by John M. Ford
The captain nodded. “Koroth. One of the Klingon clerics we had aboard a year and a half ago.”
“Ah,” said the first officer. So that’s who it was. “One of the people who created the Kahless clone.”
“Precisely. And since the clerics have no ship of their own, and Koroth wished to remain anonymous, he took advantage of his familiarity with the Byndarites to secure passage.”
Riker understood. Boreth was on the outskirts of the Empire—and therefore nearly in the path of one of the Byndarite trade routes.
“But that doesn’t explain what Koroth was doing here,” the first officer pointed out. “Or why he felt compelled to be so secretive.”
“No,” Picard conceded. “Apparently, he was acting as a go-between. It seems Emperor Kahless desires a meeting with myself and Mister Worf.”
Riker looked at the captain. “Why couldn’t Kahless tell you that himself?”
Picard frowned. “I don’t know—though Koroth implied we would find that out in due time. We have only one clue. Not long ago, a scroll was discovered on the Klingon homeworld—a scroll that seems to debunk a great many Klingon legends. Particularly those dealing with the historical Kahless.”
“I see,” said the first officer.
“Mister Worf received the content of the scroll via subspace communiqué recently. He’s agreed to make it available to you and the other senior officers, in case it becomes necessary to familiarize yourselves with it. I recommend you take a glance at it—just in case.”
Riker smiled uncertainly. “In case what?”
The captain sighed. “I don’t know that either, I’m afraid. If I were you, I would be ready for anything.”
The first officer grunted thoughtfully. “If you say so, sir.”
“I do. Dismissed, Number One.”
But Riker didn’t leave. He just sat there, trying to decide how best to phrase what he wanted to say.
Picard’s brow wrinkled. “Was there something else, Will?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten why you chose me to be the first officer of the Enterprise?”
The captain considered the question for a moment. “Because of that incident on Altair Three, you mean. The one where you forbade your captain to go on an away mission on the grounds it was too dangerous. When I read about it in your file, it showed me what you were made of—that you had the guts to stand up for what you believed in.”
“That’s right,” Riker confirmed. “You might say a bell went off in my brain back on Altair Three. A warning bell.”
Picard smiled. “Any reason that incident should come to mind right now?”
The first officer nodded. “That bell is going off again. You’re responding to the request of someone who tried to deceive you once before.”
It was hard to argue with that. Koroth and his clerics had tried to convince not only the captain, but the entire quadrant, that Kahless the clone was in fact Kahless the Unforgettable. And they had nearly gotten away with it.
“Even if you think you can trust him,” Riker went on, “you’re headed for the Klingon Empire—hardly the safest venue in the quadrant. And on top of it, you don’t know what you’ll find when you get there.”
Picard met his gaze. “All true, Number One. And if the situation were different, I would feel compelled to consider your argument. However, Kahless specifically asked for me to meet with him. Also, I have visited the homeworld before. I will hardly be a babe in the woods there.”
“And if it turns out to be a trap?” Riker suggested.
The captain’s mouth became a thin, hard line. “Then I shall no doubt wish I had listened to you. But my instincts tell me it’s not a trap, Will. And there is a Klingon expression…”
The first officer saw where Picard was going with his remark. “DujIIj yIvog,” he declared.
“Trust your instincts,” Picard translated. “Exactly.”
Riker thought for a moment. “All right,” he agreed at last. “We’ll both trust your instincts, sir.”
Alexander was doing his quantum mechanics homework—or trying to—when he heard the whisper of an opening door and saw his father walk in. Right away, the boy knew that something was up. After all, Lieutenant Worf didn’t normally visit in the middle of his shift.
Then, just in case Alexander had any doubts, he saw the expression on his father’s face. It was an expression he’d seen before, a funny mixture of reluctance and determination.
The reluctance part had to do with his having a son on board—someone he had to raise and protect—and that meant not exposing himself to danger any more than he had to. He hadn’t shared any of that with the boy, but Alexander had figured it out all the same.
As for the determination…the boy wasn’t quite sure about that. But he could guess.
Sighing, Alexander leaned back from his computer terminal. “You’re going on a mission, aren’t you?”
His father looked at him. “Yes,” he admitted. “And there is a chance I will be gone for some time.”
The boy nodded. “Can I ask where you’re going? Or has the captain asked you not to say anything?”
Worf scowled. “In fact, he has. But I can tell you this much—it involves the Empire.”
“You’re going to the homeworld?”
His father shrugged. “Possibly.”
“In secret?” Alexander pressed.
“In secret,” his father confirmed.
“How will you get there?”
“More than likely, we will be transported by the Pescalians.”
Now it was the boy’s turn to frown. “The Pescalians? But I thought you said their ships were held together with spit.”
Worf harrumphed. “Perhaps I was exaggerating. In any case, we will rendezvous with one of their vessels in an hour.”
Alexander felt a lump in his throat—the one he got whenever his father left on some dangerous assignment. And by the sound of it, this one was pretty dangerous.
“Who’s we?” he asked.
“The captain and I,” Worf replied.
