A Burning House

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Toq followed Kuut to the transporter room in silence. Four bekks and a leader awaited them.

  As they stepped onto the platform, Kuut turned to Toq. “Why would a Romulan be on that world, if he is not one of the attackers?”

  At first, Toq was tempted to remain silent, but Kuut struck him as the type who followed orders to the letter, and he would have all five troops open fire on him if he did not answer. “He was defending his home.”

  Kuut stared at Toq. “What?”

  “We will know for sure when we beam down, Commander. I suggest we do so.”

  After giving Toq an aggrieved snarl, Kuut turned to the transporter operator. “Beam us to the life signs.”

  The operator nodded and worked the controls. Toq felt a red glow overtake him as the transporter room faded to indistinction, then coalesced into an almost-familiar sight.

  And then it hit him. Seeing Carraya had instilled surprisingly few feelings in Toq, but as soon as the scent of the trees and of the animals and birds and of the stream that Ba’el always bathed in came to him, he almost grew weak in the knees.

  Then his nose detected the acrid stench of smoke and spilled blood—both the iron tinge of the Klingons’ blood and the copper tinge of the Romulans’—and burned flesh, and the feeling grew worse.

  His home had been destroyed.

  Rubble was piled where buildings used to be. The house he grew up in was a smoking ruin. The garden where he used to throw his ghIntaq spear was pulverized.

  And there were bodies everywhere. Toq recognized each one of them. Virlak, the Romulan guard who always scored the ghIntaq-throwing contests. Maj, who made the best cakes. Klon, who had thought Toq a fool for leaving Carraya. Hanril, the Romulan cook, who had refused to prepare the results of Toq’s first hunt. Jurok, who always told the best stories, at least until Worf came.

  Then there was Q’Idar, his mother.

  Upon seeing her, Toq finally did fall to his knees. “No! This wasn’t supposed to happen! They were supposed to be safe!”

  Leaning over, he pried open his mother’s eyes, then screamed to the heavens. His mother was no kind of warrior—she didn’t even like to argue. But Toq didn’t care. She gave him birth, raised him, fed him, clothed him. He didn’t even really believe in the Black Fleet, but damn it all, Toq would announce her arrival there, just in case he was wrong. She deserved that much and more.

  So he screamed.

  None of the Gorlak crew joined in the scream, however. Instead, when Toq was finished, Kuut asked, “Who is that woman?”

  Toq rose to his feet. “She is—she was my mother.”

  Then he heard a groan. Running toward its source, Toq saw a hand moving from under a pile of rubble. Grabbing one piece of stone, he threw it aside.

  From behind him, one of the bekks said, “The life signs are under there.”

  “Help the commander with his digging,” Kuut said.

  With the aid of the troops, Toq was able to clear the rubble. What he saw probably shocked the Klingons present.

  A Romulan male had shielded a Klingon female from the bulk of the impact.

  Toq of course knew them both.

  “This woman may appear Klingon,” one of the bekks said, “but she is not.”

  “A disguise?” Kuut asked.

  “No,” Toq said. The truth would come out soon enough, once someone got a look at her ears. “A half-breed.” He turned to Kuut. “I told you that a Romulan would die here to protect his home? This Romulan was protecting his daughter.”

  “This Romulan is still alive,” the leader said.

  A look of disgust on his face, Kuut asked, “Is this your ‘experiment’?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Toq turned his back on Kuut before he could ask another question and knelt down beside Ba’el. “Ba’el, it’s Toq. We’ve come to save you.”

  Ba’el’s beautiful face was streaked with Klingon and Romulan blood both. He suspected that the majority of the latter belonged to her father, Tokath, the leader of the colony, whose body lay over hers yet had somehow survived.

  “Toq?” she said weakly. “You came back.”

  “Yes. What happened?”

  “L’Kor.”

  Toq frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “They came for…for L’Kor. Said they’d…they’d spare us if we…we gave them…him. Father re-refused. So they took…took him any—” She lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Getting back to his feet, Toq said, “We must bring them to the Gorlak medical bay!”

