Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (52 page)

But then,
thought Picard,
that is and always has been the nature of the Klingon dichotomy. Canny intelligence mingled with the most relentlessly violent impulses. A dream of greatness floundering in a sea of blood.

Unable to contain his exuberance, the clone bellowed in triumph. He sounded like a storm, like a force of nature. The walls echoed with it and the rafters seemed to quiver.

This was joy pure and unbridled, an emotion as honest as it was repugnant to the human sensibility. It was Kahless’s answer to those who questioned his authenticity, his challenge to those who would stand against him.

Here I am,
he seemed to say.
Neither legend nor fraud, but a Klingon in all my earthly glory. Strive to be like me if you dare.

Ultimately, that was his appeal—and his greatness. Kahless was the Klingon Everyman, a mirror in which every last son of Qo’noS might find the noblest parts of himself.

The captain was so taken with the passion of the clone’s display, he almost didn’t see Tichar sit up, mortal wound and all. And even when he saw it, all he could do was cry out.

“Kahless!” he roared.

But it was too late. With his last reserve of strength, the conspirator hurled his
bat’leth
at the clone. As it whirled end over end, Kahless saw the look in the human’s eyes and turned.

He had no time to ward the
bat’leth
off—not completely. All he could do was bring his own weapon up and hope for the best.

Unfortunately, the clone’s action didn’t slow the blade down one iota. The
bat’leth
punctured his tunic in the center of his chest. Staggered, he sank to one knee.

His face a mask of pain, Kahless gripped the
bat’leth
with both hands and tugged it free. Then, with a curse, he flung it from him. The blade scraped along the floor.

“My God,” whispered Picard.

Was it possible the Klingon had come all this way just to perish in the end? Could Fate be so cruel?

He saw Kahless find him with his eyes. For a moment, they stared at one another, neither one knowing what to expect. Then the clone’s teeth pulled back in a grin again, and he howled louder than ever.

The captain stared openmouthed. He didn’t understand. He had seen the point of the
bat’leth
bury itself in Kahless’s chest.

But as the Klingon approached him, caught up suddenly in the throes of laughter, he made the answer clear. Reaching into his leather tunic, he pulled out the betrothal amulet he wore—the one modeled after that of the original Kahless.

It was badly dented. In fact, the closer Picard looked, the more it seemed to him the thing had taken the brunt of a
bat’leth
thrust.

“Apparently,” the clone boomed, “there is something to be said for tradition after all!”

Before the armory stopped ringing with his words, reinforcements arrived in the form of Worf, Kurn, and Gowron. And several of Gowron’s guards, whom he had left outside at first, were there to back them up.

Relieved, the captain released Lomakh and got to his feet. At last, he told himself, it was
over.

Emperor Kahless looked out the window. There were endless crowds gathered on either side of the road that led from his citadel—once Molor’s citadel—to the eastern provinces. Though he hadn’t shown himself yet, they were cheering and pumping their swords in the air.

The old warchief sighed. He had intended for only his closest friends and servants to know that he was leaving. Somehow, the word had leaked out.

“It wasn’t me,” said Anag.

Kahless turned to look at his chief councilor. Anag was a lean, dark-skinned man with a big, full beard. He was also Kahless’s handpicked choice of successor.

“
What
wasn’t you?” Kahless asked, confused by the declaration.

“It wasn’t me who told the people of your departure,” the younger man explained.

The emperor grunted. “Oh. That.” He shrugged. “And if it
were
you, Anag? Would I have boiled you in
en’tach
oil for your transgression?” He laughed. “There hasn’t been a secret kept in these halls since I took the tyrant’s life. Why should my leaving be any exception?”

Anag frowned. “You are…certain about this?”

Kahless nodded. “I am certain. Let us not have this conversation again, all right? I am an old man. I need to leave under my own power, and I will not have the chance to do that much longer.”

He went over to his bed, where he had left his traveler’s pack—a cracked leather relic of his days as an outlaw. There were still a few things he wanted to add to it.

Anag shook his head. “I still don’t see the need for it. If you died in your bed, what difference would it make?”

The emperor looked at him. “You are right.”

His councilor seemed surprised. “About your staying, you mean?”

“No,” said Kahless. “About your not understanding.”

Morath would have understood. Hell, he would have come up with the idea in the first place.

After all, it had only been a few decades since Kahless overthrew Molor and united the Klingon people. But in that time, he had seen his deeds magnified into the stuff of legend. If he could make a myth of his passing as well, it would only strengthen his legacy.

And a true legacy it was. With the tyrant overthrown, he had given the Klingons a set of laws by which they could conduct themselves honorably. Naturally, the basis for those laws was the principles Morath had lived by.

Keep your promises to one another. Deal openly and fairly, even with your enemies. Fight a battle to its end, giving no quarter. And when it is necessary to die, die bravely.