Well, that was a bright spot. Alexander trusted the captain. He was a smart man. And Starfleet wasn’t eager to lose him if they could help it.
“Okay,” the boy said, not wanting his father to see his fear. “Have a good trip.”
Not that Worf would have scolded him for being afraid. They had come to an understanding about Alexander’s human side, the quarter of his heritage he had received from his mother’s mother. But it was considered bad luck for a Klingon to leave in the midst of sorrow.
“I will try,” his father agreed. “In the meantime, keep up your schoolwork. And your bat’leth practice.”
Alexander nodded. “I will.”
“And if you need anything, you can turn to Counselor Troi. She will be glad to help in any way she can.”
The boy knew that without Worf’s having to say it. He liked Counselor Troi. And so did his father, though he sometimes didn’t seem eager to admit it—even to himself.
“Don’t worry,” said Alexander. He smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
Worf looked at him. His eyes gleamed with a touch of pride. “Good. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Sure,” the boy told him, faking an assurance he didn’t quite feel. “When you get back.”
A moment later, his father was gone.
Eight: The Heroic Age
Hungry as he was, Kahless had a hard time keeping his mind on the food that writhed and steamed and bled on Lord Vathraq’s table. Of course, his men had no such problem.
They heaped their plates high with heart of targ and serpent worms, with warm, soft tor’rif bread and dark, sweet minn’hor cheese. They slacked their thirst with fragrant bloodwine, poured by Vathraq’s servants. And they gorged themselves as if they didn’t know where their next meal was coming from, which was no more or less than the truth.
Kahless, on the other hand, was too busy watching Vathraq’s daughter to pay much attent
ion to food.
Her name was Kellein, and in all his years he had never seen anything like her. At first glimpse, back at the river, he had appreciated her courage above all—despite her nakedness. Now, as he watched her move from table to table, seeing to it that everyone was amply served, he took time to appreciate her more obvious attributes.
The way her hips swayed beneath her long, belted tunic, for instance. Or the sharpness of her teeth. Or the shape of her eyes, as brown and oval as en’tach leaves in the spring.
Kahless would have guessed that she was twenty years old, perhaps twenty-two. Yet she was wearing a jinaq amulet on a silver chain, signifying that her parents had only in the last year deemed her old enough to take a mate.
By that sign, the warrior knew her to be only eighteen. It made her defiance in the river seem even more impressive to him.
Instinctively, he tried to catch her eye. To communicate without words his body’s yearning for her. But Kellein didn’t look his way.
Cursing himself, Kahless drained a goblet full of bloodwine. Why should she? he asked himself bitterly. All I am is a stinking outlaw, a man with no standing and no future. She’d be better off with a half-wit for a mate than a man marked for death by Molor.
Abruptly, the warchief heard a clamor at the far end of his table. Turning, he saw Vathraq standing with a goblet in his hand, pounding on the wooden boards for silence.
It took a while, but he got it. Smiling like someone who’d had too much bloodwine—which was true, if the stains in his ample gray beard were any indication—Vathraq raised his goblet in Kahless’s direction.
“For my guest,” he bellowed. “Kahless the Unconquered, Bane of the Emperor Molor. May he feed the tyrant his own entrails!”
There was a roar from Vathraq’s people, most of whom were as drunk as he was. As they echoed the toast, they drummed their fists against their tables, making the rafters ring with their noise.
But Kahless didn’t like the sound of his host’s words. Getting up, he felt himself sway a little—a sign that he’d had more wine than he thought. But he spoke nonetheless.
“I have no intention of going anywhere near Molor, much less feeding him his entrails. In fact, I want to stay as far away from him as I can.”
Vathraq roared with laughter. “Whatever you say,” he replied. “Don’t worry about us, brave Kahless. We’ll keep your secret.” He turned to his some of his people. “Won’t we?”
They howled their approval. Kahless shook his head, intent on dispelling any illusion they had created for themselves.
“No,” he shouted. “I mean it. We’re outlaws, not idiots. No one can get within a mile of Molor, anyway.”
But Vathraq and his people only laughed even louder. Dismissing them with a wave of his hand, Kahless sat down again. Obviously, they would believe what they wanted to, no matter what he said.
But as he poured another goblet full of bloodwine, the warchief saw Morath looking at him from across the room. Of all his men, only Morath seemed clear of eye, free of the wine’s influence. And he had a distinct look of disapproval on his face.
Kahless could guess why, too. If he had learned one thing about Morath, it was that the man had principles—the kind that didn’t allow him to let a falsehood go uncorrected.
The warchief grunted. Some falsehoods weren’t worth worrying about, he mused. Turning away from Morath, he drained his goblet, allowing his troubles to drown themselves one at a time.
Nine: The Modern Age
Picard materialized on a smooth, black plateau open to a glorious, red-orange sky. The air was cool, with a strange, spicy scent to it. Beyond the precipice before him, a good hundred and fifty meters below, a Klingon colony sprawled across a ruddy brown landscape.
Turning to his left, he saw that Worf had taken shape beside him. That was something of a relief. He hadn’t particularly trusted the transporter unit in the Pescalian cargo ship that had brought them here.
