Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (45 page)

Unlike his captain, Riker had never been to the Klingon Homeworld. But he was familiar enough with Worf’s holodeck programs to know which cavern he was standing in.

It was called DIS jajlo’, literally “dawn cave.” He didn’t know how it had gotten that name, since the shaft of light that came from above was only visible in midday.

At least, that was true of the real DIS jajlo’, back on Q’onoS. In this program, for all he knew, the shaft of light never moved.

Right now, nothing else was moving either. With a single command, he had frozen Alexander’s Klingon adversary in place. And the boy himself was so focused on the first officer, he might as well have been frozen too.

Well,
thought Riker, I
seemed to have piqued his interest. Now it’s time to follow through.

“Anbo-jytsu,” he said, “is a martial art form back on Earth—a one-on-one confrontation, much like the one you’re involved in now.” He raised his chin to indicate the Klingon warrior. “Of course, there are some differences. In anbo-jytsu, you wear a padded suit and your weapon is a stick three meters long. On one end of the stick, there’s a proximity detector. You need that because you’re wearing a blindfold the whole time you’re at it.”

Alexander looked at him. “A blindfold?” he echoed.

“Right—you can’t see. That makes it pretty important to have a good sense of balance. And to be able to anticipate your enemy’s moves. Here, let me show you what I mean.”

Again, the first officer looked to the stalactite-riddled ceiling of the cavern. “Computer, I need a blindfold.”

A band of white cloth materialized in Riker’s hand. Grasping it, he approached the Klingon warrior. Then the first officer tied the blindfold around his head, covering his eyes, and raised his
bat’leth
in front of him.

“Computer,” he called, “resume program.”

Riker heard the rustling that meant the warrior had come back to life. Taking a step back, he felt for a stalagmite with his heel—and found one. That told him how far backward he could go.

A moment later, he heard the derisive grunt that signified the Klingon’s recognition of what he was facing. Clearly, he didn’t expect a man who couldn’t see to put up much of a fight. Under normal circumstances, he’d probably have been right.

But the first officer had been honing his skills at anbo-jytsu since he was eight years old. He no longer needed a proximity detector to sense an attack coming, or to know what to do about it. And even though he had a
bat’leth
instead of a three-meter-long staff in his hand, a two-handed weapon was pretty much a two-handed weapon.

Listening carefully, Riker heard a sharp intake of breath. Bracing himself, he allowed his instincts to take over. Without actually thinking about it, the first officer found himself moving to block a blow from the warrior’s right hand.

Careful to remain balanced, attentive not only to what he heard but also to what he smelled and felt in the movements of the air, Riker parried a second attack from the same quarter. And a third.

Apparently, the Klingon was going to keep trying the same thing, over and over again. Either he had some idea that the human was more vulnerable there or the warrior was himself limited. Say, by a wound he’d sustained before Riker arrived.

There was only one way to find out. Before his opponent could strike again, the first officer shifted the
bat’leth
in his hands and swung hard at the Klingon’s left side. He heard a cry of apprehension, then felt his blade connect with something solid. It made a
chukt
as it sliced through leather body armor and maybe flesh as well.

The warrior cried out, then made a shuffling sound. A moment later, Riker heard him grunt as he hit the ground. Then there was a clatter, as of something metal.

“Freeze program,” he said.

Removing his blindfold, the human surveyed his handiwork. The Klingon was on his back, clutching his left arm. His face was a mask of pain, his
bat’leth
lying at the base of a stalagmite.

Riker turned to Alexander, who was looking at him with a new respect. The first officer smiled. “I guess you get the picture.”

The boy nodded. “But how did you—?”

“Practice,” Riker told him. “Want to give it a shot? I’ll be your sparring partner.”

“Okay,” said Alexander.

Coming around behind him, the first officer placed the blindfold across the boy’s eyes and tied it. Then he stepped in front of him with his
bat’leth.

“Here we go. Keep your feet wide apart for balance. With all these stalagmites around, it’s easy to trip. Now, listen as hard as you can, and tell me what I’m doing.”

Taking care not to make too much noise, Riker moved to his right. At first, the boy seemed confused. Then he turned in the right direction.

“That’s good,” said the first officer. “You’ve got sharp ears.”

This time, he moved to the left. Again, Alexander hesitated for a second. Then he seemed to find Riker’s position.

The first officer didn’t say anything right away. He wanted to see if the boy wavered in his conviction. But Alexander continued to stare in the same direction.

“Excellent,” the first officer noted. “Keep trusting your senses and you’ll be fine. Now, the toughest test of all.”

Moving to his right again, he shifted his
bat’leth
from one hand to the other, making enough noise to give the boy a fighting chance. Then he raised the weapon high and brought it down slowly toward Alexander’s shoulder.

