“No?”
“No. We die in interesting places like, oh, brothels.”
“I don’t think a brothel is such an unusual place for a man to die.”
“Crushed to death by a small spacecraft that falls out of the sky directly onto a bed at four in the morning, killing no one else?” Darok asked.
Pharh considered. “All right. That would be interesting. Has that ever happened?”
“My father,” Darok said proudly. “When they found him he was only about a centimeter thick, but they could still make out the smile on his face.”
[258] “Well,” Pharh said, trying to find the appropriate words. “How nice. For him. And you, too.” He pondered the image for a moment, then said, “I have a question.”
“Ask. If I know, I’ll tell you. I’m feeling very generous right this moment. And then I’ll ask you a question.”
“Deal. Here’s my question: What do Klingons think happens when they die?”
Darok took another drink (the bottle was almost half empty now), then said slowly. “If we die well—meaning usually in battle—many believe we go to a place called Sto-Vo-Kor. All the great warriors of the past live there and the good Klingons get to eat and drink and fight and whatever else they want to do as much as they want, whenever they want.”
“And if not?” Pharh asked. “If they don’t die well?”
“There’s the less pleasant option reserved for cowards and traitors and well, you know, bad people. ...” Darok’s eyes began to droop.
Pharh perceived that Darok’s injuries and a failure to eat that day had made him more susceptible to the bloodwine. First the slurred words, then a few rousing battle songs, then maybe he’ll pass out, he thought philosophically.
“The Barge of the Dead and then after that ... Mother.”
“Mother?” .
“She’ll be there ... somewhere.”
“She’s dead, your mother?”
“By Kahless’s sword, I hope so! How about yours?”
“Still alive,” Pharh sighed. “Last I heard.”
“What do Ferengi believe happens to them when they die?”
“Is that your question?”
[259] “It’s a question. Just answer it.”
“Most Ferengi believe we go before the Great Auditor and are grilled for three days and three nights about our business dealings. ...”
“Ooo. A little of the old hot charcoals, eh?”
“What?” Pharh asked. “Oh. No ... Not ‘grilled.’ Questioned.”
“Same thing,” Darok said after swallowing half of what was left in the bottle. “Then what?”
“And the Celestial Board decides whether we are allowed to become Vested.”
“Which means?”
“We can go on to the Divine Treasury and exist comfortably from what’s in our portfolios.”
“And if not?”
“The Vault of Eternal Destitution.”
Darok made a face. “Neither sounds really appealing, does it? How do you think you’re doing?”
“Not well,” Pharh admitted. “I’ve never been good at business and I can’t get too excited by the idea of being Vested. Oh, the Celestial Secretarial Pool sounds nice enough, but other than that ...”
“Sto-Vo-Kor sounds like a lot more fun,” Darok said.
“I thought so, too.”
“Maybe you could ask Martok about it. He might be able to get you in.”
Pharh was surprised. “You can do that?”
“If you’re part of the family. Worf did it for his wife Jadzia.”
“The Trill.”
“Right.”
“Interesting relationship there,” Pharh observed discreetly.
[260] “Phpht!” Darok said, spraying a little. “You don’t know the half of it.”
They both stayed quiet for a couple of minutes while Pharh finished his ration bar and Darok finished his bottle. After sucking down the last drop, Darok piped up, “Now, my question. ...”
“Thought you asked a question.”
“But not the question.”
“All right.”
“So why aren’t you with him?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Did you have a good answer?”
Pharh considered, then answered, “No, not really. Well, yes: Because I’m afraid to die.”
“Don’t worry about that, boy,” Darok said. “Take it from me. I’m much older than you and have seen hundreds of people die. Dying is easy.”
“And commodities are hard.”
“Precisely. So you should go help him. You’re his kr’tach after all.”
“Oh. One of the katai told you that.”
“They didn’t have to. I know a kr’tach when I see one. Though I never saw one with such big ears.”
Zipping up the hood of his parka, Pharh asked, “You’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Make sure you have the safety off the disrupter. Nothing as embarrassing as having the safety on when you need it off.”
