“Look at you,” Sorkav said with contempt. “You wail and perspire like an Earther instead of facing death like a warrior. I condemn you to die like the coward you are.”
Compared to the nerve-wrenching agony of the painstik, the sudden insertion of a d’k tahg between his ribs was hardly noticeable. But within moments, he felt the life drain from him.
He hoped he would be joining Krov in Sto-Vo-Kor.
The last thing he heard was Kobyk belching up his warnog and saying, “That should put an end to all of this.”
2
Kobyk
The warnog tasted wrong.
Kobyk, son of Goryq, sighed. This latest shipment had been dreadful. His supply chief had switched to a trader whose prices were much lower, and Kobyk now understood why.
Warnog was the only thing that made Kobyk’s job bearable, and bad warnog just made everything worse.
He looked around his office. The space was functional, the decorations minimal. He had a rotating holographic image of his mate and children on one wall; an ancient mek’leth that had been forged for his House by Do’Ming in the time of Kahless, and which was still a fine weapon, on another wall; and a window that looked out onto the deep blackness of space. The next closest asteroid was many qelI’qams away, too far to be seen with the naked eye.
But Kobyk preferred it that way. Asteroids were hideous things, just ugly masses of rock broken up by craters. He missed the lush grasslands of his home on Ty’Gokor.
He gulped more of the wretched drink. For all its poor taste, it still was alcohol, and Kobyk needed its bracing effects right now.
Sorkav was on his way in with a report. That meant bad news.
For many turns, Kobyk had run his mine quite efficiently. If there were problems, his chief of security dealt with it. Kobyk trusted his subordinates, and everyone who’d been in that position had done the job well. Generally, Kobyk didn’t hear from the head of security unless there was a serious problem, and they were all good enough at their job that there were no serious problems.
At least, that used to be the case. Then he’d been forced to hire his younger brother.
Sorkav’s imminent arrival was the latest in a lengthy series of occasions on which he had had to report to the head of the mine, and Kobyk wasn’t at all happy about it. Leaving aside the fact that it meant yet another security problem that Sorkav had failed to fix, it also meant that Kobyk had to be in his brother’s presence.
Kobyk had never liked his younger sibling. Not when they were youths, and Sorkav would make pathetic attempts to steal Kobyk’s food. Not when they were adolescents, and Sorkav would make even more pathetic attempts to steal Kobyk’s women. And certainly not when they were adults and Sorkav was kicked out of the Imperial Guard in a corruption scandal.
Facing pressure from both their parents, Kobyk hired Sorkav to run security for the Beta Thoridar mine. Running the mine was a plum assignment for Kobyk, one he’d worked many years to earn. Being put in charge of its security was a good way for Sorkav to try to regain the honor he’d lost.
Which was fine by Kobyk as long as he didn’t have to talk to Sorkav.
The door to his office rumbled open, and in walked Sorkav. He had taken to carrying two painstiks on his belt of late, which made him look ridiculous.
“What do you want?” Kobyk said by way of greeting.
“There has been another shuttle malfunction.”
Kobyk snarled. “That is the third one this week!”
“The maintenance crew believes it is sabotage.”
“The maintenance crew’s grasp of the blindingly obvious is impressive,” Kobyk said dryly. “What are they doing to prevent further acts?”
“I’ve posted guards on all the shuttles, both when they’re in transit and in the bay. I’m also running constant scans on all engineering sections and interrogating everyone who has ridden the shuttles.”
“I’m fully aware of the proper procedure for ferreting out saboteurs, brother—what I wish to know is what results have come from your work.”
Sorkav hesitated, which made Kobyk grab his warnog.
“It would seem, brother,” Sorkav finally said, “that Malvak’s death has stirred the workers.”
Kobyk frowned. “Who is Malvak?”
“The worker who killed—”
“What, the QuchHa’ you condemned last week?”
Sorkav nodded.
“What does he have to do with this?”
“Several of those I interrogated would speak only one phrase: malvaq bortaS. I have also seen that phrase scrawled on the walls of the habitats and the mines.”
Kobyk gave his brother an incredulous look. “Malvak’s death was perfectly legitimate. Why are these petaQpu’ claiming revenge for him?”
Sorkav shrugged. “They are QuchHa’. Who could possibly understand how they think?”
“We’ve had enough problems meeting our quotas.” Kobyk slugged down the last of his warnog, then tossed the mug aside in disgust. “If this idiocy continues—”
The spine-shuddering report of a security alarm interrupted Kobyk. Pulling out his communicator, Sorkav said, “Report!”
One of his staff reported a moment later, barely audible over the sound of shouting and violence. “A riot has broken out at Site wa’! We are attempting to pacify now!”
Kobyk immediately called up the security feeds for Site wa’ on his terminal.
