by Dayton Ward
“Enough games, human,” he hissed. “You fought well, but it is time to end this.”
That was when Elliot, and Khulr, heard the telltale whine of an activated stun baton.
The Klingon’s body suddenly went rigid and he thrashed in pain, the electrical discharge of the baton almost deafening in the cramped confines of the tunnel. Khulr cried out as he twisted away from Elliot.
Standing over the Klingon, baton in hand, was the dirty, disheveled form of Garrovick. Blood ran down the left side of his smooth head from a large gash, no doubt inflicted by falling debris during the earthquake.
“Thought you could use a hand,” he said, smiling at her before returning his attention to Khulr. The force of the stun baton had immobilized the guard, indicative of the power setting Garrovick had used.
Khulr looked up at the human prisoner with an expression of undiluted hatred. “Your death is assured now, human,” he spat through teeth clenched in pain.
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Garrovick replied, waving the baton in front of the guard’s face. “That stun will take a while to wear off, at least as long as it will take to report to Korax what you were doing here just now.” He indicated Elliot, who’s face had already begun to swell from the Klingon’s last strike.
Khulr nearly shook with his rage. “You expect Korax to believe the word of a prisoner over that of a fellow Klingon?”
Garrovick leaned in closer to the Klingon. “Korax is no fool, Khulr. He knows all about your little crush on humans, and Sydney in particular. Think about that while you’re lying here. Otherwise, I’ll just have to see how much damage this thing can do.” He tapped the Klingon’s shoulder with the now-inert baton for emphasis.
Leaving the guard, Garrovick and Elliot backed out of the tunnel and into the main cavern. All around the chamber, cleanup efforts were already under way. Prisoners were giving their comrades medical assistance, and in some tragic cases mourning the loss of a friend who’d fallen victim to the earthquake.
As they made their way back to where Sinak still lay, now being tended to by Ra Mhvlovi, Garrovick studied Elliot’s face. It was swelling and would probably leave a nice bruise. “Are you okay?”
Elliot nodded. She still tasted blood, and her probing tongue had found two loose teeth. “I’ll be all right.” She placed a hand on Garrovick’s arm. “Thanks, Stephen. Really.”
Garrovick patted her hand. “No problem. You’d have had him if you hadn’t fallen.” He smiled as he added, “Didn’t look like you’d lost a step to me.”
“One thing’s for sure,” she said as she rubbed a sore spot on her back, exhaling tiredly. “I won’t have any trouble sleeping tonight.”
Chapter Fifteen
THICKS MOKE HUNG in the air of the tavern, making it appear even more dimly lit than it already was. Kirk could barely make out the walls of the room, which were cluttered with all manner of exotic weapons and assorted hunting trophies, each item doubtless possessing a story about life on this backwater world. On the tavern’s back wall hung an intricate and well-used octagonal-shaped target board at which two Klingons were taking turns throwing their large knives. From what Kirk had been able to surmise, the object of whatever game they were playing was to strike small black octagons scattered among a larger red field. He also noticed that neither Klingon appeared to be doing very well, no doubt due to the copious quantities of bloodwine they had consumed. Kirk brought a hand up to scratch his chin where it had begun to itch again under the coarse facial hair he sported. The beard was just one part of a Klingon disguise he and Sulu had donned prior to boarding the Gal’tagh for the journey through Klingon space. At Koloth’s insistence, Dr. McCoy and the Enterprise ’s quartermaster had forgone trying to re-create the prominent Klingon cranial ridges. Instead, the two men studied twenty-year-old log excerpts stored in the ship’s library computer and had succeeded in fashioning effective disguises for Kirk and Sulu that could be applied and removed without benefit of special tools or accessories. Their human skin was now buried beneath dark makeup that wouldn’t wipe or wash off from casual contact or rain or even perspiration. Long flowing hair tied at the base of the neck concealed their human hair, while the beards along with mustaches and thick eyebrows completed the transformation of their human features.
