A Burning House

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Shaking his head, Rodek said, “I do not know. I have only been to the Bajoran sector once, and that was when I had my accident.”

  “What accident?”

  Rodek looked up. “Of course, you could not know. I have no recollection of my life prior to four years ago, when I was in a shuttle accident near Bajor. I was hit with a plasma discharge that damaged my hippocampus. According to the Starfleet doctor who treated me, I suffered irreparable brain damage.”

  Qa’Hos frowned. “Hmm. All right, then, let me look you over.” He reached into a pocket and took out a scanner that looked similar to the one B’Oraq used. “If I recall correctly from what Noggra said when he made the appointment, you’re in the Defense Force.”

  “Yes,” Rodek said, trying to sit still for the scan, though he knew it probably wasn’t necessary. “I am a lieutenant aboard the Gorkon.”

  “Not surprised you didn’t go to your regular doctor, then. Defense Force physicians’re all insane.”

  “In fact, I would have gone to our doctor, but she was busy.”

  “Wait, you said the Gorkon? Oh, by Kahless’s left toe, you don’t serve with that animal B’Oraq, do you?”

  “Yes,” Rodek said, unappreciative of the doctor’s tone toward his crewmate. “She has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

  Qa’Hos shrugged. “The moon shines on a targ’s ass every once in a while, I suppose. She learned medicine in the Federation, of all places. As if outsiders can tell you anything about how to treat Klingons. I suppose she couldn’t look at you ’cause of that absurd conference of hers?”

  Rodek knew only that B’Oraq was to speak at the Klingon Physicians Enclave’s first medical conference, but from what Toq had told him before the young first officer went off on his trip, it was the High Council who had called it, not B’Oraq. Indeed, B’Oraq had been far too busy as the Gorkon’s physician to have organized it.

  However, he said nothing. He only wished to find out what was wrong with him.

  The old doctor looked at the results of his scan. “Now that’s damned odd.”

  “What is?”

  “Well, for starters, your crest. It isn’t the one you were born with.”

  Rodek frowned. “That is odd.” He knew that some people had their crests surgically altered for a variety of reasons—most often, to disassociate themselves from family, or in some cases for simple vanity—but Rodek could not imagine a circumstance under which he would do so.

  “Recent, too—within the last ten years, definitely. And here’s another thing—you’ve got brain damage, that’s for sure, but it’s all recent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Qa’Hos looked up and stared at Rodek with his rheumy eyes. “Somebody lied to you, Rodek, son of Noggra. You said it was a Starfleet doctor that treated you back on Bajor?”

  “Yes.”

  “That explains it.” He wagged a finger at Rodek. “You see, that’s why your friend B’Oraq’s a fool. Federation doesn’t know anything about real medicine. That Starfleet animal didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  In a low, threatening tone, Rodek said, “I do not know what you are talking about, Doctor. Explain yourself.”

  “What I mean is this.” Qa’Hos sounded wholly un-intimidated, to Rodek’s annoyance. “You didn’t suffer any brain damage ever, in your entire life, until that alien weapon blew up in your face on—what was it? Santerio?”

  “San-Tarah.”

  “Right, there. That’s it. There’s no evidence in your hippocampus of the damage that would arise from a plasma discharge.”

  “That is impossible.” Rodek could not believe what he was hearing. The surgical alteration of his crest was bizarre enough, but there could have been a good reason for it in his life before. And, as Qa’Hos had indicated, Noggra had always been quite secretive.

  But this—this was new.

  Someone had lied to him.

  Possibly several someones. Why didn’t Noggra tell me of the alteration of my crest? And was he part of the Starfleet doctor’s lie?

  If a lie it was. Perhaps he was simply incompetent.

  No. Despite this old petaQ’s words, Rodek knew that Starfleet doctors were not ones for misdiagnoses on this level. And Bashir, the doctor on the Bajoran space station, was one who had treated Chancellor Martok himself. For that matter, Worf, the current Federation ambassador to the empire, was born a Klingon and had served on that station during his years in Starfleet. No, Bashir knew how to treat Klingons.