  “Must we?” Kuut asked. “All I see here is a righteous act. Klingons and Romulans living together—the only thing the attackers got wrong was to leave these two breathing.” Unholstering his disruptor, he bared his teeth at Toq. “I will gladly rectify that error—and the error of leaving you alive.”

  He pointed the disruptor right at Toq’s face.

  Eight

  Kenta District

  Krennla, Qo’noS

  When the public transporter deposited him at the Kenta District Station, which was nearest to the street where he’d grown up, G’joth wasn’t sure what surprised him more: how much had changed, or how little had.

  On the one hand, most of the short, boxy buildings were the same as they’d always been. On the other, several he knew should be there, weren’t. An eatery he’d patronized in his youth was gone, replaced by a jewel merchant, and that was just one example.

  There also seemed to be fewer people on the streets. He wondered if that was good or bad.

  Most Klingon cities were built around a system of roads that could accommodate pedestrians and people astride a mount—usually, a klongat or a khrun. After the Hur’q invasion, Klingon technological development went into overdrive. Where most worlds—as G’joth had learned in his decade in the Defense Force—developed powered ground travel, then air travel, then space travel, Qo’noS bypassed the first step and did the next two simultaneously, all in an effort to prevent another invasion like that of the Hur’q.

  Years ago, when G’joth had first started thinking about writing an opera, he had considered undertaking a heroic epic that portrayed the Hur’q as the heroes of the empire. After all, if they hadn’t invaded, Klingons would probably have stayed on Qo’noS, their lives occupied by tribal feuds that were far more vicious than the House disputes you saw these days. Thanks to the anger at the Hur’q plundering of the world—including taking the Sword of Kahless from its rightful place—the Klingon Empire spanned the heavens and was one of the great powers of the quadrant. It was G’joth’s considered opinion that the empire owed everything to the Hur’q, though he knew that to be a minority opinion. However, he’d never completed the opera, and when he’d returned to opera composing in recent months, he’d tried for more mundane subjects.

  When he turned a corner onto the road that had his parents’ dwelling, he saw three youths throwing tiny ghIntaqs into the air. Looking up, G’joth saw that they were aiming at a group of small lotlhmoq chicks that circled overhead. G’joth figured the birds had just come from the nearby river to feed and now were the victims of these children’s games.

  Not that they were in much danger, truly—the children had awful aim. Of course, when G’joth had been the youth practicing with his spear, his aim had been wretched, too. He generally preferred a bat’leth to a ghIntaq anyhow.

  Even as G’joth approached the children from one direction, a man in leather armor approached from the other. Armed with a curved tik’leth decorated with ornate characters that was more for show than anything, and a bright green painstik that wasn’t, this was a member of the Imperial Guard, who were charged with maintaining law on Qo’noS. This was the third guardsman G’joth had seen since transporting in, which was the other change from ten years ago. He used to see only one, maybe two, on a normal day; almost never three in two minutes.

  “Disperse!” the guardsman yelled.

  One of the youths said, “We’re just practicing our aim!”

 
“There’s a range for that in the park,” the guardsman said. “Disperse!”

  That was something else new. There never used to be a spear-tossing range in the park.

  “We can’t afford the entrance fees!” another boy said.

  The guardsman now brandished his painstik. “That is not my problem. You tossing your ghIntaqs into the air where they might cause harm—that is my problem. And it will be your problem if you do not disperse!” Then he looked up and saw G’joth. “Sir!” he barked, straightening, holding his painstik straight upward as if it were a salute. “Excuse me, I did not see you here.”

  “Settle down, Guardsman,” G’joth said. “And don’t call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living. I’m Bekk G’joth. What is the difficulty?”

  The children were now all staring in awe at G’joth. Well, in truth, they’re staring in awe at my uniform, as is the guardsman. Obviously they don’t know what it means, if they can’t even tell that I’m not an officer.