The boy reacted in plenty of time, but held his
bat’leth
in position to stop a thrust, not a downward stroke. Only at the last second did he realize his mistake and bring his blade up over his head—just in time to ward off the attack.

Riker was impressed. Alexander was doing things it took him years to learn. But then, the boy was part Klingon. He had a warrior’s instincts imprinted in his genes.

Alexander grinned. “I did it!” he cried.

“You sure did,” said the first officer. “You can take off your blindfold now.”

Still grinning, the boy did as he was told. He got a kick out of seeing Riker just where he expected to see him.

But a moment later, his joy faded. Apparently, he had remembered whatever it was he had on his mind.

“Something wrong?” asked the first officer.

Alexander sighed. “You know there is. Otherwise, Counselor Troi wouldn’t have sent you to talk to me.”

Riker had to smile. “It was that obvious, was it?”

The boy nodded. Placing his back against a stalagmite, he slid down the side of it and came to a stop when he reached the ground.

The first officer sat, too. “So? Do you want to get it out in the open, or do I just mind my own business?”

Alexander pretended to inspect his
bat’leth.
“We can talk,” he said.

“Is it about the scrolls?” Riker asked. “The ones that suggest Kahless isn’t all he’s cracked up to be?”

The boy looked up at him. “You know I was reading them?” Then he must have realized how easy it would have been for the first officer to determine that. “Of course you do. You’re in charge of the ship. You’ve got access to everything.”

“Well?” the first officer prodded. “Is that it? You’re disillusioned by what you read?”

He fully expected Alexander to nod his head. Instead, the boy shook it slowly from side to side.

“Don’t tell my father, but I don’t care how many days Kahless wrestled his brother, or how hard it must have been to plow his father’s fields with his
bat’leth,
or how terrible a tyrant Molor was.” He shrugged. “They’re terrific stories, sure, and I love to listen to them—but they’re just stories.”

Alexander went back to inspecting his weapon. There was a discomfort in his features that Riker hated to see there.

“To me,” the boy went on, “being a Klingon isn’t about being like Kahless. I hardly know Kahless. It’s about being like my father.”

The first officer smiled.
Funny thing about sons,
he thought.
No matter how different they may be from their fathers, they always want to idolize them.

But he still didn’t understand why Alexander was upset. “I don’t get it,” he said. “If what you read in the scrolls didn’t bother you—”

“It
did.
” Alexander’s brow creased. “But not because
I
was disappointed. It bothered me because I know how my father feels about those stories. I don’t want
him
to be disappointed.”

Riker grunted. Obviously, the boy had zeroed in on the truth.

First, he had seen Worf receive a subspace packet. Then his father had taken off on a secret mission in the Empire. Coincidence, maybe. But coincidences were seldom what they seemed.

Alexander couldn’t have discovered any of the details of the venture, of course—couldn’t have guessed that the captain and Worf were investigating a conspiracy to overthrow Gowron and throw the quadrant into disarray.

But he seemed to understand the significance of the scroll. He had sensed that what was at stake was nothing less than the Klingon faith. And he knew how very much that faith meant to his father.

“You’re a very clever young man,” the first officer told his young companion.

The boy looked at him, his brow still heavy with concern. “Thanks.” He got up. “I think I’ve had enough training for today.”

Riker got up too. “Same here.” He looked at the ceiling of the cavern. “Computer, end program.”

A moment later, the cavern and everything in it—the wounded warrior, the blindfolds and the
bat’lethmey
—gave way to the stark reality of the black-and-yellow hologrid. As they headed for the door, it opened for them.

The first officer wanted to tell Alexander that everything would be all right. He wanted to assure him that Worf would come back with his faith intact. But he couldn’t.

This wasn’t a folktale. This was the real world. Here, nothing was certain. One had to take one’s chances and hope for the best.

As they exited from the holodeck into the corridor outside, Riker put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Alexander looked up and managed a smile, as if he shared the first officer’s thoughts.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be okay. Really.”

Riker stopped. As he watched, wishing he could have done more, the boy headed for his quarters.

Kahless whirled on his
s’tarahk
and cut at his adversary with his sword. With a speed born of self-preservation, the soldier parried the blow with a resounding clang, then launched an attack of his own.

But Kahless’s first cut had only laid the groundwork for his second. Ducking to avoid his enemy’s response, he struck hard at the man’s flank.

The soldier couldn’t react in time. Kahless’s sword bit deep between two ribs, eliciting a scream. Then, while the man was at a disadvantage, the rebel sat up again and delivered the deathstroke.

