Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (35 page)

Sighing, Alexander leaned back from his computer terminal. “You’re going on a mission, aren’t you?”

His father looked at him. “Yes,” he admitted. “And there is a chance I will be gone for some time.”

The boy nodded. “Can I ask where you’re going? Or has the captain asked you not to say anything?”

Worf scowled. “In fact, he has. But I can tell you this much—it involves the Empire.”

“You’re going to the homeworld?”

His father shrugged. “Possibly.”

“In secret?” Alexander pressed.

“In secret,” his father confirmed.

“How will you get there?”

“More than likely, we will be transported by the Pescalians.”

Now it was the boy’s turn to frown. “The Pescalians? But I thought you said their ships were held together with spit.”

Worf harrumphed. “Perhaps I was exaggerating. In any case, we will rendezvous with one of their vessels in an hour.”

Alexander felt a lump in his throat—the one he got whenever his father left on some dangerous assignment. And by the sound of it, this one was pretty dangerous.

“Who’s
we?
” he asked.

“The captain and I,” Worf replied.

Well, that was a bright spot. Alexander trusted the captain. He was a smart man. And Starfleet wasn’t eager to lose him if they could help it.

“Okay,” the boy said, not wanting his father to see his fear. “Have a good trip.”

Not that Worf would have scolded him for being afraid. They had come to an understanding about Alexander’s human side, the quarter of his heritage he had received from his mother’s mother. But it was considered bad luck for a Klingon to leave in the midst of sorrow.

“I will try,” his father agreed. “In the meantime, keep up your schoolwork. And your
bat’leth
practice.”

Alexander nodded. “I will.”

“And if you need anything, you can turn to Counselor Troi. She will be glad to help in any way she can.”

The boy knew that without Worf’s having to say it. He liked Counselor Troi. And so did his father, though he sometimes didn’t seem eager to admit it—even to himself.

“Don’t worry,” said Alexander. He smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

Worf looked at him. His eyes gleamed with a touch of pride. “Good. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Sure,” the boy told him, faking an assurance he didn’t quite feel. “When you get back.”

A moment later, his father was gone.

Hungry as he was, Kahless had a hard time keeping his mind on the food that writhed and steamed and bled on Lord Vathraq’s table. Of course, his men had no such problem.

They heaped their plates high with heart of
targ
and serpent worms, with warm, soft
tor’rif
bread and dark, sweet
minn’hor
cheese. They slacked their thirst with fragrant bloodwine, poured by Vathraq’s servants. And they gorged themselves as if they didn’t know where their next meal was coming from, which was no more or less than the truth.

Kahless, on the other hand, was too busy watching Vathraq’s daughter to pay much attention to food.

Her name was Kellein, and in all his years he had never seen anything like her. At first glimpse, back at the river, he had appreciated her courage above all—despite her nakedness. Now, as he watched her move from table to table, seeing to it that everyone was amply served, he took time to appreciate her more obvious attributes.

The way her hips swayed beneath her long, belted tunic, for instance. Or the sharpness of her teeth. Or the shape of her eyes, as brown and oval as
en’tach
leaves in the spring.

Kahless would have guessed that she was twenty years old, perhaps twenty-two. Yet she was wearing a
jinaq
amulet on a silver chain, signifying that her parents had only in the last year deemed her old enough to take a mate.

By that sign, the warrior knew her to be only eighteen. It made her defiance in the river seem even more impressive to him.

Instinctively, he tried to catch her eye. To communicate without words his body’s yearning for her. But Kellein didn’t look his way.

Cursing himself, Kahless drained a goblet full of bloodwine.
Why should she?
he asked himself bitterly.
All I am is a stinking outlaw, a man with no standing and no future. She’d be better off with a half-wit for a mate than a man marked for death by Molor.

Abruptly, the warchief heard a clamor at the far end of his table. Turning, he saw Vathraq standing with a goblet in his hand, pounding on the wooden boards for silence.

It took a while, but he got it. Smiling like someone who’d had too much bloodwine—which was true, if the stains in his ample gray beard were any indication—Vathraq raised his goblet in Kahless’s direction.

“For my guest,” he bellowed. “Kahless the Unconquered, Bane of the Emperor Molor. May he feed the tyrant his own entrails!”

There was a roar from Vathraq’s people, most of whom were as drunk as he was. As they echoed the toast, they drummed their fists against their tables, making the rafters ring with their noise.

But Kahless didn’t like the sound of his host’s words. Getting up, he felt himself sway a little—a sign that he’d had more wine than he thought. But he spoke nonetheless.

“I have no intention of going anywhere near Molor, much less feeding him his entrails. In fact, I want to stay as far away from him as I can.”

Vathraq roared with laughter. “Whatever you say,” he replied. “Don’t worry about us, brave Kahless. We’ll keep your secret.” He turned to his some of his people. “Won’t we?”