  “No difficulty, honored Bekk,” the guardsman said. “I was merely telling these youths to disperse.”

  “So I noticed. Why? They’re not doing anything I didn’t do growing up on these streets.”

  “There wasn’t a spear-tossing range when you were growing up, honored Bekk. It was specifically constructed three turns ago in order to keep the residents of these streets safe.”

  “But they charge an admission fee?”

  Now the guardsman smiled. “Ranges do not pay for themselves, honored Bekk.”

  “I suppose not.” He looked down at the children. “Where do you live?”

  Each of the youths pointed in a different direction.

  Looking back up at the guardsman, G’joth said, “Why not simply tell them to stop throwing the spears?”

  “Because the only way to guarantee that they will follow that instruction once I leave this street is to confiscate their spears.” He smiled again. “They are very poor spears, and I have no desire to have them clutter up the weapons locker at headquarters.”

  Suddenly, one of the children asked, “Are you the same Bekk G’joth who serves on the Gorkon?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My father says your captain is a great man—and that you don’t deserve to be on the same ship as him.”

  Chuckling, G’joth said, “Your father is correct. He wouldn’t happen to be Klaad, would he?”

  The youth nodded. “I am Kimm, son of Klaad.”

  G’joth had noticed earlier that the boy had the same crest as his old friend. And, looking at the second youth, he realized it was another familiar forehead. “Your father must be Krom.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said with a nod. “I am Gurlk, son of Krom.”

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ either. I knew both your fathers when we were all younger than you.” He turned back to the guardsman. “I will take charge of these three.”

  Bowing his head, the guardsman said, “As you command, honored Bekk. The Gorkon is a great ship, and we are honored by your presence in our meager city.” With that, the guardsman took his leave.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” the third boy said. “After you’re gone, he’ll come back and take our ghIntaqs and beat us—or maybe use the painstik.”

  “I won’t be leaving for some time,” G’joth said. “Besides, he cannot do violence to you unless you disobey him, which you have not done. His job is to protect you, unless you are a criminal.” He stared down at the boy. “Are you a criminal?”

  “He thinks so.”

  “Perhaps.” G’joth looked down the street after him, then turned to look at all three. “Either way, you are three and he is one. If he treats you unjustly, you may challenge him.”

  “No we can’t!” Gurlk looked at him as if he were mad. In fact, Davok used to look at me like that all the time, G’joth thought sadly.

  “Of course you can. Warriors may challenge any who dishonor them.”

  “We’re not warriors, we’re just children.”

  Reaching down and grabbing the ghIntaq out of Gurlk’s hands, G’joth said, “If you can hold this, you are already a warrior.”

  The third boy said, “If we were warriors, we could hit the birds!”

  G’joth laughed. “An excellent point! One thing I was told when I was a youth was to hold up one’s other arm.” He did so with his left, then held the ghIntaq above his right shoulder with his right hand. “Use it as a scope to find your target.” Then he handed Gurlk back his spear. “But not now. I took responsibility for you, and that means you must no longer throw your spears, or I will be dishonored.”

  Kimm said, “My father says you don’t have any honor.”

  That brought G’joth up short. “He said that? In so many words?”

  “No.” Kimm hesitated, looking as if he were trying to dredge up the exact phrasing. “He said, ‘G’joth wouldn’t know honor if it bit him on the ankle.’ ”

  Again, G’joth laughed. “That is definitely my old friend Klaad. I must go now.”

  The third boy said, “But you just arrived!”

  “Yes, and my parents are waiting for me. I must not keep them waiting. But if you are here at this time tomorrow, I will come back and tell you stories of the Gorkon.”

  “Will you tell us about Captain Klag?” Gurlk asked eagerly.

  “Actually, I was going to tell you of the exploits of the finest squad on the ship: the fifteenth!”

  “Who cares about the troops?” Kimm asked.

  The third one added, “They never do anything.”

