Star Trek: Klingon!

by Dean Wesley Smith

  The Klingon Empire remains the Federation’s most fearsome and uneasy ally, but can any human fully understand the heart and soul of a true Klingon warrior? During crucial negotiations on Deep Space Nine™, Gowron, leader of the Klingon High Council, tests human understanding of the Klingon way by sharing the powerful story of one warrior's quest for honor….

  Pok is a young Klingon caught up in the dangerous complexities of clan politics. When his father is murdered in his own home on the day of Pok's Rite of Ascension, Pok must find the assassin and close the circle of vengeance. But as he searches for the truth amidst strange aliens and treacherous friends, Pok discovers that every day can be a good day to die and that only his own warrior's training stands between him and the business end of a d'k tahg knife!

  BONUS: A fascinating look into the making of the Star Trek: Klingon, the hit CD-ROM!

  “A KLINGON IS NOT BORN A WARRIOR!”

  Gowron, leader of the Klingon Empire, addressed the assembled Starfleet officers. He pulled out his knife and stuck it deep into the tabletop.

  “Being a warrior is something that must be earned. Before I earned this knife, I owned a ghojmeH taj, a boy's knife.”

  Gowron glanced around at his audience for a moment. “This story is about Pok, son of Torghn, my friend and ally. A mere boy with a ghojmeH taj. I will tell you how Pok became a warrior….”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 1996 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-00257-0

  First Pocket Books printing May 1996

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  For Rich, Kelly, and Jeff

  Authors' Note

  This book takes place before Commander Sisko is promoted to captain. At that time the Klingon Empire and the Federation were still working together, at least in a limited fashion.

  Chapter One

  THE YRIDIAN PILOT smelled like an abandoned fish processing plant on Balor 6. Layers of stink and dirt covered him and the raglike clothes he wore like coats of paint. He huddled his huge frame against a support pillar on the upper deck of the Promenade, trying to look as if he didn’t stand out. But his odor warned anyone of his presence a dozen paces away.

  He’d come to Deep Space Nine to make some money. Some very good money, as far as he was concerned. Enough for him to buy a new trader ship to replace the one he’d lost in a bungled smuggling operation with a stupid Ferengi.

  He glanced around, watching the few humans below closely. A Klingon warrior strode purposefully along the railing of the upper deck. His knife clanked softly against his leg and he walked with a confidence only Klingon warriors had. As he passed the trader he stopped suddenly, then turned to face the Caxtonian. He wrinkled his nose and stepped back a full step. “Are you Kathpa?”

  The Yridian trader nodded. “Are you—”

  The Klingon warrior held up his hand for the trader to stop, then glanced around. The Promenade below had a few midafternoon shoppers, all humanoids. Not one seemed to be paying the odd meeting any attention.

  “It does not matter who I am,” the Klingon said. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small wrapped package. He tossed it hard against the chest of the trader without coming closer. The package made a smacking sound as it hit and the trader caught it before it dropped to the ground.

  “Your first payment,” the Klingon warrior said, his voice low and firm. ”If you fail, you will die. If you succeed, you will be rich. Make sure you do not fail.”

  The trader pulled the package into a hidden pocket in his rags and smiled at the Klingon, showing a full mouth of yellowed and rotting teeth. “I prefer being rich over being dead.”

  The Klingon snorted and turned away.

  The Yridian trader watched him go for a moment, then moved away from the pillar, heading in the opposite direction.

  After they were both out of sight, what looked to be nothing more than a painted bulge along the edge of the pillar a dozen steps away from where the meeting had occurred started to melt onto the floor. It soon reformed into the shape of Odo, the changeling who served as chief security officer on Deep Space Nine.

  Odo’s earth-toned uniform and expressionless face formed with the rest of him. He glanced first in the direction the Yridian had gone, then in the other direction after the Klingon. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said aloud. Then, at a fast walk, he started after the Klingon.

  The patrons of Quark’s bar had the feel of a crowd verging on being out of control. Quark was behind the bar. From where Commander William T. Riker sat at a large, empty table below the Dabo games, he could only catch a glimpse of the Ferengi and his big ears through the crowd pressing the bar for drinks. Rom, Quark’s brother, looked as if he was about to burst into tears as he fought through the crowd with tray after tray full of drinks and empty glasses. Riker found himself feeling sorry for the small Ferengi. Quark always treated Rom like a slave instead of a brother. And with this many people in the bar, Quark continuously yelled at the smaller-eared Rom to do this or that task.

  Rom almost dropped Riker’s drink in front of him, then mumbled his apologies.

  “No problem,” Riker said, but the Ferengi had already turned and was scampering to the next table.

  Riker took a sip and let himself savor the sweetness of his brandy while he looked around. The patrons of the bar were divided into fairly even numbers. A third were Klingons, most of whom had arrived with Gowron for the meetings with the Federation. The Klingons were making the most noise, talking and laughing the hardest and the loudest. Klingons not only fought with more gusto than humans, they drank and laughed more. It was one of the many things Riker liked about them.