His people had embraced these precepts as a man dying of thirst might embrace a skin full of water. What’s more, they had been quick to give Kahless credit for them. But he had insisted that Morath be known as the source of their wisdom—thereby fulfilling the vow he had made to his friend more than thirty years earlier.

Kahless had also set free the provinces that used to pay Molor tribute, inviting them instead to join his confederacy of free states. As he could have predicted, the provinces swore allegiance to him—and instead of tribute, they now paid taxes.

The same situation, of course, but a different appearance. Over the years, Kahless had learned to play his role well.

Morath would no doubt have been proud of all his friend had accomplished—if not of Kahless himself. After all, the emperor took no pride in what he had done for his people. His only motivation had been to please Morath’s ghost—to keep his word to the man.

To remind himself of that promise, he had kept the dagger that killed Morath—still black with Morath’s blood—in a glass case in his throne room. People had tried to confuse its significance, to say it was Kahless’s blood on the thing—but again, he had insisted on the truth.

It was Morath’s blood.
Morath’s.
And it was important to him that they remembered that.

After all, Morath had been a man of honor. And Kahless himself was just a fraud in honor’s clothing—a fake, playing the part of the beloved emperor—even if he was the only one who knew it. Fortunately, he would not have to maintain the pretense much longer.

“What is that?” asked Anag.

Kahless looked at the scroll in his hand—the last thing he meant to pack. He chuckled. “Nothing, really. Just a collection of maps to guide me in my travels.”

It was a lot more than a collection of maps. It was an account of his life—not the one shrouded in legend, but a true story with all its blemishes. He believed it would be of value someday, when myths were no longer quite so necessary, and Klingons had learned to embrace truth.

His councilor sighed. “There’s nothing I can say, then, to talk you out of this? Nothing I can do to make you stay?”

Kahless put his hand on Anag’s shoulder. “You are a wise man,” he said, “and an honorable one. But you talk entirely too much. Now come, son of Porus, walk me downstairs.”

With that, he hefted his pack and made his way to the ground floor. Anag followed a step behind him, saying nothing, no doubt still puzzling over his emperor’s motives.

Kahless wished he could have stayed and seen how Anag ruled. He wished he could have been assured of a smooth succession, and prosperity for his people, and the survival of Morath’s laws.

But there were no assurances in life. He had learned that long ago. Men might keep promises, but Fate bound itself to no one.

The emperor reached the foot of the stairs, crossed the anteroom, and made his way out into the courtyard. The gates were open. Beyond them, he could see the multitude that had gathered on either side of the road.

Some of the faces closest to him were familiar ones. They were his retainers, those charged with seeing to his safety. No doubt, the news of his leaving had been more confusing to them than to anyone.

For a single, astonishing moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of Kellein in the crowd. She seemed to be waving to him, standing tall and beautiful in the fading light.

His heart leaped in his chest. How was it possible…?

Then he realized his eyes were playing tricks on him, and his heart sank again. But then, that happened when one got old.

Putting one foot before the other, he walked out through the gates, leaving Anag behind. Nor did he look back.

On one side and then the other, people pushed out from the crowd to speak to him. To appeal to him with their eyes. To pose the same question in different forms, over and over again.

“Master, where are you going?” asked one of his retainers.

He smiled, exposing teeth that were still sharp and strong. “To a place called
Sto-Vo-Kor,”
he answered. “Where no one lacks sustenance or bends his knee to anyone else. Where in every hall, the clash of swords rings from the rafters. And where men hold honor above all else.”

In truth, he didn’t know where he was going, or how long he would survive. But it didn’t matter. Like an old
rach’tor
who couldn’t hunt anymore, he knew it was simply his time to go.

“Where is this
Sto-Vo-Kor?
” asked a woman.

Kahless thought for a moment. Then he pointed to the evening sky, where the stars were just making their presence felt.

“There,” he said.

Then he pounded the center of his chest with his fist. The impact made a satisfying sound.

“And here,” he said.

Last of all, he pointed to his temple. He left his finger there for a moment.

“And here,” he told his people. “That is where you will find
Sto-Vo-Kor.
”

Inwardly, he chuckled. Such a cryptic answer. If he was lucky, they would puzzle over it for a hundred years to come.

There were other questions, other pleas for him to stay, other blessings heaped on him. But he didn’t stop to respond to them. He just walked east from the citadel, taking strength from their clamor.

Vorcha-doh-baghk!
they cried.
Vorcha-doh-baghk Kahless!

All hail! All hail Kahless!

It was easy for him to go. They
made
it easy. With their adulation to lighten the pack on his back, Kahless the Unforgettable carved his name into Klingon history.

At least for a while,
he thought. No one knew better than Kahless that nothing lasts forever.

Night had fallen in the city of Navrath, but the pinkish cast had remained in the sky. In the courtyard of what had been Unarrh’s house until just a few moments ago, Picard and his three companions watched Gowron hold their computer chip up to the light of a coal-filled brazier.

