It’s not worth trying to convince him otherwise.

  Maris stopped and turned toward his comrade. “Oh, and Trant? I’ve changed my mind. I hate the beard.” With that, he left.

  “Stupid petaQ, ” Trant muttered as B’Oraq walked over to him. At her arrival, he said, “Obviously, I cannot leave any time soon, but may I at least move further from him?” He pointed at Toq as he spoke. Trant’s legs were still encumbered by bandages that were facilitating the healing process after they’d been shredded by one of the San-Tarah—according to what B’Oraq had heard, that same San-Tarah cut a swath through the seventh, killing Klorga and H’Na and wounding Trant and Maris, before Leader Avok drove his d’k tahg into the enemy’s heart. Shortly after that, QaS DevwI’ Vok was able to claim the prize and win the victory.

  “What’s wrong with Lieutenant Toq?” B’Oraq asked in response to Trant’s question.

  Keeping his voice low, the bekk said, “He has been spending all his time in here talking to Lieutenant Rodek. Rodek is unconscious. He cannot hear a word the lieutenant is saying, but the rest of us can. I have heard about how Toq hunted the san-chera three times. Now he discusses ship’s business. Bad enough to be stuck in this place for days, but listening to talk of modifying the navigation shields with our madwoman of a chief engineer will make my head explode.”

  B’Oraq smiled. “I’ll see what I can do about moving you farther away. Or you could ask Toq to keep his voice down.”

  Trant went pale. “I would rather not come to the lieutenant’s attention.” Interestingly enough, the bekk shot a look at Wol, of all people, as he spoke. Obviously, he was not willing to put himself in the position of offending, and therefore challenging, a superior officer when his legs didn’t work and he could not adequately defend himself. Instead, he just turned over on the biobed, facing away from Toq and Rodek.

  After a quick check to see that Trant was healing nicely—and might even be able to return to duty in less than the three days she had originally predicted—she went over to Rodek’s bed.

  Toq looked up at her. “We were supposed to celebrate.”

  “What?”

  Indicating Rodek with a nod of his head, Toq said, “He and I were going to celebrate my victory. The hunt for the san-chera was a great day for me.”

  “Yes, I understand you were telling Rodek all about it.”

  Toq scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “Some of your fellow inmates have overheard you.”

  Proudly, Toq said, “It is a story worthy of being retold.”

  “I’m sure it is.” B’Oraq smiled encouragingly. Rodek’s vital signs hadn’t changed since before dinner. “In fact, I’d like to hear it.” If Trant didn’t have the courage to confront Toq directly, the doctor wasn’t about to make his life any easier.

  “Of course, Doctor,” Toq said as B’Oraq moved one of her guest chairs over to the other side of Rodek’s biobed and sat down. “I began by changing into my hunting clothes. A warrior should take pride in his uniform, but this called for a different approach…”

  Klag watched as the bodies burned.

  Me-Larr had invited him to the Prime Village to observe the Children of San-Tarah’s funerary rites. The San-Tarah fighters who fell in battle to Klag’s warriors yesterday were, as Me-Larr had put it, being sent to run with the dead. The bodies were laid side by side on a pallet made of wood. Several tree branches were piled beneath the pallet and lit on fire. According to Me-Larr, the branches were from one of their sacred trees, so considered because of the ease with which it burned.

  It also gave off a scent while burning that Klag found pleasant, and which served as a palliative to the wretched smell of burning flesh and fur that made the entire Prime Village reek like some human’s kitchen.

  As the flames climbed higher, consuming the bodies of the fallen, Me-Larr gave a lengthy speech. Klag’s translator rendered it—it went on about the San-Tarah’s gods, whom they referred to as the el-mar—but he found it pointless. All this is ritual nonsense, he thought. Their spirits have been released. The rest is pomp and foolishness.

  When Me-Larr finished his speech, he howled, and all the San-Tarah around him joined in the howling. The sound was glorious, a cacophony that was in near-perfect unison and harmony.

  They should have just done this, Klag thought. The howl was a pure sound, even more so than the death scream that Klingons used when a warrior fell. Hearing this—no, feeling it, the sound made his ribs vibrate, it was so intense—Klag was more moved by the nobility of these deaths than he was by Me-Larr’s speech or the flames that consumed the empty shells of their bodies. The captain was almost tempted to join in the howl himself, but he knew that his own inability to do so properly would only spoil the effect.

  The howls died down. The flames continued to crackle, smoke rising to the sky alongside the echoes of the howls. Me-Larr turned to his people and said, “They now run with the dead. The el-mar smile down upon them and bring them everlasting conflict—as we all shall someday.”

  With those words, the ceremony seemed to have ended. The Children of San-Tarah who had gathered started to drift off to their own concerns. Me-Larr and the older member of the Ruling Pack, Te-Run, both approached Klag.

  “Te-Run tells me,” the leader said, “that you also commend your dead to the next world.”

  “We have two afterlifes,” Klag said. “The honored dead cross the River of Blood to Sto-Vo-Kor, where our warriors join the Black Fleet to fight for eternity. The others—the dishonored, the unworthy—ride the Barge of the Dead to Gre’thor.”

