The Klingon Art of War

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  One teacher said it changed his life, and that he did not allow the students in his care to move forward in their studies until they could explain the meaning of all ten precepts to him in detail.

  A farmer told me how she made all her children and grandchildren read it, and they would sing the song every yobta yupma’ with her family. (She was also the one who told me the story of K’Zin that I used in my commentary on the Ninth Precept.)

  Even a janitor was able to find wisdom in the precepts. This old man who had a barely functioning left leg and the responsibility for supervising the cleaning of the floors in the Lukara Edifice, and who could claim membership in no House, told me that he read qeS’a’ every day before he began work, and applied the precepts to his work. Even though the only foe he ever truly faces is the dirt tracked by boots on the edifice floors, it is still one he must defeat every day.

  It was with a renewed sense of purpose that I re-read the book after the tour, again finding new truths in it. Meeting other Klingons not of the warrior caste helped me understand all over again what a great book this is.

  I found myself reminded of the truth of honor, that it is not something set in stone and on parchment, but rather in blood and bone, and what family a Klingon is born to matters less than the fact that we are Klingons. We live for honor, and without honor we are nothing. And our honor comes from within, not without.

  But when the book was released to other nations, I found myself expanding the tour beyond our borders. It was my first time ever leaving the Empire, and I found myself apprehensive. But the Fourth and Sixth Precepts rang in my mind. My reluctance to exit the Empire was adversity that I needed to seek and simultaneously weakness I needed to destroy.

  One of the first engagements I had was in the Federation, at a university on Berengaria. The first question I was asked was what the biggest influence was on my writing, and the only answer I could give was qeS’a’. At that point, very few copies of this text had made it outside the Empire—though the professor who hosted the event had read it—and so I had to explain the work.

  That became the theme of the tour. While I spoke at great length about qul naj and its themes and metaphors, I also talked at equal length about qeS’a’ and its importance to Klingon life in general and to my writing in particular.

  I later made a similar tour outside the Empire when yoj nIyma’ was released, but by that time, qeS’a’—inspired, or so I was told, by demand created by my own talking up of the book—had been made available in translation throughout the Federation, as well as many non-aligned worlds. I even heard rumors that unauthorized editions were published in the Ferengi Alliance, though I shudder to think how they translated the precepts. In fact, I recall reading a lengthy treatise by a Federation scholar named Sonek Pran, comparing qeS’a’ to the Rules of Acquisition, and the influence that the two texts had on our respective cultures.

  That second tour was especially enlightening, because I heard from so many different cultures—the Federation has not one culture, but a multitude, a concatenation that should be a chaotic disaster, yet somehow they make it work—on the subject of what qeS’a’ meant to them.

  There was the human traffic controller. “My life is simple, but also meaningless. We’ve eliminated want and need to such a degree that sometimes I wonder if there’s anything worth fighting for. Indeed, anything worth doing. When I read The Klingon Art of War”— this is how the title is translated in the Federation for some reason, though I question whether art is the appropriate word—“I realized that all of life is a fight, and you just have to know where to look for it.”

  Then there was the Vulcan philosopher. (That is actually an occupation on Vulcan. They are a strange species.) “I found the precepts to be surprisingly logical. While the barbarity of the descriptions of warfare are distasteful, the underlying principles behind them are sound. In particular, I admire the concept of seeking adversity. As Vulcans, we strive for intellectual challenges, and while the pursuit of a point of logic or a scientific inquiry may not be the same as a glorious battle to be won, the concept of challenging oneself is still a valid one, and a lesson that many could afford to learn.”

  A Betazoid skimmer pilot came to me after one talk. “As a telepath, I found the notion of revealing your true face to be fascinating. People often assume that we are able to see people’s true faces, simply because we have access to their thoughts, but it simply isn’t so. The humanoid brain is far too chaotic and nonsensical. The ability to read thoughts may occasionally provide deeper insight into someone, but it does not reveal someone’s true face. Only in adversity and trying circumstances do people figure out who they really are, it seems.”