They howled their approval. Kahless shook his head, intent on dispelling any illusion they had created for themselves.

“No,” he shouted. “I mean it. We’re outlaws, not idiots. No one can get within a mile of Molor, anyway.”

But Vathraq and his people only laughed even louder. Dismissing them with a wave of his hand, Kahless sat down again. Obviously, they would believe what they wanted to, no matter what he said.

But as he poured another goblet full of bloodwine, the warchief saw Morath looking at him from across the room. Of all his men, only Morath seemed clear of eye, free of the wine’s influence. And he had a distinct look of disapproval on his face.

Kahless could guess why, too. If he had learned one thing about Morath, it was that the man had principles—the kind that didn’t allow him to let a falsehood go uncorrected.

The warchief grunted. Some falsehoods weren’t worth worrying about, he mused. Turning away from Morath, he drained his goblet, allowing his troubles to drown themselves one at a time.

Picard materialized on a smooth, black plateau open to a glorious, red-orange sky. The air was cool, with a strange, spicy scent to it. Beyond the precipice before him, a good hundred and fifty meters below, a Klingon colony sprawled across a ruddy brown landscape.

Turning to his left, he saw that Worf had taken shape beside him. That was something of a relief. He hadn’t particularly trusted the transporter unit in the Pescalian cargo ship that had brought them here.

Then again, they hadn’t had much choice in the matter. The captain couldn’t have taken the
Enterprise
into Klingon territory without notice—not unless he wished to start a war with Gowron.

“Worf!” boomed a deep voice from behind them. “Captain Picard!”

The captain turned—and saw Kahless emerge from behind a rock formation. The clone grinned. As he closed with them, a curious-looking amulet swung from a thong around his neck.

“It is good to see you again,” he said. “Both of you. In fact, you don’t know
how
good.”

“It is good to see you as well, Emperor,” Worf responded.

Kahless clasped his fellow Klingon by the forearm, then repeated the gesture with Picard. The captain winced. The clone was as strong as ever.

“You look well, Emperor,” Picard said.

Kahless shrugged. “I am well,” he replied, “despite what you may have heard.” He looked past the human at the installation below them. “Strange. I have never been to this world before, but it feels familiar here.”

He paused to consider the place for a moment. Then, slowly, a smile broke out on his face.

“T’chariv,” the clone whispered.

“In the north?” asked Worf.

Kahless nodded. “Of course, the sky was this color only at sunset. But the shape of the settlement, the way it nestles in the hills…” He grunted. “It’s T’chariv, all right. The place where the original Kahless called the outlying provinces to his banner.”

Picard didn’t say anything. Neither did Worf.

The clone looked at them. “Yes,” he added, responding to their unspoken question. “I am
sure
the original Kahless visited T’chariv. Any person or thing that says otherwise is a liar.”

Again, the captain withheld comment. Until the scroll was determined to be authentic or otherwise, he couldn’t offer any encouragement. What’s more, the clone knew it.

“In any case,” Kahless went on, “I didn’t bring you here to reminisce with me. There is treachery afoot. Treachery which will tear apart the Klingon Empire if left to run its course.”

Picard couldn’t help but be interested. “Treachery from what quarter?” he inquired evenly.

The emperor grunted. “I take no pleasure in saying this—but it is my duty as emperor.” He paused for effect. “Apparently, the Klingon Defense Force is undertaking a military coup designed to unseat Gowron and the rest of the council.”

“How do you know this?” asked Worf.

“I know,” said Kahless, “because I saw two of the conspirators whispering in a dining hall in Tolar’tu, during the Festival of Muar’tek—and nearly every day since. Fortunately, I can still read lips as well as ever.”

Picard looked at him skeptically. “But the leaders of the Defense Force were handpicked by Council leader Gowron. They have sworn to defend him with their very lives.”

Kahless’s eyes blazed. “That,” he told the human, his voice thick with revulsion, “is why they call it
treachery.
” He turned his head and spat. “Believe me when I say there’s a scheme against Gowron. And certainly, that would be bad enough. But the conspirators also mentioned Olahg’s scroll—said it had enabled them to get their rebellion under way.”

“How so?” asked Worf.

The clone made a gesture of dismissal. “The rebels are embracing it as evidence that I am not worth their respect. That Kahless the Unforgettable is not what he seems—and never was.”

Worf scowled. “And in many instances, you were all that kept the people from rising up against Gowron.”

“Exactly,” said the clone. “Without me to bolster him, Gowron is all too vulnerable. Mind you, he’s not my idea of a great leader, but he’s a damned sight better than the alternative.”

Picard agreed. Gowron, at least, was still an ally of the Federation. The next council leader might not be so inclined.