“I bet,” Pharh said stepping out into the wind. “Thanks for everything. We’ll come back and get you when the battle’s over. You’ll be fine here.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Pharh left.
[261] Ten minutes later, Darok closed his eyes, his heart stopped, and he died peacefully with a smile on his face, as if he had just seen someone whom he had been waiting to see for a long, long time.
Or, possibly, he had just avoided seeing someone that he feared he would see. There was really no way to know for sure.
18
Kahless took two steps through the knee-deep snow, slashed with his bat’leth, leaped to his left, slashed again, then slid under the legs of the Hur’q as it collapsed face-forward into the snow. To his right, Drex fired the disruptor he held in his left hand at a Klingon warrior while slashing at the throat of an opponent with the blade in his right. Well, Kahless conceded. He is efficient. I’ll give him that.
Drex dodged a third opponent, tripped him up with an extended leg, and when the warrior went sprawling in the snow, Martok’s son shot him in the back of the head. Perhaps too efficient, Kahless decided.
Pausing, the pair quickly checked the immediate vicinity and, deciding they were for the moment not in mortal danger, regarded each other. Inspecting the pile of bodies around them, Kahless asked the boy, “How do you know if the Klingon you’re attacking is an enemy?”
Drex dabbed his hand against his cheek where it had [263] been slashed open. “If they’re running at me, I assume they’re enemies, so I kill them,” he said, panting slightly.
“And if they’re running away?”
“They’re enemies and I kill them.”
Kahless shook his head in baffled amazement. He had been focusing his attentions on the Hur’q, partly because they did not unnerve him the way they seemed to with some of the others and partly because he did not like killing Klingons—any Klingons. Drex, on the other hand, more than made up for the emperor’s hesitation.
Somewhere during their passage across the wide plain, they had lost Darok, which worried Kahless. He had seen mounted warriors ride past just as the battle had been joined and, assuming Martok must be among them, pursued them. Cannon fire had begun and Kahless had thought his troops were lost, but then someone—the riders, perhaps?—had obviously taken control of one or two guns and made short work of guns manned by Gothmara’s troops. Then, the remaining guns had turned their fire on the Hur’q and killed many of them. All in all, despite what seemed like an early advantage for Gothmara’s forces, Martok’s side was doing quite well.
Now, having pursued opponents farther and farther away from the main flow of the battle, he and Drex found themselves at its fringe near a narrow gap. Not wishing to be surprised by new assailants, yet curious about what might lie beyond, Kahless rested and considered. Drex drank from a flask of bloodwine he had brought and grinned maniacally. “A good fight, eh, Emperor?”
&n
bsp; Kahless nodded. What else could he do? It was a good fight. His blood, he knew, should be singing, his heart aflame with battle fever. He was a Klingon, some would even say the Klingon. By the evidence of his [264] senses, he was an adequate warrior, but still a shadow of the original. And yet, and yet ...
Perhaps the legend of Kahless being the greatest warrior the empire had ever known was true, but why had everyone assumed that the emperor should enjoy battle? He knew he was only a clone, that the memories he possessed of his life in the dawn of the empire were really only tales extrapolated from myths of a bygone era. But his heart was the heart of Kahless, his blood Kahless’s blood, and it was not aflame nor did it sing. Could it be possible that Kahless, the true Kahless, had not enjoyed battle for battle’s sake, but only done what he had considered to be his duty? Could this be the one true memory of that life? He shook his head. A weariness had been growing upon him despite the press of duty. He had been feeling it in his bones for many weeks and months. If Gothmara succeeded in her nefarious plans, then the point was moot. If Martok’s forces were victorious, then he would have a choice before him. ...
“But not today,” he muttered, lifting his blade and checking the edge.
“What?” Drex asked.
“Not your concern, boy,” Kahless said. “We need to get back to ...”
A disrupter shot sizzled through the gap, snagging Drex’s shoulder and tumbling him facedown into the snow. Though half-conscious from the impact, the boy began to scream, though whether in pain or anger Kahless did not know.