  So what is going on?

  Getting to his feet, Rodek said, “I thank you, Doctor. You have—enlightened me. You may bill the House of Noggra for your services today.”

  “Hold on.” Qa’Hos reached into another pocket and pulled out a box and opened it to reveal several compartments, then opened a drawer in the desk and took out an empty bottle. “I know you Defense Force types don’t like to take drugs, but in this case, it might not be a bad idea.” He removed seven pills from one compartment and put them in the bottle. “Take one of these before you go to sleep, and you shouldn’t dream no matter what.”

  Rodek eyed the bottle with suspicion. However, he was on leave, so he did not need to worry about the drugs affecting his performance.

  “Very well.” He took the bottle from the doctor.

  He then departed, planning to return to the estate and find a ship that would take him to Deep Space 9.

  It is time I had words with Doctor Bashir.

  Seven

  I.K.S. Gorlak

  Interstellar space

  “I regret that we were unable to see each other before I departed Qo’noS,” Toq said to the face of the man who saved him.

  Ambassador Worf stared back at him through the viewscreen in Toq’s cabin on the Gorlak. “As do I. Unfortunately, I was unable to excuse myself from this particular obligation.”

  “What was that?”

  Worf hesitated, and Toq saw a look of distaste cross the ambassador’s face. “A Benzite theater company has started performing The Battle of Gal-Mok. They requested permission to perform it at Ty’Gokor, and I was obliged to attend the opening night.”

  Grinning, Toq asked, “How bad was it?”

  “My aide stated that Kovikh was turning over in his grave.”

  “I do not know what that means.” Toq knew that Worf’s aide was a human, and this was no doubt one of their peculiar turns of phrase.

  “It is a human saying that means, were Kovikh alive today, he would be displeased with the performance. As it is, only the desire to maintain good relations with the Federation kept Governor J’Bris from ordering the entire company put to death.”

  Toq laughed heartily. “That must have been a challenge for you, since I am sure your desire was the same.”

  Worf inclined his head briefly, then said, “You are visiting Lorgh?”

  “Yes. He is stationed at the border and could not get away.”

  “Tell him that we must hunt when he returns to Qo’noS.”

  “Hah! If I am still at liberty, I will join you!”

  “Good. It has been too long since we hunted together, Toq.”

  “Indeed. And I am far more proficient than I was then.”

  “So I have been led to understand.”

  Toq grinned. Worf had been the one to teach Toq to hunt, but it had been Lorgh—an old family friend of Worf’s—who refined Toq’s skills to the point where he had achieved high standing in the sport. Only the onset of the Dominion War and Toq’s joining the Defense Force derailed him from what might have been an impressive career as a hunter.

  At the time, Worf was teaching Toq only what he should have already known. While the official story—which Worf had even told to Lorgh—was that Toq was one of several children who were the only survivors of a ship that crashed on Carraya long ago, the truth was far worse.

  Thirty years ago, Romulans attacked the Khitomer outpost, aided by a Klingon traitor named Ja’rod. A few Klingons survived the
attack and were taken back to Romulan space and not permitted to die. After three months, the Romulans attempted to negotiate their return, but the High Council refused to believe that they were alive. A Romulan centurion named Tokath volunteered to be their jailer, and they were sent to the fourth planet in the Carraya system. Klingon and Romulan lived in peace, away from the rest of the galaxy.

  That was the world Toq had been born into. He had thought it to be a haven, a refuge from “the wars,” a vague conflict that his elders often mentioned but never described.

  And then Worf came.

  He was seeking his father, who might have survived the massacre, though that information turned out to be false. Tokath could not risk Worf exposing his haven to the galaxy at large, so he kept Worf prisoner.

  But Worf saw that the Klingon children who grew up on this world had not been taught Klingon ways. Worf showed them mok’bara and taught Toq how to hunt.

  It had been the most amazing experience of Toq’s life. The scent of the animal, the thrill of the kill—it was as if he’d been granted sight after not even realizing he was blind.