  And then there was the Cardassian assayer, who was confused when he read the book. “This is an outdated work. I mean, yes, it was useful once, I suppose, when you were barbarians hunting for your food without any interest in the Galaxy beyond your world, but now? You have spaceships and energy weapons, who cares about that nonsense about hunting or fighting people hand to hand?”

  There was the Bolian computer analyst, who started studying mok’bara because she read about it in qeS’a’. There was the Benzite doctor who hated the last precept, but admired the first nine. There was the Pahkwa-thanh musician who particularly loved the Fourth Precept, as his species are also hunters. There was the Andorian ice sculptor who told me that he loved my book, but hated qeS’a’—but that he did start playing klin zha because of it. And there was the Tellarite ambassador who said the book changed her life so much that she was requesting a diplomatic posting to the Empire. (She didn’t get it.)

  Most intriguing, however, was the Bynar pair who found the book incomprehensible. A species that is interlinked with their computers, the Bynars simply did not understand the precepts, interpreting them far too literally. For example: “How can you show your true face in combat when it’s the same face that you show at all other times? Klingons are not shapeshifters.” Even the ones they thought they did comprehend—like Strike quickly or strike not—they did not interpret properly. They viewed the Second Precept as a guide to the dual nature of life, reasoning that one can do only a thing or its opposite.

  Their biggest complaint, though, was throughout the entire book, they never once encountered a definition of honor.

  I must admit that I laughed for a very long time in the face of those Bynars, which was all I could do when confronted by such a ridiculous statement.

  Honor is a code that we follow, but to define it like some kind of laboratory experiment or mathematical equation is to simplify it beyond all reason. Indeed, I could publish another entire book twice the size of this edition of qeS’a’ as a guide to honorable behavior and still come no closer to a dictionary definition that would satisfy those Bynars.

  The only way to define honor is that it is how we better ourselves. The universe is a difficult, unpleasant, dangerous place, and the more we discover, the more unpleasant it becomes. Before Kahless, we squabbled amongst ourselves, as Qo’noS was awash in petty fiefdoms before the Unforgettable One brought us all together in the cause of honor. After Kahless, the Hur’q came and introduced us forcibly to a universe that would not treat us well, a universe that forced us to fight back.

  As we explored farther into space, we found more enemies: the Romulans, the Kinshaya, the Kreel, the Federation, the Tholians. And then the Bajoran wormhole opened up the Gamma Quadrant, which led to battle against the Dominion. Then the Borg, then the Typhon Pact . . . The Galaxy has not ceased to remind us that there are enemies who will stop at nothing to destroy us.

  While we have found allies in the black sky, we have also found that we must set ourselves above those who would take our Empire away from us. As Kahless said before he ascended to Sto-Vo-Kor, we are Klingons, and we need no one but ourselves. The way we keep ourselves above all other species is that we live our lives by a code that defines us, that elevates us, that improves us.

  It does not matter if we are a s
ingle species on a single planet or an empire that spans dozens of solar systems: the precepts of honor remain the same. With all respect to my mother, to the Bynars, to the Cardassian, the greatness of qeS’a’ is that it is universal. Honor does not change with the passage of time, with the revelation that there are more species in the universe than we once believed. Honor does not wilt before strong foes, it thrives.

  Honor is what makes us Klingons.

  APPENDIX A

  THE WARRIOR’S EDGE: ON THE HISTORY AND USES OF BLADED WEAPONS

  Continuing advances in technology have allowed the Empire to grow and flourish. As a consequence, also improved is our ability to wage war upon our rivals, which have only increased in number after we Klingons ventured forth from the confines of our cherished homeworld and traveled to other planets in our ongoing hunt for conquest.