Noticing Kirk stroking his beard, Koloth said, “I still think it’s a distinct improvement, all things considered.” He grinned as he brought a massive tankard of bloodwine to his lips and drank deeply.
“Your crew didn’t seem to share your view, Captain,” Kirk countered, recalling the menacing looks and even the handful of growls he and Sulu had encountered upon arriving aboard the Gal’tagh. All of the Klingons aboard the vessel resembled their captain: tall, wild hair, jagged teeth and, of course, the forehead ridges. The raw animosity the two Starfleet officers had faced told Kirk there was more to the radical appearance disparity in Klingons than he had first imagined. It was a conundrum that deepened as the next two days passed, with members of the Gal’tagh crew continuing to eye Kirk and Sulu warily at every opportunity. Koloth had not revealed the Starfleet officers’ true identities, but instead issued orders that they be treated with the same respect reserved for any other superior officer.
“However,” Sulu added, glancing around the bar for emphasis, his Asian features giving him an even more severe expression than Kirk’s, “I think we could find a few supporters here.”
Soon after beaming down to the Jlinzegh’ province of the colony world known as Don’zali IV, Kirk and Sulu had taken note of one important fact: they resembled almost all of the Klingons they encountered. Koloth, along with the handful of Klingons they had seen with pronounced forehead ridges, were in the definite minority. Now it was he who drew the curious and sometimes intimidating looks from other Klingons they passed on the street. Both Enterprise officers knew that Koloth was aware of the apparent turning of the tables, but he had said nothing on the subject, focusing instead on their mission.
He did so again here, ignoring Sulu’s remark and turning in his seat to survey the tavern and its clientele once more.
“According to his servant,” he said, “K’zeq should be returning from his hunt soon after sunset. The sooner he arrives, the better. I grow weary of this den of sloth.”
Kirk had to agree with the Klingon captain. What had been intended as a brief detour was becoming an extended layover. A colony world, Don’zali IV made its major contribution to the Klingon Empire in the way of agriculture. Farming communities could be found all over the planet, which had been discovered decades ago to possess lush and fertile lands. The world had proven ideal for cultivating foodstuffs that could be exported to the many worlds within the Empire that did not share such good fortune.
Such operations required spaceport facilities, both on the planet’s surface and in orbit. Don’zali IV boasted no small shortage of these, with small towns and in some cases large cities spiraling out from the major farming centers across the planet.
That Don’zali IV played a significant, if rather mundane, function in the vast scheme of the Klingon Empire did not interest Kirk. What did matter to him was that it held the key to finding survivors of the Gagarin.
“Koloth,” Kirk said, leaning across the table and speaking in a low voice, “I know you said this K’zeq could help us, but what exactly is his connection with all of this?” Indeed, the Klingon captain had proven tight-lipped during their voyage from Starbase 49.
Turning back to face Kirk and Sulu, Koloth leaned forward, still clasping one massive hand around his tankard of bloodwine.
“You’re correct, and I apologize for not sharing this information with you aboard ship. I received the latest message from Gorkon while we were in transit, and I didn’t want to take the chance of anyone else learning its contents.” His eyes narrowed and he smiled slightly. “One never knows where spies may lurk, my dear Captain.”
Kirk instinctively looked up and scanned the bar, but saw that other than the oc
casional stares from other customers, no one in the tavern appeared to be interested in them. The mood in the room was festive, even raucous at times, with the various patrons absorbed with their own activities. If they were being observed, he decided, it could only be from a distance.
“I think we’re safe here, at least for a little while,” he said.
Nodding, Koloth continued. “The problem we face is rather simple, gentlemen. Gorkon believes your officers are being held deep within Klingon space, but the actual location of the prison itself is not known. He has been unable to find any record of the facility, as though it does not exist. But that is impossible, because of other information he has uncovered.”
Sulu said, “K’zeq is our point of contact, then, because he either worked at the prison or knows someone who did.”