  The man on the viewscreen had saved him, taught him what it meant to be a Klingon, and Toq was forever in his debt.

  “It would be an honor to hunt with you once again, Worf. In fact, even if Lorgh does not come back to Qo’noS, I would ask that we do hunt upon my return to the homeworld.”

  “Of course.” Worf almost smiled, which was as close as he ever came to one. The one thing Worf did not have was Klingon passion, the result of living most of his life among humans. While Worf taught him what it meant to be Klingon, it was Lorgh who taught him how to live like one. “Perhaps,” the ambassador said, “the chancellor will also join us.”

  Toq’s eyes grew wide. “You hunt with Martok?”

  “Often. He once said a condition of my accepting the diplomatic post was that there would be a Federation ambassador that he could hunt targ with.”

  At that, Toq’s face fell. “The chancellor hunts targ?”

  “Yes.” Worf frowned. “He finds it…relaxing.”

  Somehow, Toq stopped himself from saying he found it the same, by virtue of the boredom of hunting targ putting him to sleep. It would not be politic to speak ill of the chancellor’s choices, especially since he and Worf shared a House.

  “I would find such a hunt diverting,” he said neutrally.

  “I am a diplomat, Toq, but that does not require you to lie to me. You find such a hunt beneath your notice.”

  “Yes.” Toq cursed Worf for his perspicacity. But then, Worf had always known how to read him. Though the ambassador had never said as much, Toq always suspected that Worf insisted on being allowed to hunt on Carraya only because he knew that Toq would take to it.

  “I believe that, should you join the hunt, the chancellor might be amenable to altering the target.”

  “Good,” Toq said with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm.

  Worf suddenly looked away. After a moment, he nodded and said, “Of course.” He looked back at the screen. “I must depart.”

  Toq bowed to the screen. “Qapla’, Ambassador. I will give Lorgh your message.”

  “Qapla’, Toq. Klag made the best choice when he made you his first. May you serve with honor and die well.”

  After closing the connection, Toq checked the computer to see what the ETA was, only to be told that it was unknown due to course correction.

  Frowning, Toq activated his communicator. “Toq to bridge. Why have we changed course?”

  “We have received a distress call,” Quvmoh said. “Your arrival will be delayed.”

  “Who sent the distress call?”

  “It is from a system outside the empire’s boundaries called Carraya. However, a Klingon sent it. The base has been alerted of our delay.”

  Toq felt as if the deck had shifted under him. “Did you say Carraya?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I will be on the bridge shortly.” Toq cut off the communication before Quvmoh could reply.

  He immediately ran out to the corridor and climbed the ladder to the bridge. Larger vessels like the Gorkon had turbolifts, but the majority of Defense Force ships were not so equipped.

  As soon as the door to the bridge rumbled aside, two bekks stood in his way. “You may not enter the bridge,” one of them said. “Captain’s orders.”

  Ignoring them, Toq said, “Captain, I have information about the Carraya system.”

  Silence followed that pronouncement for several seconds. Toq held his breath. He knew it was a breach of protocol—indeed, if a guest on the Gorkon had behaved as Toq was, neither Klag nor Toq as his first officer would tolerate it.

  But this was where Toq was born and raised. He had promised on his word of honor to maintain the secret of the Romulan-Klingon camp located on the fourth planet, and so had Tokath, L’Kor, and all the others.

  If that word had been broken, Toq needed to know the reason why.

  Finally, Quvmoh spoke. “Let him through.”

  The two bekks parted like a doorway, and Toq burst onto the bridge, which was tiny and cramped. He squeezed past the gunnery console and under the angled ceiling supports and stood next to Quvmoh, who stared straight ahead at the viewscreen from his seat in the captain’s chair. “Speak.”

  “Who is the Klingon who sent the distress call?”

  Still without looking at Toq, Quvmoh said, “You claimed to have information.”

  “Much of the information is classified, and how much I may tell you depends upon who sent the signal.” Strictly speaking, what he said was true, though it was not classified by Command or the High Council but merely by tacit agreement of a collection of Klingons and Romulans.