The cracking station was a giant facility that took large dilithium crystals and broke them down into smaller ones that would fit inside a ship’s engine. This particular station, and the two like it on the other two sites, were Jorvok stations: modular facilities that could be easily constructed, disassembled, and reconstructed elsewhere.
They were also about three decades out of date, having fallen out of favor following the revolutionary work done by the Science Institute. Most dilithium mines in the Empire used the Mark Soch model from the Institute.
Kobyk had worked on both systems, and found the Mark Soch to be smaller and easier to use, but also with a proclivity for breaking down on a monthly basis. Once you factored in the time that a Mark Soch was down for repairs, a Jorvok not only produced the same amount per turn, but also was easier for mining technicians to repair, without having to wait for the Institute to send one of their specialists along, since the design was proprietary.
The other advantage to using Jorvoks was that Kobyk could get them cheap, since they were rarely used, and his own people could effect repairs, so he didn’t have to pay the Institute’s exorbitant fees.
Of course, the station also was more difficult to operate. Initially, he’d assigned QuchHa’ to them, but that had proven ineffective. Sorkav had been the one to suggest letting only HemQuch operate the station, and things improved somewhat.
Now, though, there were dozens of QuchHa’ who seemed to have formed a skirmish line, and were throwing rocks and tools and any number of other objects at the Site wa’ Jorvok.
Still holding his communicator, Sorkav ordered more security to the cracking station.
“What is that they’re shouting?” Kobyk asked as he tried to adjust the audio feed, but it just sounded like meaningless noise.
Sorkav bared his teeth in disgust. “That same phrase I just mentioned: malvaq bortaS.”
Now that Sorkav had said it, Kobyk was able to make out the phrase over the feed.
As for his brother’s security people, they were not having an easy time of it. Armed only with painstiks, they were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Within a few minutes, their numbers doubled as the reinforcements Sorkav had called for showed up.
“I warned you that this might happen!” Sorkav said with a snarl. “If my people had disruptors—”
Kobyk refused to engage in this argument again. “Do you know how much it costs to buy five hundred disruptors? Besides, the prospect of your people getting their hands on disruptors is not a pleasant one.”
“Their brutality is what ma
kes them good security.”
“Yes, and as long as it remains brutality, all is well. But I prefer that I be the only one to have the power of life and death over the workers I’m responsible for. As it is, my cost-cutting measures have only staved off the difficulties meeting the quotas. If this keeps up, we’ll be shut down!”
Sorkav’s reinforcements started to turn the tide, as the painstiks started to be effective against the crowd. Plus, once a good number of workers fell to the ground in agony, the others started to disperse.
Snorting, Sorkav said, “Typical QuchHa’. Backing down from a fight like cowards.”
Kobyk stared at his brother. “Why expect any different? It’s not as if they’re Klingons. In any case, brother, keep these petaQpu’ in line. I will not have our production slowed by this!”
Kirrin felt his stomachs sink at the sight of the line leading to the shuttle.
He was already running late by virtue of the random search that had been performed of the barracks where he and the rest of his section slept. Kirrin had no idea what they were looking for, but whatever it was, they didn’t find it.
Now they were doing intensive scans of everyone who approached the shuttlebay. Which meant a line.
Kirrin had already missed the first shuttle to Site wa’. In retrospect, he wished he had skipped the morning meal. But without a raktajino in the morning, he was useless for the rest of the day, and the section chief didn’t especially appreciate that.
The person in front of him, a Klingon Kirrin didn’t recognize, muttered, “We’re going to miss the shuttle at this rate.”
“That won’t happen,” Kirrin said with confidence. “After all, they’re delaying us for the new security measures. They’ll delay the shuttle too.”
“Don’t be so sure,” the other Klingon said.
“What’s this all about, anyhow?”
Now the other Klingon turned around. He was QuchHa’, like Kirrin, with receding hair, a wispy mustache, and a long scar under his left eye. He was regarding Kirrin as if he were insane. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“To what?” Kirrin was illiterate, so he couldn’t read the bulletins, and the section chief always told them about anything important anyhow. He had remained assigned to duties that did not require him to read anything. Eventually, he planned to save enough wages to pay for an education. It wasn’t much, but at least it would increase his options.
The Klingon with the scar said, “You don’t know about Malvak?”
Shrugging, Kirrin said, “I’ve heard some mutterings about someone with that name, but I haven’t really paid attention.”
“Malvak spoke out about Krov being killed. Sorkav—that filthy toDSaH—” The Klingon spit on the floor at that. Kirrin didn’t blame him; nobody liked Sorkav. “—he ruled Krov’s death an accident.”
“So?”
“His throat was cut and he was stabbed in the back! How is that an ’accident’?”
The person behind Kirrin said, “I heard he was decapitated.”
“In any case, Malvak said that Gahlar killed Krov. But Gahlar’s a ridge-head, so nothing happened.”