  Despite all it has given us, technology also carries the potential to take from us that which we most hold dear: our very identity. Ours is a legacy of conflict, forged from humble beginnings in the heat of battle and cooled by the blood of our enemies. It is a heritage handed down to us by our ancestors throughout our long history. The hard-won lessons of the past endure, offering knowledge and sage counsel to those with the wisdom to observe and revere what has come before. To do so through word and deed is the mark of a true, honorable warrior.

  One means of demonstrating this unwavering respect is through our continued devotion to a finely honed blade. Though primitive projectile weapons have long since given way to phased energy and particle beam disruptors, there remains within the foundation of our culture a deep reverence for older, simpler, and more brutal instruments of conflict. Modern armaments serve us well, but demonstrating proficiency in their use really is no more demanding than any another duty required of the soldier. Conversely, mastering the art of edged weapons requires focus and dedication far beyond that needed to obtain expertise in simple marksmanship.

  Spears, knives and swords have been with us since before the founding of the Empire itself, reminding us of the struggles we endured as a people before Kahless the Unforgettable set us upon the true path to honor and glory. When employed properly, the blade becomes an extension of its wielder’s body, attacking and defending as though animated by its own impulses, as though possessed of its owner’s will. Such is combat at its most pure.

  As it always has been, Klingons are given opportunity to learn and handle such weapons well before adolescence and the First Right of Ascension. Given the chance, most warriors likely will tell you similar tales of reaching the Age of Inclusion and receiving from their father a d’k tahg bearing their family crest. They may describe the bat’leth hanging on their home’s trophy wall, and perhaps even regale you with a story of the honored relative to whom it once belonged. This is our shared legacy, and it is incumbent upon all of us to see that it remains relevant for those who one day will step forward to serve the Empire in our stead.

  Bat’leth

  This is perhaps the oldest weapon known to our culture. It certainly is the oldest to be forged by the hands of any Klingon. All Klingons have heard the story of Kahless molding the first bat’leth centuries ago, using his creation to defeat the tyrant Molor before founding what we now call the Klingon Empire. Through the ages, this weapon has been refined through the use of ever-improved materials and techniques, but at its heart the bat’leth remains unchanged, a symbol as eternal as the Empire itself. Indeed, this weapon is a coveted acquisition among many outworlders, particularly Romulans, Tzenkethi, and even humans.

  Mastery of the bat’leth comes only after years of dedicated practice. Many warriors spend their entire lives perfecting its use, longing for the day when they can bring it to the fore against a worthy adversary. Unlike other edged weapons, the bat’leth has a size, weight and design requiring its wielder to move in harmony with the blade. An awareness of one’s body’s position relative to the weapon and one’s opponent as well as the surroundings is critical if one is to emerge victorious from combat with a bat’leth. There are those who believe such proficiency is achieved through a balance of art, grace, and tactical application, each enhanced by other, intangible qualities, such as the warrior’s being in tune with the beating his own heart, the air filling his lungs, and the rush of blood through his veins. Klingons who have advanced to the highest levels of aptitude with the bat’leth are known to train with their eyes covered, forcing their other senses to become more attuned to their environs.

  Those who distinguish themselves in battle can find themselves honored by induction into the Order of the Bat’leth, one of the Klingon Empire’s highest military awards. This ancient society founded by Lady Lukara, the widow of Kahless, is charged with upholding the principles he set forth for the honor of the Empire. Those who wear the medallion of the Order are understood to be warriors without peer.

  D’k tahg

  This is often the first edged weapon to which a young Klingon is exposed, just as it is almost always the first they carry as their own. Like the bat’leth, this knife embodies a storied history, passed, as it is, generation after generation, from father to son. Proudly displayed on one’s belt, the d’k tahg symbolizes its owner’s status as a warrior of the Empire.