  “And the el-mar consider this just?” Me-Larr spoke as one trying to glean information, not pass judgment.

  Klag still had a hearty laugh at the very idea. “Hardly. We have no gods, no el-mar. Klingons bend their knee to no one, whether they be divine or mortal. Our Empire remains strong because we are beholden only to ourselves.”

  Te-Run asked, “What of this Kahless you spoke of before?”

  “Kahless is the greatest Klingon who ever lived. He gave us our warrior’s code, led us out of barbarism and into lives of glory and honor.”

  “But he was not a god?”

  “No. Klingons once had gods, but we killed them.” Klag smiled widely.

  Me-Larr shook his head. “I do not understand. If the el-mar do not factor in your lives, then who maintains Sto-Vo-Kor and—what was the other place?”

  “Gre’thor.” Klag looked upward. “Who commands suns to go nova? Who keeps worlds spinning on their axes?” He looked at the two aliens. “And who cares? They are there—that is all that matters.”

  “It makes no sense,” Me-Larr said. “Who decides who goes to Sto-Vo-Kor and who goes to Gre’thor?”

  “Klingons decide that when they choose to live their lives with—or without—honor. Heroes cross the river, cowards ride the barge. It is the way of things.”

  Te-Run finally spoke. “And some o
f your dead don’t die at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw your Dr. B’Oraq bring one of your fighters back from the dead. I have lived a very long time, Captain Klag, and seen many things that none would easily believe possible, but I have never seen the like of what I saw on your ship.”

  Unable to resist, Klag said, “There are benefits to being part of the Klingon Empire.”

  Me-Larr bared his teeth. “Perhaps. But in order for us to reap those benefits, Captain Klag, you must win one more contest.”

  “Indeed.” Klag looked up to see that the second sun was nearing its apogee. “It is almost time for the next one. Shall we proceed?”

  “Yes.”

  As the three of them walked toward the clearing where the contest of strength would take place, Klag thought about Te-Run’s reaction to B’Oraq’s work. “You might be interested to know that I once lost my right arm in battle.”

  Me-Larr’s head whirled toward Klag at that. “You have both arms, Captain Klag.”

  “Yes. But Dr. B’Oraq was able to provide me with a new arm that serves me as the old one did.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Chuckling, Klag said, “I am afraid I can no more tell you that than I can explain why suns go nova. But such procedures are simplicity itself for us.”

  The two San-Tarah said nothing in response, but Klag could see that they were thinking about his words.

  Then Klag’s communicator sounded. He activated it. “Klag.”

  It was Kornan. “Captain, we have succeeded in penetrating the subspace interference locally. We can send a report to General Talak.”

  Klag hesitated. Briefly, he wondered if Kornan had timed this deliberately, then dismissed it. Kornan isn’t that subtle. Besides, Klag had ordered Kornan and the rest of the bridge crew to find ways to circumvent the subspace eddies that were so vexing them.

  However, the last thing he wanted was for General Talak to come in and spoil his triumph. Besides, his anger at B’Oraq notwithstanding, the doctor had been correct, at least in part, that Klag had a great desire to one-up his younger brother. Dorrek’s idea of filial piety had been inconsistent at best, and he had disgraced the family name. Like their father, Dorrek had gotten away with it so far, but Klag would prove himself to be the better of the sons of M’Raq.

  Kornan then added, “We have also received a report from General Talak. It is three days old, but the conquering of Brenlek continues. The general reports that his forces will be occupied there for at least a week.”

  Klag smiled. Whether Kornan knew it or not, he had just made Klag’s day. Brenlek was far enough distant that, without the communications relays that were throughout Empire territory, it would take at least half a day for any message to reach Talak’s flagship from here. Combined with the amount of time left needed to secure Brenlek, that meant there was no chance of Talak interfering.

  “Send the general a message explaining what we are accomplishing here, Commander. Include both your logs and mine on the subject, as well as any reports made by Lieutenant Toq, Commander Kurak, and QaS DevwI’ Vok on the three contests thus far.”

  “I doubt there’s much useful from Commander Kurak, sir.”

  Klag laughed. “An excellent point. And we lost that one in any case. Just the contests in which we were victorious, then.”

  “The message will go out within the hour, sir.”

  “Good.”

  “Lieutenant Toq also has a theory as to the nature of the subspace eddies, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “He believes that they are the by-products of a battle fought with subspace weapons some time within the last century or two.”

  That got Klag’s attention. Subspace weapons were unpredictable. Both the Empire and the Federation agreed to a ban on the research or development of such weapons as part of the Khitomer Accords. It had not been as difficult a concession as one might think—such weapons carried risk to the wielder as well as the target. Klag had always preferred a weapon that would do what he expected it to do when he expected it to, and many other warriors shared that preference. Even the Romulans, Cardassians, and Breen had abided by the ban. The only use of such a weapon in the quadrant that Klag was aware of was by the Son’a a year ago, and that was an isolated incident.

  “Make sure that is mentioned in the report we send to General Talak and to Command,” Klag said. The other exploring vessels needed to be aware that there might be a spacefaring power in the Kavrot Sector that employed such weaponry.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Out.”