They paused in their conversation as a server stopped at their table, a large Klingon woman with long hair falling across her broad shoulders. As she refilled the three men’s tankards with bloodwine, she smiled at Kirk with a mouthful of jagged, uneven teeth. She lingered at the table longer than should have been necessary to complete her task, frankly appraising Kirk until the Enterprise captain finally returned her smile with a meek one of his own.
As she walked away to tend to customers at a nearby table, she continued to cast furtive glances in Kirk’s direction. Koloth watched the episode with unrestrained amusement, making no attempt to stifle his laughter.
“Take caution, Kirk,” he said. “Even your supposed prowess with females would be sorely tested in the arms of a Klingon woman.”
Though he thought he detected a smirk on Sulu’s face, the helmsman’s expression was composed when Kirk looked over at him. Sighing in resignation, he returned his attention to Koloth. “What about K’zeq?”
“He was once the commander of the prison I believe we are looking for,” the Klingon replied. “Gorkon found archived communiqués from K’zeq to another member of the Council, Komor, reporting regularly on a small group of prisoners in his charge. Though the location of the prison was not revealed in the messages and no names of prisoners are mentioned, there were sporadic references to the dietary or medical needs of humans, Vulcans, and Efrosians. There was also one particular entry where the commander references an ‘Andorian captain.’ This Andorian, a female, was executed as an example to her subordinates.”
Sulu turned to look at Kirk. “The Gagarin ’s captain was a female Andorian.”
Anger clouded Kirk’s vision at the thought of Captain Gralev, an accomplished starship commander, dying a hideous death far away from home where no one would ever know what had happened to her. Had she been a wife or a mother? Surely she had loved ones who had agonized over her fate when they had learned of the Gagarin ’s disappearance.
Another thought troubled him. Though he had undertaken this mission to determine the ultimate fate of the Gagarin, the very real fact here was that there could be any number of Federation and Starfleet personnel being held in captivity by the Empire. It would make sense for them to be scattered across Klingon space at any number of remote prisons and other places that benefited from slave labor. How many were there? What sort of godforsaken existence greeted them each day? The very thought added fuel to Kirk’s rage, and he struggled until the anger was once again under control.
“So now K’zeq lives here, on a farming colony?” he asked, his jaw tight as he spoke. It seemed incongruous to him that a soldier of the Empire could find contentment in a place as devoid of excitement as this planet appeared to be.
Koloth nodded. “Gorkon was able to determine that he had relocated here after retiring from the military.” The words came out of the Klingon’s mouth wrapped in an air of mild disgust, the very notion of retiring from military service appearing to offend him. “Rather than risk exposure of his activities by trying to contact K’zeq over subspace, Gorkon has ordered me to contact him personally.”
Finding out where K’zeq lived had been a simple affair. According to local law enforcement, he lived in a small domicile within a group of large multi-residence buildings on the edge of town. However, the Klingon had not been at home when they had called, and an aged and crotchety woman who acted as his servant informed them that K’zeq was on a hunting excursion and would return the following day. Before ordering them to leave the vicinity and slamming the door in their faces, she also said that K’zeq’s usual habit called for him to stop at his favorite tavern before returning home from a hunt.
Upon arriving at the tavern, the bartender had reacted first with recognition and then near disgust when shown K’zeq’s likeness, which Koloth had reproduced from the Klingon’s service record. The image was of a fierce-looking soldier, with cold, cruel eyes glaring out from beneath a heavy brow and a sinister expression made more so by the long thin mustache drooping along either side of his mouth. Except for the darker skin tone, K’zeq reminded Kirk in many ways of Koloth as he had first encountered him all those years ago at the K-7 space station.
“I know who he is,” the barkeep said, making no attempt to hide the loathing in his voice. “He should return this evening. He usually drinks a tankard of bloodwine before returning home.” Then the bartender had turned his back on them and returned to whatever it was he had been doing, nearly inciting Koloth to violence at such a casual dismissal. Kirk and Sulu were able to restrain the Klingon captain and push him to a table in a far corner of the tavern where they could keep an eye on the door. For the next few hours, though the three of them were able to get grudging service from the bar, Koloth continued to earn hard stares from the bartender as well as many of the other patrons.
