The Hand of Kahless

by John M. Ford

  Krenn watched a monitor, showing Humans fighting one another in the streets of a city. The city’s location was not given, and its name was meaningless to him. He, and Akhil, and Fencer, were the subjects of the riot; Krenn wondered how far away the Humans were rioting.

  He also wondered what their purpose was in letting him see this.

  The Klingons and the Ambassador Dr. Tagore had been transferred, at a place called Juarez–El Paso Station, to a gravity-suspended train of cars riding elevated tracks. Akhil had asked one of the train crew their speed: the Human seemed startled to hear the Klingon speaking his language, but then rather proudly gave the speed as three hundred kilometers an Earth hour. Akhil gave a suitably impressed thanks.

  The sun had set; Dr. Tagore assured Krenn it was safe to watch, and the colors were indeed dramatic. Now Krenn was alone in the last car of the train. Akhil was one car forward, dozing in a small bedroom. Dr. Tagore was further ahead, in conference with the other Federation officials aboard. There was a soldier visible through the door to that car, not threatening, merely armed and ready.

  The door to Krenn’s car opened, and two Humans came in. The first was a Starfleet Admiral, Marcus van Diemen; the second was a Colonel of the Earth Surface Forces named Rabinowich.

  Van Diemen was a large, impressive male with yellow hair and light skin; he wore a Starfleet dress uniform with plenty of gold braid, more by far than Admiral Whitetree had worn. Jael Rabinowich wore a uniform like those her soldiers wore, with rank badges of dark fabric that would not show to an enemy’s scouts or snipers, and a sidearm of dull black metal that was clearly not for show. She was darker than van Diemen, much smaller, though not slight. Krenn thought about Whitetree’s comments on female Commanders. He looked at Rabinowich’s face, and wondered what tools she would use to lead.

  Admiral van Diemen said, “We have a change of plans.” His voice was large as well. “A gentleman of some importance has asked to speak with you, and the diversion and meeting have just been approved. It will delay us perhaps half a day…will your crew become alarmed, if you are stopped for a few hours before reaching Federa-Terra?”

  Van Diemen looked at Krenn’s communicator. Krenn had supposed the Federation would be screening them from search; but then, no one could ever quite know what the enemy’s sensors could sense past. And if they did not in fact have the transporter…“I will inform them. To where is the diversion?”

  “The city of Atlanta, State of Georgia, United States of America.”

  Wherever that was, Krenn thought. “And whom are we to meet?”

  “His name is Maxwell Grandisson, the Third. He is a private citizen, but, as I say, influential. In fact, it was partly through Mr. Grandisson’s efforts that the embassy to Klingon is being established.”

  “Klinzhai,” Krenn said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Homeworld’s name is Klinzhai.”

  “Ahh. I see.” Van Diemen acted as if he had just discovered a major military secret. Krenn wondered if the Admiral understood any klingonaase.

  Krenn said, trying not to sound too curious, “Will the stop in this city complicate your security arrangements?”

  Van Diemen looked past Krenn, at the monitor screen, and took on a vaguely distracted expression. Colonel Rabinowich said, “Complicate them, yes. This citizen insists on meeting you at the place of his choosing. And the Atlanta Metroplex is very large. But we can control our people.” Her voice was surprisingly soft, though not smooth. She nodded toward the rioters on the screen. “To protest, to demonstrate, these we may not interfere with. But we will not let them cause lasting damage.”

  Admiral van Diemen said, “You must understand, Captain…many of our people have lost relatives and friends to Klingon action. I myself had a brother killed on the frontier. This is why we must have peace.”

  Both the Humans had used the phrase “our people”; the same possessive, yet Krenn felt they did not mean the same thing by it.

  “I assure you, Admiral, I shall do my best,” said a voice from the car ahead. Colonel Rabinowich instantly moved to let Dr. Tagore pass. She would be a good Swift, perhaps, Krenn thought. But her bearing seemed more that of a Fencer.

  “Yes,” van Diemen said, uncertain for only an instant. “Well. We’ll be returning to our car now; there’s still a lot to do and not much time to do it in. Good night, Captain…Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Good night,” Dr. Tagore said. Krenn bowed slightly. The Admiral went out. “Peace,” the Colonel said, and followed.