A figure stalked out from the narrow gap, a Hur’q carrying a large disrupter rifle. Kahless raised his blade and took a tentative step forward, but then he felt a rumble beneath his feet. Damnation, he thought. I’ve been [265] feeling this for the past five minutes, but I’ve been too preoccupied with my ridiculous musings!
Another Hur’q pressed through the gap and then a third. All three of them spotted Kahless simultaneously and lifted their rifles to their shoulders. No escape presented itself. Ridiculously, Kahless found himself thinking, A decision I won’t have to make, then prepared himself to find out whether clones go to Sto-Vo-Kor.
One of the monsters dropped its rifle, its eye pierced by a disrupter bolt. Screaming, it lashed out, spoiling the aim of the other two. Kahless tore his eyes away from his attackers to see Drex propping himself up with one arm, the muzzle of his weapon laid over his knees to hold it steady. “Ha’DIbaH!” he shouted, then fired again, but this shot went wide of the mark by several meters. Trembling with shock, he sagged back to the ground and dropped the weapon, the snow turning magenta with his blood. The bolt didn’t cauterize the wound, Kahless realized. After slinging his blade onto his back, Kahless crouched, grabbed the boy’s uninjured arm, and pulled him up over his shoulders, then turned and trudged as fast as he could in the churned-up snow.
Behind him he heard the beat of drums and beneath his feet the ground began to tremble. Experience on a thousand battlefields told Kahless that countless warriors approached. Having to squeeze through the gap would slow them down, but not for long; the emperor had no idea what he would do when they reached the circular plain.
Running down the narrow valley, the drums and footsteps growing fainter behind him, Kahless suddenly became aware of another pounding beat before him. Could some of them have circled around before me? he [266] wondered, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he recognized the source of the thunderous beat.
At the mouth of the valley, he saw a dozen great, shaggy beasts headed toward him and astride them twelve warriors. At the fore rode Martok, his bat’leth held high glittering in the sun, hair streaming behind him, his cloak snapping and rippling. Though Kahless knew a host of demons was behind him, still he had to stop and stare in awe and wonder.
As they swept past him, the clods of snow cast out from behind their mounts’ hooves struck Kahless and Drex in the back. As the thunder of their passage receded, Drex whispered hoarsely, “Put me down. Go fight.”
“I can’t leave you ...”
“If I cannot survive on my own,” he hissed, “I do not deserve to live.” Then, more softly, Drex said, “My father needs you, warrior.” Not “Kahless” or “Emperor,” but “warrior.”
Kahless trudged to the edge of the canyon and deposited Drex in a crack in the rocks. After quickly binding the boy’s shoulder with strips of cloth torn from his cloak, the emperor made sure the forcefield generator still functioned and was turned up to full. Kahless did not like the fact that Drex had no color in his face, but the boy was conscious and appeared lucid. “You’re taking too long.”
“Don’t give orders to the emperor,” Kahless said. “Everyone has been doing that to me lately.”
“Perhaps if you acted more like an emperor,” Drex muttered, “and less like ... like ... the humans have a word for it. Someone who entertains by performing tricks.”
“Priest?” Kahless asked. His knowledge of Federation Standard was good, but his command of idiom was poor.
[267] “No. Not religion. The other kind of trick ... clever sleight of hand.”
Kahless thought about it. This was eating up valuable time, but now he felt like he had to know. He tried to recall some of the human entertainments he had read or seen, but they were usually incomprehensible to him. There had been one old story, though, that he had liked and the characters in it had sung often enough to please him. One character—an old man with white hair who was always a little smarter than everyone else ... What had they called him? “Wizard?” Kahless asked.
Drex’s eyes started to glaze over with pain, but he said, “Something like that. Yes ... Don’t be one of those. Be a warrior now. Father needs warriors.”
“A lot of them, I warrant,” Kahless said, and patted the boy on his good shoulder. “Stay here and I’ll find some.”