As the soldier fell from his mount, his throat laid open, Kahless turned and surveyed the barren hillside he had chosen. No one else was coming for him. Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, he surveyed the changing terrain of the battle.

It was his first full-scale clash with Molor’s forces—a clash designed to test the mettle and dedication of his ragtag army. So far, it seemed to him, the battle was more or less even. To their credit, the rebels were holding their own.

Still, they could be overrun if some pivotal event went against them. The same with the tyrant’s army. That was the way of such conflicts—Kahless knew that from his service to Molor during the border wars.

He was determined that if the battle turned, it would do so in the rebels’ favor. That meant he could not simply wait and hope—he had to make something happen on his own. And he knew just what that something might be.

Cut off a serpent’s head.
Had that not been the tyrant’s own advice to him in the border wars?

Seeking out the warlord in charge of Molor’s forces, he found the man directing a charge against the rebels’ flank. Kahless smiled to himself. He couldn’t see who the warlord was for the hair that obscured his face, but it didn’t matter. He would bring the man down or die in the attempt.

Spurring his
s’tarahk
with his heels, he sliced his way through the ranks of the enemy. When he was close enough, he bellowed a challenge—one that could be heard even over the din of battle. As he’d hoped, the warlord turned to him.

And Kahless realized then whom he’d challenged. The man’s name was Yatron. And like Starad, he was Molor’s son.

The rebel clenched his teeth. He had already earned the tyrant’s hatred many times over, hadn’t he? What difference did it make if he gave Molor one more reason to despise him?

“Kahless!” bellowed Yatron, consumed with rage.

He seemed to recognize his brother’s killer. And judging by the expression on his face, Yatron had no intention of adding to his father’s miseries. Digging his heels into the flanks of his
s’tarahk,
he charged at Kahless, his sword whirling dangerously above his head.

Raising his own blade, Kahless charged too. They met in an empty space, each trying to skewer the other with the force of his attack. But somehow both of them escaped untouched, their only injuries the numbness in their sword arms.

Yatron whirled and hacked at the rebel’s head, but Kahless was ready for him. Turning the weapon away, he stabbed at the warlord’s chest. Fortunately for Yatron, he was quick enough to catch the stroke and deflect it.

For a long time, they exchanged brutal blows, neither of them giving an inch. Kahless was gouged and cut and battered, but none of his wounds were enough to slow him down.

It was the same for Molor’s son. As many times as the rebel tried to slice him or run him through, Yatron always eluded the worst of it—and came back for more.

Kahless’s sword became too heavy to swing. His throat grew raw with the dust he raised. And still he fought on.

Finally, he saw an opening—a hole in the web of steel Yatron wove about himself—and took advantage of it. Reaching back for whatever strength he had left, the rebel brought his blade around in a great and terrible arc.

When he was done, Yatron lay in the dirt, clutching at his entrails. Exhausted as he was, Kahless didn’t let him lie there that way for long. As he’d shown mercy to one of Molor’s sons, he now showed mercy to the other.

Done,
he thought.
The serpent’s head is off.

The rebel paused for a moment, chest pounding, sweat streaming down both sides of his neck. It was a moment too long.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something bearing down on him. Too late, he turned and brought his sword up. He had time to glimpse a flash of teeth and a pair of murderous eyes before he felt a sword bury itself in his side.

With a sucking sound, it came out again. Kahless bit back a cry of agony and clutched at the neck of his
s’tarahk,
trying desperately to steady himself. He could feel his strength ebbing, feel his side growing cold and wet with blood.

His attacker spun about and came back at him to finish the job. Somehow, despite his agony, Kahless found the strength to lash out backhanded.

He was lucky. The edge of his blade caught his enemy in the forehead, sending him twisting down to the ground.

The outlaw had no time to congratulate himself. He was losing his grip—not only on the reins, but on his senses. The battle churned and tossed about him like an angry sea, disorienting him until he didn’t know up from down.

Kahless was weak from loss of blood, and it was getting worse. If he was to achieve victory today, he would have to hurry. Hanging on as best he could, he raised his sword with a trembling arm.

“Their warlord is dead!” he thundered, though the ground seemed to reach up at him. “Without him, they are no better than we are!”

His words seemed to have the desired effect. With cry upon cry, his warriors surged against Molor’s forces like a ponderous surf, a force that would not be denied.

The outlaws shoved the tyrant’s men back. And again, and further still. And moments later, Molor’s army broke like a dam trying to hold back a flood.

Kahless yelled at his men, urging them on. But he himself didn’t have the strength to dig his heels in and follow. His hands and feet had become cold as ice, his vision had grown black around the edges.

Finally, mercifully, the ground rushed up at him. He had no choice but to give in to the darkness.