  When the door had closed, Krenn said in klingonaase, “Peace? Was that sarcasm? At you?”

  “Not at all. It’s a common greeting, or exit line. I see your companion has retired; do you need to rest?”

  “Not for some time.”

  “Your day is longer than ours?”

  “Somewhat.”

  Dr. Tagore smiled. “I ask only as one who expects to live there soon. Shall we sit and talk, then? You said you drank coffee, so I brought some.”

  Krenn turned the monitor off as Dr. Tagore filled cups. When they were settled, Dr. Tagore said, “You are vestai-Rustazh. Is the line a large one?”

  “No…. Only I am this line.”

  “Then you are a founder.”

  “You have authentic knowledge,” Krenn said, surprised that the Human had so quickly drawn the conclusion.

  “There are reports, mostly from Vulcan. And there are books and tapes…they filter from your space into ours, in Orion loot and Rigellian trading hulls. I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but a spy was captured on Argelius III, and the one had dozens of books and tapes, a closetful of them. Starfleet Intelligence was convinced the one was using them in an elaborate code scheme, and as the nearest available reader of klingonaase I was called in to read the lot.”

  Krenn sipped the kafei—he found he was actually coming to like the stuff—and wondered that the Ambassador should so casually reveal his connection with the Intelligence service. “Were they a code?”

  “Not at all. They were solely for his pleasure. As he said, as soon as the matter was found: but Intelligence did not believe this. I told them, once he was discovered, and no longer a spy, the one would say nothing, or tell the truth. But I was not believed, either.”

  Perhaps that was the point of the story: indirectly, the Human was discounting his tie to Intelligence.

  Dr. Tagore said, “I’m pleased to find my knowledge is valid. There are some famous fictions about our history that I should not like an alien ambassador to take learning from…. Though I confess I have become quite fond of Battlecruiser Vengeance. Is it still in production?”

  “Yes,” Krenn said, trying not to choke.

  “I was correct that you are founder of a line, Captain; do you have a sole consort, or many?”

  At least this one asked in private, as one with a concern. “I have no consort at this time.”

  Dr. Tagore paused, said, “I see. My own wife—” he used the Human word—“is dead.”

  Krenn waited: every Human seemed to have a close relative killed by marauding Klingons.

  “A disease of the nerve sheaths,” Dr. Tagore said, looking away from Krenn. “Gualter’s neuromyelitis. There is a chemical therapy, but one patient in twenty cannot tolerate it; that one dies in a few years.” The Human looked at Krenn, said in a very mild, almost apologetic tone, “I am told the symptoms are similar to the effects of your agonizer device….” In Human he added, “I’m sorry; I meant nothing by that.”

  That made still another inflection of the word sorry.

  Dr. Tagore said, still in Federation Standard, “I know your race has no tradition of ghosts or revenants, no rites for the dead. Ours has too many of them. I say this to explain certain of our actions, that might otherwise seem strange. I have a theory…but this isn’t the time for it. Please, let’s find another subject.”

  Krenn waited a moment. The Human’s eyes seemed even brighter than before, yet the face was older, more crump
led. At once Krenn also wished to change the subject. He pointed at the darkened monitor. “Those people…who hate us…how many of them are there?”

  “Enough,” Dr. Tagore said. “Always enough. The Klingon Empire has been a very convenient devil, these twenty-odd years. Whenever a ship vanishes in that general direction of space, someone claims, with or without evidence, that it’s ‘fallen prey to the savage Klingon.’ All too often the claim is made on the floor of the Solar Senate, or even the whole Federation.” He sighed. “From the Galactic Bermuda Triangle to the Klingon Twilight Zone.”

  Krenn said, “Twenty odd years?”

  “An idiom, pardon. In klingonaase, twenty-plus—which is also an idiom of ours; I must be sure to use that one from now on. First contact with the komerex klingon was, if I can unwind it from the Stardate system, twenty-two Standard years ago. That would be twenty years Klingon standard, if I have the ratios right.”