His eyes losing their focus, Kahless pounded his fist into his other hand. “I wanted to confront the conspirators right then and there. I wanted to stand on their conniving necks and watch their blood run out on the floor.” He sighed. “Then I realized I wouldn’t be tearing down the rebellion—only lopping off one of its limbs.”

“And that’s when you came to us?” the captain asked.

The clone shook his head. “First I went to Gowron, for all the good it did. He didn’t believe I’d uncovered a threat. He thought I was seeing these things because I wanted to—because I needed to feel important.”

Picard didn’t want to say so, but he had some doubts himself.
And so would Worf,
the captain thought, if he knew the Klingon’s mind.

This business with the scroll was clearly making Kahless wary. More than likely, he was imagining things. Lots of people whisper in dining halls, but that doesn’t mean they plan to overthrow the government.

“You don’t believe me,” the clone said suddenly, noticing some nuance in Picard’s expression. He looked at Worf, then back to the captain again. “Neither of you. You’re as incredulous as Gowron was.”

“Forgive me,” Picard replied, “but there’s no proof—”

“I know what I’m talking about!” Kahless thundered. “You want proof? Come with me to the homeworld and I’ll
give
you proof!”

The captain didn’t think that would be a good idea. He said so. “It was a risk just coming to this colony world. Returning with you to Qo’noS would place Federation-Klingon relations in considerable jeopardy.”

The clone’s nostrils flared. “They are in considerable jeopardy already, Picard, though you refuse to see it. Knowing me as you do, how can you place so little trust in me? How can you ignore the possibility that I’m right—and that the Empire stands on the brink of revolution?”

Picard had to admit the Klingon had a point. With little or nothing in the way of facts at this juncture, he would be taking a risk either way. And if there was a conspiracy after all—and he ignored it—he would have to live with that oversight the rest of his days.

He turned to Worf. “What do
you
think, Lieutenant?”

The security officer didn’t like to be put on the spot like this. The captain knew that from experience. On the other hand, Worf had the firmest grasp of the situation. If anyone could divine the truth about this “conspiracy,” it would be the son of Mogh.

For a long moment, Worf looked Kahless square in the eyes. Then he turned to Picard. “I think we ought to go to the homeworld,” he said at last.

The captain was still leery of the prospect. However, he had placed his trust in his security officer.

“All right,” he concluded. “We’ll go.”

Kahless smiled. “You won’t regret it,” he said.

Tapping his wristband, he activated his link to whatever vehicle awaited him. It was the same kind of wristband Picard himself had used to maintain control of
Enterprise
shuttles.

At the same time, the captain tapped his communicator and notified the Pescalians they wouldn’t be going back with them. At least, not yet.

“Three to beam up,” the clone bellowed.

A moment later, Picard and the others found themselves on the bridge of a modest cruiser. As with all Klingon vessels, the place was small, stark, and lacking in amenities. Quarters were cramped and lights were dim. The bridge had three seats; Kahless took the one in the rear, leaving his companions the forward positions if they wanted them.

“Break orbit,” the clone commanded, speaking directly to the ship’s computer. “Set course for Qo’noS, heading three four six point one. Ahead warp factor six. Engage.”

The captain felt the drag of inertia as the ship banked and leaped forward into warp. Even for a small and relatively unsophisticated vessel, its damper system left something to be desired.

Then again, Kahless probably preferred it that way. The rougher, the better, Picard mused.

“The journey will take a couple of days,” the clone informed them. “When you tire, you’ll find bunks in the aft cabin.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder for emphasis. “Back there.”

Picard nodded. “Thank you.”

He recalled the last time he was on a Klingon vessel. He had been on a mission to investigate Ambassador Spock’s activities on Romulus. From what he remembered, his cabin had been sparsely furnished and eminently uncomfortable. He resigned himself to the likelihood that on a cruiser this size, the accommodations would be even worse.

Worf looked around. “Nice ship,” he observed.

Kahless grunted. “Gowron gave it to me, though I don’t think he expected I’d use it much. And truthfully, I haven’t.”

Again, Picard found his eyes drawn to the amulet on the clone’s chest. He was starting to think he’d seen such a thing before in his studies of Klingon culture, though he wasn’t sure where.

“You like my amulet?” asked Kahless.

The captain was embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“You need not apologize,” said the clone. “It is called a
jinaq.
”

Picard nodded. He remembered now. Klingon men used to wear them when they were betrothed to someone. Did that mean Kahless intended to marry?

“I have no lover,” the clone informed him, as if he’d read the captain’s mind. “Not anymore, at least—not for fifteen hundred years or more. But I wear it still, out of respect for her.”

“I see,” said Picard.

He made a mental note to ask Worf about the applicable myth later on. It sounded interesting—and if it would shed more light on Kahless for him, it was well worth the time.