  “The Klingon who sent the signal did not identify herself—she said only that the fourth planet was under attack by an unknown assailant and that they had many dead.”

  Herself—possibly Gi’ral, Toq thought. “There was…an experiment being undertaken on Carraya,” he said slowly.

  Finally, Quvmoh looked at Toq. “What manner of ‘experiment’?”

  “A secret one,” Toq said tartly. “That secret has now been exposed, and once the survivors are rescued, we must determine how that happened.”

  “Oh, ‘we’ must, must ‘we’? May I remind you, Commander, that you are a guest on my ship, and I will determine what the Gorlak must or must not do.”

  “You are right, of course,” Toq said, feeling ashamed. His instinct was to apologize, but that was due to how he was raised on Carraya. It had taken him years to beat the habit out of himself once he joined Klingon society, for warriors who apologized did not last long as warriors.

  “Yes, of course, I am right. Now you will tell me about this planet.”

  Toq considered his words. “The planet has no physical defenses worth mentioning. So the attacking vessel could literally be anything that is armed, and it would stand a fair chance of success.”

  It was Quvmoh’s first officer who then spoke. “What kind of Klingon experiment has no defenses?”

  “I said no physical defenses.” Toq cast a sidelong glance at the first officer, keeping his eyes mainly on Quvmoh. “Secrecy was its best security. You cannot attack what you do not know.”

  “Secrets.” Quvmoh leaned forward and spit on the deck. “Warriors do not keep secrets.”

  “The people on that planet are not warriors.” That was almost the truth. L’Kor, Gi’ral, and many of the other older Klingons were indeed warriors once, though that time was three decades in the past.

  Before Quvmoh could respond to that, the pilot said, “Entering Carraya system now.”

  “Slow to sublight and engage cloak,” the first officer said. “Scan for ships.”

  The operations officer said, “Nothing on sensors. However, there are indications of recent warp activity.”

  “Scan the fourth planet.”

  Toq stared at the viewscreen, which showed the entirety of the Carraya system, and he felt
…nothing. He had thought that coming back to the place where he spent his early years would fill him with a nostalgic joy. But the Toq who grew up on Carraya was long dead—he died the day Worf brought him out to hunt. He belonged in the empire now, not on a planet that hid from it.

  However, while he had no desire to return to that home, he still had affection for its inhabitants. Ba’el had been like a sister to him (at least, sometimes; sometimes he spied on her when she bathed, since she wasn’t actually his sister…), his parents, Pitzh and Q’Idar, had been good people, and L’Kor had been the leader of the Klingons on Carraya for all Toq’s life, and done so well.

  If they were hurt, he would avenge them, no matter what Quvmoh decided to do.

  After a moment, the operations officer said, “Most of the planet is devoid of artificial construction or industrialization. There is a collection of material both organic and inorganic concentrated in one area of the largest continent.”

  Toq didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Any life signs?” the first officer asked.

  “Two.” The operations officer then looked up in shock. “One is indeterminate—but the other is Romulan!”

  “Then this was a Romulan attack,” the first officer said.

  Pointedly, Toq said nothing. The indeterminate reading was likely one of the half-breeds, like Ba’el.

  Quvmoh, however, glared at Toq. “You do not look surprised.”

  Since the captain did not phrase it as a question, Toq said nothing.

  “Pilot, defensive orbit. Prepare to drop cloak for transport.” To his first officer, Quvmoh said, “Commander Kuut, you will take a squad down.” He looked at Toq. “You will go down as well, as an observer. You will provide whatever aid Commander Kuut requires.” Back to Kuut: “If he does not, kill him.”

  I have made an enemy today, Toq thought sourly. Quvmoh hadn’t been thrilled with having Toq on board in the first place, no doubt in part because it was at the insistence of I.I. The captain’s disdainful comment about secrets had not been lost on Toq: Quvmoh obviously had very little use for those who kept them, and that number included I.I.