  “Yes, that is the difference as I understand it.” Krenn was not really thinking about year lengths, but the fact that the first Federation ships had been taken by the Empire fully thirty years ago: thirty Klingon years. Obviously no prize had reported its fate for a long time.

  “There was a novel, written long before we had starflight and even longer before warp drive,” Dr. Tagore was saying, “in which the accidental loss of some starships coincided with first contact with nonhumans—who had also lost ships. Both sides resorted to the communication that needs no translation. The war, in the story, lasted a thousand years.”

  “A war of a thousand years…?” Krenn said. It was an astonishing idea, still more so from a Human. Yet Krenn could, thinking on it, see how it might be conducted: dynastic lines ruling over lines of battle, fifty generations born and dying in the pursuit of a single glory. A war like that would mark worlds deeply so that if, a million years after, when all the warriors were dust, a new race should come upon the space, they would know what had happened there.

  Dr. Tagore said, “Perhaps we will not take so long to communicate. I do not have a thousand years left in this life, and I fear I have about used my karma up.”

  “I do not know the word.”

  “Neither do I.” The Human was smiling whitely; his teeth, Krenn saw, were square-cornered, without points. “At least, not so I could explain it properly, and that’s the same thing. My enlightenment is all of the immanent sort.”

  Krenn wondered at this little Human, who seemed to think he could dismiss an idea as potent as a war of a thousand years in a single moment…who would stand between two Empires, like waves of the sea, or colliding stars, and hold them apart. It was absurd; it was silly; perhaps it was insane.

  Krenn thought then of the Willall, and the Tellarites, all hollow great words…but no, he did not think this Dr. Tagore was kuve. He drank more kafei; it had gone cold. It was not good cold. Dr. Tagore saw Krenn’s grimace, tasted his own drink, said, “I see what you mean. I’ll get another pot.”

  When the Human had gone, Krenn turned on the monitor again, set it to the channel that gave continuous news reports. There was a report of an industrial accident, a display of new clothing by “famous designers” that was little short of bewildering, and then more tape of the rioters. They were breaking windows of buildings, which seemed strange, since Krenn and Akhil were the only Klingons on Earth—at least, the only Klingons known to be on Earth. A group burned a wooden model of a D-4 cruiser. Krenn laughed; no one had told him Humans believed in primitive magic.

  Then the picture changed again, to two streaks of light in darkness, and Krenn leaped to the train window; slowly, he opened a curtain.

  The train’s guideway was elevated on castrock piers, twenty to twenty-five meters above the ground: below, as the train flashed by, were long dashes of light. With difficulty Krenn resolved them into Humans with torches, electric and flaming and cold chemical. He tried to calculate their number: Akhil said the train covered five thousand meters every local minute. Krenn looked at his communicator’s time display.

  Krenn turned as the door opened. It was Akhil. He did not look rested at all. He pointed at the glass. “I saw them from the window. They’ve been with us for at least an hour.”

  “How many, do you figure?”

  “A hundred thousand, probably more. I suppose they could be relaying a smaller group, behind us to ahead; a flier could just outrun this train. But what I’m really thinking is what a couple of good shots into one of those support towers would do.”

  “That is also Colonel Rabinowich’s thought,” Dr. Tagore said from the doorway. “She does tell me that the construction is very strong, and hand weapons would not serve, and they have sensor vehicles searching for any larger weapons.” In a smaller voice he said, “She also says that a certain number of the demonstrators are actually her troops, disguised.”

  “Kai Rabinowich,” Krenn said, impressed.

  “Yes,” Dr. Tagore said, speaking klingonaase again. “Her family have been soldiers for more than ten generations, and I think your praise would please her, if it were properly explained.” He looked down at the torches streaming by. “It is the explanations which are hard…especially in a culture which knows no difference between a machine translation and an understanding of language.”

  He paused, filled two cups with kafei, then a third for Akhil, who seemed genuinely glad to have it. Dr. Tagore said, “You have noticed, perhaps, that in Fed-Standard klingonaase is pronounced a little strangely?”

  “ ‘Klingoneeze,’ ” Akhil said.