“Typical,” said the Klingon behind him.
“So Malvak took revenge on Gahlar and killed him. Then Sorkav actually paid attention. After all, it matters when ridge-heads die.”
The man with the scar’s voice had a bitter tone that Kirrin had heard before. “It does matter more,” Kirrin said. “After all, they’re true Klingons. We’ve been infected with Earther filth.” He said the words with little emotion—it was what his parents had taught him from birth, that their ancestors had been poisoned by Earthers. It was why the Empire remained at war with the Federation—though there was currently a treaty—and would continue to be until the Empire finally conquered them.
Kirrin had no illusions about his life. He knew that his greatest hope was to be a marginally useful cog in the great wheel that was the Empire. As a low-born QuchHa’, that was the best he could hope for.
The scarred man spit again, this time at Kirrin’s boots. “I do not accept that. We are Klingons—our blood comes from the same ancestors. We follow the teachings of Kahless the same as any ridge-head.”
The line had been slowly moving forward as they spoke, and now they were within earshot of the guards who were checking the workers. One said, “Quiet, back there!”
Scar-face turned to face the guard. “Or what, ridge-head? You’ll kill me, too, like you killed Malvak?”
Now the guard stomped toward them, painstik in hand. “I said, be quiet! Do not make me tell you a third time, QuchHa’!”
The Klingon then unsheathed a d’k tahg. Kirrin had never seen a real d’k tahg before. Cheap knockoffs, sure, but one like this, with the actual emblem of a noble House on it—that was something he never thought he’d live to see.
“I am Makog, son of Chrell, and I challenge you to—”
The guard reared his head back and laughed heartily before turning to face his fellow guards. “Look at this! This petaQ thinks he’s in the Defense Force!” Then he turned back and shoved the painstik into Makog’s belly.
Makog screamed and doubled over in pain, dropping his dagger.
Leaning in, the guard said, “Challenges are for Klingons—not the likes of you.”
Removing the painstik, the guard straightened and said, “Take him to detention. He’s obviously one of the agitators. We will interrogate him and learn who his fellow conspirators are.”
Kirrin and the others went silently through the line after they took Makog away.
Just as Kirrin was next in line to be scanned, the shuttle engines activated with a mighty roar and the platform rose toward the surface airlock. “That’s our shuttle!”
“You’ll have to catch the next one,” the guard said.
“There is no next one!”
Making a mock-sad face, the guard said, “Oh, too bad. It would seem that you’ll have to miss the day’s work—and the day’s wages.”
“But it’s not our fault!”
Slapping a fellow guard in the belly with the back of his hand, the guard said, “Can you believe this? He whines like the Earther he resembles. At least his comrade had some iron in him.”
Kirrin knew he could not win an argument with a guard, so he turned to head back to his barracks. If he couldn’t work, maybe he could get some extra sleep, maybe volunteer for night-shift duty to make up for it.
From behind him, the guard cried, “Hey, QuchHa’, don’t go turning your back on me!”
Pain sliced through Kirrin’s lower back as he felt the hot, pointed end of the painstik strike his spine. His knees buckled, every nerve ending on fire.
It wasn’t the first time Kirrin had been on the receiving end of a painstik. In his youth, he’d gotten into trouble with the Guardsmen more than once. Since achieving adulthood, though, he hadn’t. Over the years, it hadn’t gotten any less unbearable.
Kirrin screamed with the agony that only seemed to increase. When it finally ended, he quieted, but was unable to make his body move.
“Screams like an Earther, too,” the guard said contemptuously. “Take him and put him with the so-called son of Chrell. They’re probably in it together.”
As one of the other guards bent over to pick Kirrin up, the miner noticed that Makog’s d’k tahg was still lying on the ground where he’d dropped it. Gathering up every ounce of willpower he could, he forced his left arm to thrust out and his left hand to close around the dagger’s hilt.
A boot slammed down onto that hand, shattering bones with a snap that echoed throughout the shuttlebay. Again, Kirrin screamed in agony.
“Nice try, QuchHa’. Take him.”
A low rumble spread through the workers who waited in the line. Through the haze of agony, Kirrin couldn’t make out the exact words at first. But soon, as the guards hauled him down the corridor, he could make out the words of the chant:
“malvaq bortaS! malvaq bortaS! malvaq bortaS!�
�
“Silence!” the guard cried, but his words could barely be heard. Kirrin heard the chant grow into shouts, heard the stomping of feet as the people charged, heard the screams of pain as the guards used their painstiks, then more screams of pain as the guards were overwhelmed.
The ones carrying Kirrin dropped him unceremoniously to the ground. All Kirrin could see from his prone position was people screaming and running and shouting, “malvaq bortaS!” and simply pure chaos.
He also saw rocks flying through the air.
Star Trek: Seven Deadly Sins Page 23