It was strange to see a symbol of modern technology in such a stark and primitive-looking place, under such a primal, foreboding sky. But somehow, the smile that reshaped Gowron’s face seemed even stranger.

The council leader did not often display a sanguine expression. It spoke volumes that he did so now.

“Empty?” Gowron echoed, eyeing Worf.

The lieutenant nodded. “Empty,” he confirmed.

“Completely,” Kurn added for emphasis.

“Though no emptier than Unarrh’s head.” Kahless laughed—wincing at the pain his quip brought on, but determined to ignore it.

Gowron’s eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle it out. “But you
did
visit the relay station, did you not?”

“That we did,” the captain agreed. “And we downloaded the accumulated data, just as we described. However, the computer files were damaged in the melee. The parts we were interested in were wiped out, obliterated—though we didn’t discover that until it was too late.”

The council leader grunted—a sign of admiration, apparently. “Then it was all a deception. You had no incriminating evidence at all.”

“However,” Worf remarked, “Unarrh and the others didn’t know that—so they provided the evidence themselves.”

“Indeed,” Gowron commented. He looked at the chip again. “And this is your only copy of what you downloaded?”

“It is,” the lieutenant confirmed.

“Good,” said the council leader. Dropping the chip in the dirt at his feet, he ground it beneath the heel of his boot. “Defense Force data is still Defense Force data. It is not,” he remarked pointedly, “for public consumption.”

Gowron might have dismissed them at that point. But he didn’t. Apparently, he wasn’t done with them yet.

“Needless to say,” he remarked, “there is still a great deal of work to be done before we can identify the rest of the conspiracy—some of which may be closer to home than I would like.”

“Needless to say,” the clone echoed.

“However,” said Gowron, “I want you to know you have my gratitude for what you have done. My gratitude and that of the Empire.”

Picard grunted softly. Gratitude wasn’t something one associated with the council leader either.

Kahless elbowed Worf in the ribs. “Tell our esteemed companion the Empire is quite welcome. However, its council leader could have ended this a long time ago, simply by heeding its emperor’s concerns.”

Gowron gazed at Kahless. But if he was angry, he didn’t show it. In fact, the captain thought he saw a hint of admiration for Kahless there, no matter how well the council leader tried to conceal it.

“Perhaps,” said Gowron. “Perhaps.”

“Well,” Picard interjected, “Lieutenant Worf and I would love to stay and chat. Unfortunately, we have other duties—that’s the way of Starfleet. And Governor Kurn has been good enough to offer us a ride to the Neutral Zone.” He eyed the most powerful Klingon in the Empire. “I’m glad everything worked out, Gowron.”

The council leader inclined his head ever so slightly—a sign of respect. “No more glad than I am, Picard.”

With that, Gowron crossed the courtyard and exited through the gate in the wall. The captain watched him go, knowing the man still had his share of battles to fight. One could not sit where he sat without looking over one’s shoulder now and then.

Picard just hoped the pressures surrounding Gowron would never turn him against the Federation. The last thing he wanted was to cross blades with the son of M’rel.

For a moment, the courtyard was silent except for a rising wind. Then Kahless spat on the ground.

“He has the tongue of a serpent,” said the clone. “If I were you in the Federation, I’d be wary of Gowron’s gratitude—almost as wary as I would be of his enmity.”

The captain silently noted the similarity between the Klingon’s views and his own. “I will remember that,” he promised.

“On the other hand,” said Kahless, “you have nothing to fear from
my
gratitude. And I am grateful indeed.” He turned to Worf, to Kurn, and back to Picard. “It was because of you three I was able to rescue the Empire—not to mention the ethos of honor that is its foundation. My namesake would have been proud of you.”

“I think I speak for all of us,” the captain replied, “when I say we were happy to be of service.”

The clone eyed Worf. “I am indebted to you in particular, son of Mogh.”

The lieutenant looked at him. “Me?” he echoed.

“Yes. It was you who made me see the truth—that it is not the myths that bolster belief in Kahless, but rather the idea of Kahless that bolsters belief in the myths.”

Picard smiled. It was an interesting observation, all right. His security officer had developed a knack lately for coming up with the right insight at the right time.

Kahless clapped Worf on the shoulder. “I hope the majority of our people will end up hanging on to their beliefs, despite the scandals inscribed in that damned scroll.”

“I believe they will,” the lieutenant told him.

Now that he had time to think about it, the captain believed so, too. If he had learned one thing in all his years in the center seat, it was that a person’s faith was often stronger than the most concrete scientific fact.

In time, he mused, this entire affair might become a historical footnote, nothing more. And while the name of Olahg would be forgotten, the name of Kahless would be revered for ages to come.

After all, he wasn’t called Kahless the
Unforgettable
for nothing.