  By Kahless’s hand, what are Krom and Klaad teaching these infants? Despairing for the youth of the empire, G’joth said, “You will hear my tales tomorrow, and then you will find out who is the subject. And Kimm, Gurlk? Tell your fathers I will visit them while I am home.”

  They all nodded. Then they looked at each other, stood up straight, and put their right fists over their hearts. “Qapla’!”

  Smiling, G’joth returned the gesture and the exclamation.

  He continued on his way to the small four-story building that housed twelve small flats. The façade was tarnished and pockmarked and filthy, the front door broken and left open. As he climbed the warped, creaky wooden stairs to his parents’ flat on the third floor, he thought about Wol, and how she had to go from the estates of House Varnak to living in the two meters of a Defense Force soldier. It was probably very difficult for her.

  For G’joth, however, his two meters were only a little bit smaller than what he was used to.

  He approached the doorway to his parents’ flat. The door had a tarnished handle on it, and G’joth shook his head with annoyance that the owners still hadn’t put in an automatic door.

  They had, however, put in intercoms. He touched the control, which made a buzzing noise. Then he said, “It is G’joth.”

  Moments later, the handle moved downward, then up again, then down again. After another second, the door flew inward to reveal the short, stout form of G’joth’s mother, Tektra.

  “G’joth! You’re home!” She wrapped her stubby arms around G’joth’s armor in a happy embrace. “It’s so good to see you alive and well!” Breaking the embrace, she stepped back to look at him. “We’ve heard so much about your ship—it’s all anyone’s talking about. First fighting on behalf of the Order of the Bat’leth, then the war with the Elabrej. I’m glad you came home alive, so we can find out the truth.” She looked around. “Where’s your friend Davok? Oh, no, I forgot, he always goes back to that House his father worked for for two days, then comes here when he can’t stand it anymore. A pity, he’ll miss the yobta’ yupma’ feast.”

  “Mother, Davok is dead. He died at San-Tarah.”

  “Oh.” Mother’s face fell. “That’s too bad. I always liked him. He was an irritating little petaQ, but he always made me laugh.”

  “Me as well,” G’joth said sadly. He knew Mother would understand. Warriors just went on about how Davok died well, and that was all fine, and G’
joth was sure that Davok was in Sto-Vo-Kor complaining about everything there, but G’joth still missed him.

  “So come in, come in. Your father and sister are both working. I have the night off from the restaurant, since I knew you were coming home. I have to be there tomorrow, though; yobta’ yupma’ is always a busy time. We’ll just eat early.”

  G’joth followed his mother into the kitchen, which also served as dining area and sitting room. He remembered Davok complaining the first time he came with G’joth to this place, whining about how this room served functions that would be served by six rooms at the House Kazag estate. It and the two bedrooms made up the entirety of the flat. G’joth would share with Lakras, a state of affairs that G’joth knew would make Lakras whine like the little girl he still thought of her as.

  Speaking of whom, G’joth asked as he sat at the table, “How is Lakras’s opera career going?”

  Mother walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of cheap warnog. It was what Mother always took out when she had guests, though G’joth had never understood how he qualified as such. “She is eager to see you again. And she wishes to bring you to the theater tomorrow.”

  G’joth frowned. “Why?”

  Mother just smiled as she poured the warnog into two mugs. “I’ll let her tell you.”

  At that, G’joth sighed. He wasn’t sure what frightened him more, Lakras plotting something, or Mother being in on it. “I will not be able to go until low sun. I made a promise to three young boys.”

  “Oh?” Mother sat down next to him and handed over one of the warnog mugs.

  “Klaad and Krom’s boys were playing with another boy.”

  “Yorikk. Those three are always getting into trouble.” Mother shook her head. “It’s a wonder they haven’t been bound by law yet.”

  “Mother, they weren’t doing anything I didn’t do at their age.”

  “Nonsense. You were a good boy. These children today, they’re a disgrace. They could learn a lot from you and their parents, if they just paid attention.”

  G’joth didn’t bother to argue, as he’d never won an argument with Mother in his life, and he doubted he would start now.