“I hope he shows up soon,” Sulu said to Kirk as he sipped his drink. “The longer we sit here, the more some of these people seem to dislike Koloth.”
Kirk nodded in agreement. He had almost suggested waiting outside for K’zeq to appear, but had thought better of it. At least in here, energy weapons were checked at the door, and with his back to the rear wall Kirk didn’t have to worry about trouble coming from behind him. He knew that Koloth was also aware of the tension in the room, though the Klingon gave no indication of it. Instead, he continued to sip his drink as though he had not a care in the world.
“Uh-oh,” Sulu whispered, nudging Kirk’s elbow.
Even as he started to look up from his own drink, the Enterprise captain knew what he would see. For over half an hour, the two Klingons playing the strange game with the knives and the target board had been giving Koloth, as well as Kirk and Sulu, looks of unconcealed disdain. As their bloodwine consumption and boisterous behavior increased, Kirk knew that some sort of confrontation was inevitable.
He decided against patting himself on the back for his deduction as he watched the two Klingons begin to move in their direction. Besides, what he had failed to consider was that two of their friends would join them as they crossed the floor of the bar, weaving their way around tables and chairs and heading for them, the expressions on their faces making their intentions clear.
Chapter Sixteen
“KOLOTH,” Kirk hissed. In response, the Klingon captain took a long pull of his drink before setting the tankard on the table and wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.
“I was wondering what was taking so long,” he said at last. “I was beginning to get bored and I can think of no better way to pass the time.” With that, he rose from his chair and turned to face the approaching Klingons.
Kirk and Sulu exchanged matching looks of alarm.
“I just knew he was going to say something like that,” Sulu said as he followed Kirk’s lead, standing up and moving around the table to join Koloth. The four Klingons, walking with a confidence Kirk was sure had been augmented by bloodwine, closed the distance until the groups stood barely two meters apart.
“You,” the supposed leader of the group said as he pointed at Koloth. “You are not welcome here. Leave now, or face me.”
Koloth regarded his opponent with a bemused expre
ssion. “The barkeep seems to welcome my patronage, so far as my money is concerned. He hasn’t asked me to leave, so I believe I shall stay a while longer. Accept that, or face me.”
Kirk knew that diplomacy in this instance was not an option. Koloth had explained earlier that trying to talk oneself out of a situation like this would be considered offensive to the other party and no doubt result in an invitation to personal combat. Showing weakness or indecision was likewise out of the question, as Kirk himself had learned from his many encounters with Klingons and other races with similar values and traditions. The lone choice here was to maintain a strong, aggressive front and follow the path it trod from there.
It’s days like these that make me wish I’d gone to raise horses with my uncle.
The face of the quartet’s leader broke into a sinister grin. “A challenge? Excellent. I like that.” He turned his gaze to Kirk. “And you befriend this outsider? Do you share his . . . beliefs?” There was no mistaking the disgust enveloping the final word.
He wobbled slightly, and Kirk might have thought that an advantage had he been a reckless cadet. Instead, his eyes moved from one Klingon to the next, assessing each one’s threat potential. He didn’t have to look at Sulu to know the helmsman was doing the same thing.
The Klingon’s words puzzled Kirk. What “beliefs” was he talking about? It was yet another question he was sure Koloth would evade answering when Kirk asked him later.
If we get out of this, he reminded himself.
“Their association to me is not your concern,” Koloth said. “But I suggest you choose your next actions carefully, for they will stand beside me in battle.”
Koloth was a blur of motion as he closed the gap between himself and the Klingon facing off against him. His left arm exploded outward, catching his opponent in the face with the heel of his hand. The strike forced the drunken Klingon backward and into one of his companions.