  Dr. Tagore nodded. “That suffix is common in several of Standard’s root languages, including, dear me, Rigellian Trade Dialect, to turn a nation-name into the nation-language—which itself is a less than wholly useful notion. And so we have Japanese, Terchionese, F’tallgatri’itese, and, when the circuits got the word in their clutches, ‘Klingonese.’ The whole significance of the aase suffix, that the language is the tool for manipulating the embodiment of the klin principle…all that is lost, in the leap of an electron across an Abramson junction.”

  Krenn said, “What do the lights out there mean? The flames? Can you translate those? Or is it your language that needs no translation?”

  “They need to say something,” Dr. Tagore said calmly, “but they do not know just what. Not yet.” He went to the monitor, which was showing close views of the chains of Humans, showing their faces, lit by torchlight and searchlight and the flash of the train’s passing. Krenn could see the strong emotions there, and knew that he must be seeing fear, and hate, and pain, because those were the only things he knew that could bend the face so, but he was not at all sure which was which, or what else might be there as well.

  “You understand, now,” Dr. Tagore said in klingonaase. “You do not know yet, either, what to say. There must be a little time.”

  Krenn said, “And if, in time, they still hate us?” He was aware, even as he spoke, that he said it only to get a little time to think.

  Dr. Tagore put his thin-fingered hand across his eyes, as if to hide them from the faces on the screen; but at once he took it away, and looked at Krenn and Akhil. “I said that Colonel Rabinowich’s was a line of warriors. That line is rooted in a hate that ran deeper than blood runs in the liver, that many people of the best intention though could only end in the separations of walls and wire, or in the mass grave. And there were those things. But the walls are down, and the graveyards…they are remembered, and kept, which is a thing our race does.

  “And Admiral van Diemen’s people had their war, too, for hate instead of territory. And the walls, and the graves. But finally the peace. The city of Atlanta, to which we are making a side excursion, was burned to nothing a hundred years before nuclear explosives made it so much less laborious a task…. And my own ancestors were thesecond nation of Earth to use a nuclear explosive against an enemy, though not the last, not the last.

  “We know what hate is, Captain, and we practice it with great finesse. But sometimes we achieve things in spite of it
.”

  Akhil said, without force, “But if they want the war?”

  “If they do, Commander, I will oppose them. I am a public servant; I am not a servitor.”

  Krenn saw Akhil’s eyes flick. He realized that he had failed to take this Human’s measure. And the advantage he had found was—at least with this one—gone: this one could have no concern with being made absurd. He might die—they all might, Krenn thought, as another hundred Human fires flashed by—but silly he would not be.

  Wondering if he had now been twice maneuvered into changing the subject, Krenn said, “This diversion…do you know this person we’re to see? This important person?”

  “Maxwell Grandisson the Third,” Dr. Tagore said, stretching out the syllables. “I know of him, who doesn’t—sorry, Captain—but we’ve never met. I have only once been to Atlanta, and he never leaves the city. Which indirectly answers your indirect question: he is powerful enough that he does not have to leave. If he wishes to see a mountain, the mountain comes to him.” The Human smiled. “Figuratively speaking, of course. Though I do not doubt he has the resources to move mountains. Small ones, at any rate.”

  Akhil said, “How much wealth is concentrated with this Human?”

  “Enough…always enough, somehow. But faith is the power that moves mountains, and of that he has access to a great deal more than enough.”

  Krenn said, “What does he want from us, then? Trade? Or just the satisfaction of his curiosity?”

  “Certainly not the first, and not just the second.” Dr. Tagore hesitated. “Mr. Grandisson is a leader of a large—still growing, I regret to say—movement, spread throughout Human space. This…movement is not known so much for what it wants, as what it does not want.”

  “War?” Krenn said, and then remembered that Dr. Tagore had regretted.

  “The stars,” Dr. Tagore said.

  The sun was rising behind the city called Atlanta. The entire city seemed to be built of glass and crystal and bright metal, cylindrical columns and truncated pyramids endlessly reflecting one another, all tied together with flying bridges at every level. Morning light colored all the glass a pale red: Krenn thought of Dr. Tagore’s comment, of the city burning. A century before nuclears, the Human said, however long ago that was. It was a Vulcan calculation that a culture’s lifespan was either some fifty years after basic fission was discovered, or else indefinite.