  Me-Larr bared his teeth at Klag. “I was correct—you do wish to take us without aid from one of your other packs.”

  “We are Klingons. Though we understand the need to fight in groups, to rely on others to watch your back, we also know that a triumph is sweeter if it is achieved alone. If I require General Talak’s help, I will not hesitate to ask for it—but I would prefer never to have to ask for it, to achieve victory on my own.”

  Te-Run made an odd noise. “That is a foolish attitude.”

  “Perhaps. But it has served us well.”

  After a moment, Me-Larr said, “Captain Klag, what your subordinate mentioned about the strange forces that make your technology fail—there are stories of a battle that took place in the sky dozens of generations ago. When it was over, we could no longer see the stars.”

  Nodding, Klag said, “That fits with Lieutenant Toq’s theory. The subspace eddies—those strange forces—are hampering our use of technology. They are also not natural phenomena.” The captain smiled. “If you ever encounter those people again, you should thank them. It is the residue of their battle that makes your planet defensible. It is the only reason why this contest has come about.”

  “Then we are grateful, Captain Klag.”

  “As am I.” At the surprised looks on the two San-Tarah’s faces, Klag chuckled. “This contest is far more satisfying to me as a warrior than a simple battle would have been. Here, we are truly testing our mettle against a worthy foe. If we had not been restricted by the subspace eddies, we never would have learned the true nature of your people. And when we defeat you, and you join the Empire, we will be better for it. That would not have happened without those eddies.”

  They arrived at the clearing. Klag saw one Klingon and one San-Tarah standing there. The former was Bekk Goran, who had stripped to the waist, and wore only mok’bara pants. Obviously the latter had been specially made, as Klag didn’t think such clothes—or, in fact, any clothes—were mass-produced in the bekk’ s size. Klag had been in shuttlecraft that were smaller than Goran. Lokor had assured Klag that Goran was the best for this contest, which was one of strength, and looking upon the bekk, the captain was sure that Lokor had made the right choice.

  Next to him stood a Child of San-Tarah who was as to the other San-Tarah as Goran was to ordinary Klingons—or as Toq’s chera-mak was to ordinary san-chera. She stood almost as tall as Goran, though she had nowhere near Goran’s width. Like Goran, she appeared to be made up almost entirely of muscle.

  Behind the two contestants sat two large, flat-topped boulders, positioned about two meters apart. On top of them was a lengthy, thick wooden plank, and on top of the plank sat a small black rock. Its size notwithstanding, it was obviously of a weight that put a considerable strain on the plank.

  Although he had no scanner with which to confirm it, the rock almost had to be laced with, or perhaps entirely composed of, koltanium, one of the densest terrestrial ores ever encountered. Koltanium had hundreds of construction applications, and its presence on this world was yet another reason why Klag sought to plant the Empire’s flag on it.

  He turned to look at the two members of the Ruling Pack. “Are we ready to begin?”

  “It would seem so,” Me-Larr said. He turned to address all those present. “The fourth contest is one of strength. Each side has chosen a champion who will lift the plank carrying the rock from the Sacred Mo
untain. Whoever holds the rock longest shall be the winner. The Children of San-Tarah have chosen Fe-Ruv. Captain Klag of the Gorkon has chosen Bekk Goran. As they presently have triumphed twice to our one, the Gorkon may have the first chance at victory—for if the day is won by Bekk Goran, the Gorkon will have won, and the Children of San-Tarah will forevermore be part of the Klingon Empire. If Fe-Ruv should be the victor, then the fate of our people will be decided by a swordfight within the circle.”

  By the strength of Goran’s back, we will have this day, Klag thought.

  For as long as Goran could remember, he was always the biggest and the strongest.

  Though born on Qo’noS, he had spent most of his childhood on the prison planet of Rura Penthe. His parents worked as administrators there, and so Goran had grown up on that ice planet, surrounded by prisoners and the few other children of the prison’s workers. Unfortunately, there was a fast-growing, never-ending supply of the former (a sentence to Rura Penthe was almost always for life) and precious few of the latter. Most children left the frozen wastes as soon as they reached the Age of Ascension, leaving Goran mostly friendless.

  Of course, being the biggest and the strongest didn’t do much to endear him to his fellow children either. He had never lost a fight, not even to those older than he was. This tended to anger the older ones, who then picked more fights, often in larger and larger groups.

  Goran won those fights, too. It wasn’t even difficult for him. Everyone was so small and fragile, and he was so big and strong, it was hard for him not to lose. No one could hurt him, but he could hurt others easily.

  Once he was old enough, he too could have left, but he saw no reason to when such a lucrative career awaited him in the prison itself. Overseers were always needed, especially in a prison population as contentious as that of Rura Penthe, unburdened as they were by having anything to lose.

  Besides, he was more comfortable around prisoners. When he was around ordinary people—like the other children or the adults who ran the prison—they all looked up at him in fear. He spent all his life looking at either the tops of people’s heads or at faces filled with fright. At least when prisoners looked at him that way, it was natural. Prisoners were supposed to fear guards, after all.