  Another third of the bar’s patrons were Federation and Starfleet personnel, a large number of whom were also here for the meeting. The humans seemed to huddle in small groups, heads forward, talking almost in whispers. And all still wore their uniforms, just as he did.

  The final third were Quark’s normal alien customers, including Bajorans, two Cardassians, Yridian traders, and a host of others from a dozen races through the sector. They seemed to be paying the Federation and Klingon patrons no attention at all.

  Normally Riker would have enjoyed the feeling of Quark’s this evening. He liked a place that had an air of excitement to it. But with the meeting between the Klingons and the Federation going on here on DS9,the tension in the bar felt more dangerous, as if a war might break out at any time.

  Riker sipped his drink and forced himself to relax. For the moment he was alone. And every moment alone these days was to be treasured.

  Another sip and Riker saw that Captain Jean-Luc Picard, followed by Commander Benjamin Sisko, was slowly winding his way through the crowd toward Riker. Not far behind them was Commander Worf, followed by Chancellor Gowron
, head of the Klingon High Council, Gowron’s guard, and Rear Admiral Admiral Edward Jellico from the United Federation of Planets.

  Jellico, unlike Picard, had a full head of gray hair. He was a tall man, standing a good six feet six inches. And he never seemed to smile. About halfway through today’s meeting with Gowron and the two other representatives of the Klingon High Council, Riker wondered if Jellico had ever smiled in his life. When Jellico had been promoted to Admiral, Riker had hoped never to serve under him again.

  For the first time since Riker’s last run in with Jellico, Riker remembered just why he hated the guy so much.

  Riker stood as the other officers joined the table, with Jellico luckily finding a chair on the opposite side, as far away from Riker as possible.

  Riker turned his attention to the Klingon leader. Gowron had an air of power around him. He had pronounced ridges on his head, and his arms and shoulders were full and powerful. He was the best warrior in a culture of warriors. He had not gotten to that position by being either weak or stupid.

  As if by magic, Quark appeared at the table just as Jellico finished pulling his chair up. “What can I get you gentlemen to drink?” His smile seemed almost real and Riker managed to keep his laugh to a faint chuckle. Quark, of course, served the table of important people. That was just like him. From this table he might gain something to make him a profit beyond the price of the drinks. He would never trust such a table to his brother.

  “Blood wine,” Gowron said, his voice powerful. He swept his hand around at the entire table. “For everyone.”

  Picard held up his hand and Riker again managed to hold back a laugh.

  “Tea for me,” Picard said. “Earl Grey. Hot.”

  “Nothing for me,” Sisko said.

  “Water,” Jellico said. Then he glared at Quark. “And make sure it’s pure.”

  Quark said, “Of course.” And then smiled at the admiral.

  Riker purposefully said nothing. He would accept Gowron’s offer. He’d tasted blood wine a number of times. It wasn’t a favorite of his, but he could drink it at special times like this. Besides, someone needed to accept the Klingon’s offer, or it would be considered an insult under Klingon customs.

  Worf also said nothing. It would have been an insult against Gowron for Worf, a Klingon, to turn down the offer of blood wine from the head of the Klingon High Council.

  “Bah!” Gowron said, snorting at the humans around him. “Only Riker among you will drink with me. Such weakness. It is no wonder we disagree at the table.”

  Jellico glared at Riker, but Riker only continued to smile. If the meetings weren’t so important to relations between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, he would have enjoyed baiting the admiral even more. But now Jellico’s lack of understanding of Klingon ways might just be another step toward a new war.

  “My friend,” Picard said to Gowron. Picard leaned forward and turned to face Gowron squarely. “It’s the differences between us that we must learn to celebrate. The talks are simply to—”

  A loud shout and a smashing chair broke off what Picard was saying. Riker instantly saw what was happening. Near the bar a Klingon had stood in anger, facing a group of Starfleet personnel at a neighboring table. Three other Klingons were also on their feet, and before anyone could do anything, the area erupted in a fight.

  Klingon warriors and Starfleet personnel tangled in a mass of twisting color while Quark’s normal customers backed away, their drinks held aloft to keep them from spilling.

  “Stop!” Quark’s shout could be heard over the noise, but no one paid him the slightest attention.

  Riker jumped to his feet and Worf was right beside him.

  Dozens of others around the bar also converged on the fight, as if everyone knew that this fight had to be stopped instantly, for the sake of the talks, if nothing else.

  Riker waded into the fight, grabbed a Starfleet lieutenant and pulled him roughly off a Klingon. With a twist Riker spun the lieutenant away into the hands of other waiting Starfleet personnel.

  Worf stepped in front of one Klingon and growled a warning, freezing the Klingon in midpunch.

  Riker stepped into the center and shouted, “Stop it! Now! That’s an order!”

  The last of the struggling stopped as the half-dozen combatants on each side paused, all breathing hard. Almost as if by transporter Odo appeared at Riker’s side.

  “Go to your tables or the brig,” Riker said, “Your choice.”

  The crowd hesitated.

  “We demand honor,” one Klingon said.