And thus, rather than follow Martok and his riders into the gap as he would have preferred, Kahless ran back to the field to gather as many allies as he could with his tricks and sleight of hand. But, as he ran, under his breath, he muttered, “Wizard, eh? Then maybe if this all ends well, I’ll need to do one more trick.”
Riding into battle, Martok felt young. Years fell away with every heartbeat, with every jolt from the saddle up through the base of his spine. He was a man of fifty, no forty, no thirty again. Snow whipping into his face, his blade held high, he laughed for the pure joy of speed and strength and vigor. To his right, Angwar bellowed a war cry. Grim Starn at Martok’s left rose up on his stirrups, held a horn to his lips, and blew a blast so loud and reverberating that it threatened to shake the ice from the canyon walls.
[268] A hundred meters before them, a pack of Hur’q bunched around a narrow crack in the canyon, two trying to squeeze through simultaneously while a pair of Klingon warriors crouching in the snow attempted to set up some kind of mortar cannon. Martok turned to see if Angwar saw it too and, yes, obviously he did. The Katai Master drew his disrupter, a huge antique-looking piece of hardware, was able to take aim on his galloping beast, and fired.
The ground in front of the mortar exploded into the Klingons, throwing them backward, slashing them with splintered ice. A thick sliver of rock calved away from the canyon wall above the crack and tumbled down onto the neck of a Hur’q, practically splitting the creature in half. The other Hur’q turned round and round in bafflement, each of them stunned and unable to see where the attack came from.
“Hah!” Martok shouted above the fray. “One shot! Brilliant!”
Hearing voices, but uncertain about their source, the confused monsters began firing their weapons at random.
“Back!” Angwar shouted even as he set his spurs to his jarq, but Martok, never an experienced rider, fumbled his reins even as he saw the danger before them: the damned idiot Hur’q had his weapon pointed at a case of mortar shells.
The concussion from the explosion threw Martok and his mount ten meters down the canyon even as the ground rose and bucked undern
eath them and splinters of ice flew like spears. When he could once again determine up from down, Martok was lying half under Sithala, who wildly thrashed the air with his front legs while his back legs feebly twitched.
[269] Angwar, still in his saddle, circled Martok shouting something, but Martok’s ears rang so badly he could not say what for sure. Pointing his disrupter again, he fired a single shot into the yard’s head, killing him. Sithala’s dangerously flailing limbs ceased to move.
Martok dragged himself out from the carcass, took one second to pat its side, and performed a quick inventory to make sure he was intact. So much for feeling thirty again, he thought as aches and pains assailed him. Looking up at Angwar, he shouted, “Nothing broken!” then realized the explosion might not have affected the other man’s hearing.
Angwar gave him an acknowledging wave, then pointed frantically toward the end of the canyon. Staring through the swirling snow and dust and expecting to see nothing more than dead Hur’q and a pile of ice, Martok took first one step backward, then another.
The crack in the wall had been pried open. What had been a mere gap was now a passageway and beyond, indistinct through the haze, Martok saw a glittering sea of bright eyes and shining weapons. A standard-bearer held up a banner emblazoned with the Klingon letter “M,” and Martok knew it was not meant for him except perhaps as another way to beat him to death. Morjod, apparently, had decided now would be a good time to attempt to bring back one of the ancient customs, because Martok heard the sharp rumble of drums against his skin.
Extending his hand, Angwar mouthed the word “Retreat.” Martok mouthed a word in response, but he also held up his hand to be pulled up behind Angwar on his mount. The chancellor of the empire knew he was a proud man and by some accounts a great warrior, but he [270] was not as foolish as his wife often accused him of being. Now would be a good time to leave.
Morjod, standing on the back of one of the armored vehicles, had the best vantage point of anyone in his attack force, but even he had no clear idea what had just occurred. After an explosion, a great deal of falling ice, rumbling ground, and now, suddenly, the crack in the ice wall that had been slowing down his force was gone. True, a score of warriors and a handful of Hur’q who had been waiting to get through the gap were now buried under tons of ice and stone, probably dead, but the loss of so few meant little in the grander plan.
STAR TREK: DS9 - The Left Hand of Destiny, Book Two Page 22