  In combat, this knife often supplements its wielder’s fighting prowess as well as the strength of his mind, body, and heart. Contests fought with d’k tahg are usually of a personal nature, such as when defending against a challenge to one’s honor or the standing of one’s house. Indeed, given that many d’k tahgs are emblazoned with the emblem of one’s family, taking this weapon from a warrior—whether through simple theft or as a spoil of victory during battle—is considered a grave insult not only to the individual but also to his clan. For this reason alone, many Klingons treasure these blades and all they represent, and they will gladly die before surrendering them to an enemy.

  The d’k tahg also plays a prominent role in certain long-standing sacraments, such as paying respect to a fallen warrior by using a blade to extinguish the flame that represents his life. This is meant to be carried out with a weapon of personal value, and the d’k tahg exemplifies its owner’s character and loyalty as he assists in ensuring his deceased comrade’s entry into Sto-Vo-Kor.

  ghIntaq

  Also possessing a long and distinguished history, the ghIntaq is not a knife or sword but rather a spear that features a knife blade at one end and a heavy, blunt base. While other spears are used for hunting and even for sporting competition, the ghIntaq’s sole purpose is for battle. The weapon is employed in multiple ways, both thrust in hand-to-hand combat and thrown from farther distances. Experienced Klingons often use a ghIntaq in tandem with a mek’leth when engaging enemies in close quarters.

  In ancient times, the Emperor’s personal guards carried ceremonial ghIntaqs, far heavier and with blades much longer and sharper than their counterparts used by the conventional military. Imperial guards were well trained in the use of the spear as well as the tik’leth sword, making them formidable opponents for anyone who might wish to do the Emperor harm. Today, this level of expertise with the ghIntaq is a rarity among all but the oldest and most battle-tested warriors.

  qutluch

  A holdover from ancient times and rites of passage, as well as when formal public executions were far more prevalent than they are today, the qutluch continues to occupy a privileged place in our culture. It is often is used to inflict an adolescent’s first bloodletting in preparation for his Rite of Ascension, which begins his path to warriorhood.

  Despite being relegated largely to ceremonial use, the qutluch is often found in the hands of assassins, Klingon and otherwise. Of course, this taints the weapon’s place of distinction within our shared heritage, to the point where some houses have taken to using family d’k tahgs or even mevaks for initiating the Rite of Ascension.

  Mek’leth

  Smaller than the bat’leth, this weapon requires no less dedication of the warrior’s mind and spirit. It is a fav
orite blade of many Klingons due to its being designed for use with a single hand, its lesser weight allowing its wielder to employ another sword or perhaps a ghIntaq, or even a shield, during personal combat. The mek’leth’s size can be a great advantage in situations where speed and maneuverability are of the essence. It also lends itself to easier concealment, a quality preferred by many experienced warriors.

  Despite its versatility and popularity, the mek’leth is considered a weapon of choice for younger warriors, whereas their elders tend to rely on the larger, heavier bat’leth and the traditions surrounding the older weapon.

  Mevak

  Like the d’k tahg, the mevak is also a formidable blade despite its smaller size, though instead of being carried by individual warriors, its use instead is rooted in one of our oldest ceremonial rites, the Mauk-to’Vor. It is this ancient ceremony that permits a disgraced warrior to regain lost honor upon death and allows for his admittance to Sto-Vo-Kor, where he can continue waging war for all eternity against exalted foes. By ancient law, Mauk-to’Vor can be performed only upon the request of the dishonored warrior, and it falls to his brother to carry out the ritual execution.

  The mevak can also be used in the performance of the hegh’bat ceremony. When a Klingon has become injured or incapacitated to the point that he no longer can face his enemies as a warrior or when he has determined that he is nothing but a burden to his family, he may perform this ritual to take his own life. When the warrior is prepared to carry out the rite, the mevak is presented to him by his eldest son or a devoted friend. Once the dying Klingon plunges the knife into his own heart, the assistant then removes the blade and wipes it free of blood on his own sleeve, aiding the deceased warrior on his journey to Sto-Vo-Kor.