  “Another time.” Worf growled in his face. “This is not the place.”

  “Now!” Riker said, his voice firm. He wasn’t going to allow a stupid bar fight jeopardize the important work of these meetings.

  The Starfleet personnel stepped back and then a few of them turned back to their table as the noise level of the bar came back up to a normal dull roar.

  The insulted Klingon glanced at Worf, then around at the table where Gowron still sat, smiling. “Bah,” he said and spat on the floor. “Humans have no honor to defend.” He turned back to his table and sat down, his back to Worf.

  Riker, Odo, and Worf stood their ground until it was clear the combatants were back to their drinking.

  “I think I will stay here for the moment,” Odo said, glancing first one way at a table, then the other at the Klingons.

  Riker nodded. “That would seem like a good idea.”

  “Who is going to pay for the damage?” Quark demanded, stepping up to Odo and Riker while holding a broken chair.

  “I’m sure,” Odo said, “that your profits tonight will more than make up for a broken chair.”

  “But—” Quark started to object, but Odo stopped him.

  “I could shut this bar down if you’d like, to find the person who broke the chair.”

  Quark glanced at the crowd around him, then at the broken chair. “I suppose,” the Ferengi said, “I could write this up to the cost of doing business.”

  “Exactly,” Odo said.

  Riker laughed, and turned to see Lieutenant Jadzia Dax standing behind him. Her smile made him feel almost like a young boy again. He had hoped that Dax would show up tonight, but hadn’t found a way to ask her at the conference today.

  She stood almost tall enough to look him in the eye. Her hair was pulled back, and like the other Starfleet personnel assigned to the station, she wore a regulation jumpsuit instead of a standard uniform. Riker hoped that Starfleet command would eventually authorize this design for shipboard use. As he caught himself admiring both the jumpsuit and its occupant, he noted the smile on Dax’s face went clear into her eyes.

  “Commander,” she said, nodding and continuing to smile. “Nice job.”

  Riker shrugged and indicated that she should join him back at the table. “I doubt it will be the last fight I break up this trip.”

  “I hope you’re wrong about that,” she whispered to him as they neared the table.

  Picard saw her coming and smiled, moving over so that she could pull a chair up next to Riker. As they sat down Gowron was talking, obviously getting very frustrated with his Federation companions.

  “Do you think we Klingons kill anything that stands in our way?” he said, sweeping his arm in the direction of the fight Riker and Worf had just broken up. “You outsiders see only our fierceness, our love of battle. You do not see the tIgh, the honor, that shapes our every act.”

  “In my observation,” Jellico said, staring right back at Gowron, “Klingons look for the slightest excuse to fight.”

  Gowron glared back for a moment before Picard broke the silence. “Gentlemen, please. We are here to find ways to better understand each other’s culture.”

  “My point, exactly, Captain,” Gowron said. “Klingons are warriors. We do not fight just to fight.” Gowron glared at Jellico, then turned back to face Picard.

  “Admiral,” Worf said, “Klingons fight for honor. The honor of the Empire. The
honor of family.” Worf glanced at Gowron, who nodded his approval, so Worf turned back to the Admiral. “Sir, honor is all we treasure.”

  “We also fight for honor,” Admiral Jellico said, “but most times we do not do so at the drop of a hat.”

  Gowron laughed, leaning back and letting the laugh break out over the table and the crowded bar as if he’d just heard the funniest joke on the station.

  Riker knew what Gowron was laughing about. To a Klingon, humans had no honor. Jellico’s claiming otherwise was a true joke to Gowron. And from what Riker had seen in his time aboard Klingon ships, and in his dealings with Klingons, including Worf, humans valued honor very little in comparison with a Klingon warrior.

  “I don’t understand just what—” Jellico started to interrupt Gowron’s laugh when Gowron waved his hand for him to stop.

  “Admiral,” Gowron said, leaning forward and facing Jellico. “Klingons are good storytellers. Have you heard such?”

  “I have,” Jellico said.

  “Good,” Gowron said. “For I have a story that will give you understanding of Klingon warriors. I warn you, it is a long story. But I will tell it well.”

  Admiral Jellico glanced at Picard who nodded slightly.

  “All right,” Jellico said. “Tell us your story.”

  Gowron smacked his hands down hard on the table. “Good.” He took a long drink of his blood wine and then motioned for Quark to bring him another.

  Then, eyeing his audience, he sat forward.

  “This is a true story.” He pulled out his knife and stuck it hard into the tabletop. “A warrior’s knife,” he said, indicating the weapon. “But a Klingon is not born a warrior. Being a warrior is something that must be earned. Before I earned this knife, I owned a ghojmeH taj, a boy’s knife.”

  Gowron glanced around at his audience for a moment. “This story is about Pok, son of Torghn, my friend and ally. A mere boy with a ghojmeH taj. I will tell you how Pok became a warrior.”

  Gowron glanced at the others around the table, then frowned. “But this will not do. No. Not at all. To tell this story correctly, I need someone who knows little of Klingons.”