Then again, they hadn’t had much choice in the matter. The captain couldn’t have taken the Enterprise into Klingon territory without notice—not unless he wished to start a war with Gowron.
“Worf!” boomed a deep voice from behind them. “Captain Picard!”
The captain turned—and saw Kahless emerge from behind a rock formation. The clone grinned. As he closed with them, a curious-looking amulet swung from a thong around his neck.
“It is good to see you again,” he said. “Both of you. In fact, you don’t know how good.”
“It is good to see you as well, Emperor,” Worf responded.
Kahless clasped his fellow Klingon by the forearm, then repeated the gesture with Picard. The captain winced. The clone was as strong as ever.
“You look well, Emperor,” Picard said.
Kahless shrugged. “I am well,” he replied, “despite what you may have heard.” He looked past the human at the installation below them. “Strange. I have never been to this world before, but it feels familiar here.”
He paused to consider the place for a moment. Then, slowly, a smile broke out on his face.
“T’chariv,” the clone whispered.
“In the north?” asked Worf.
Kahless nodded. “Of course, the sky was this color only at sunset. But the shape of the settlement, the way it nestles in the hills…” He grunted. “It’s T’chariv, all right. The place where the original Kahless called the outlying provinces to his banner.”
Picard didn’t say anything. Neither did Worf.
The clone looked at them. “Yes,” he added, responding to their unspoken question. “I am sure the original Kahless visited T’chariv. Any person or thing that says otherwise is a liar.”
Again, the captain withheld comment. Until the scroll was determined to be authentic or otherwise, he couldn’t offer any encouragement. What’s more, the clone knew it.
“In any case,” Kahless went on, “I didn’t bring you here to reminisce with me. There is treachery afoot. Treachery which will tear apart the Klingon Empire if left to run its course.”
Picard couldn’t help but be interested. “Treachery from what quarter?” he inquired evenly.
The emperor grunted. “I take no pleasure in saying this—but it is my duty as emperor.” He paused for effect. “Apparently, the Klingon Defense Force is undertaking a military coup designed to unseat Gowron and the rest of the council.”
“How do you know this?” asked Worf.
“I know,” said Kahless, “because I saw two of the conspirators whispering in a dining hall in Tolar’tu, during the Festival of Muar’tek—and nearly every day since. Fortunately, I can still read lips as well as ever.”
Picard looked at him skeptically. “But the leaders of the Defense Force were handpicked by Council leader Gowron. They have sworn to defend him with their very lives.”
Kahless’s eyes blazed. “That,” he told the human, his voice thick with revulsion, “is why they call it treachery.” He turned his head and spat. “Believe me when I say there’s a scheme against Gowron. And certainly, that would be bad enough. But the conspirators also mentioned Olahg’s scroll—said it had enabled them to get their rebellion under way.”
“How so?” asked Worf.
The clone made a gesture of dismissal. “The rebels are embracing it as evidence that I am not worth their respect. That Kahless the Unforgettable is not what he seems—and never was.”
Worf scowled. “And in many instances, you were all that kept the people from rising up against Gowron.”
“Exactly,” said the clone. “Without me to bolster him, Gowron is all too vulnerable. Mind you, he’s not my idea of a great leader, but he’s a damned sight better than the alternative.”
Picard agreed. Gowron, at least, was still an ally of the Federation. The next council leader might not be so inclined.
His eyes losing their focus, Kahless pounded his fist into his other hand. “I wanted to confront the conspirators right then and there. I wanted to stand on the
ir conniving necks and watch their blood run out on the floor.” He sighed. “Then I realized I wouldn’t be tearing down the rebellion—only lopping off one of its limbs.”
“And that’s when you came to us?” the captain asked.
The clone shook his head. “First I went to Gowron, for all the good it did. He didn’t believe I’d uncovered a threat. He thought I was seeing these things because I wanted to—because I needed to feel important.”
Picard didn’t want to say so, but he had some doubts himself. And so would Worf, the captain thought, if he knew the Klingon’s mind.
This business with the scroll was clearly making Kahless wary. More than likely, he was imagining things. Lots of people whisper in dining halls, but that doesn’t mean they plan to overthrow the government.
“You don’t believe me,” the clone said suddenly, noticing some nuance in Picard’s expression. He looked at Worf, then back to the captain again. “Neither of you. You’re as incredulous as Gowron was.”
“Forgive me,” Picard replied, “but there’s no proof—”
“I know what I’m talking about!” Kahless thundered. “You want proof? Come with me to the homeworld and I’ll give you proof!”
The captain didn’t think that would be a good idea. He said so. “It was a risk just coming to this colony world. Returning with you to Qo’noS would place Federation-Klingon relations in considerable jeopardy.”
The clone’s nostrils flared. “They are in considerable jeopardy already, Picard, though you refuse to see it. Knowing me as you do, how can you place so little trust in me? How can you ignore the possibility that I’m right—and that the Empire stands on the brink of revolution?”
Picard had to admit the Klingon had a point. With little or nothing in the way of facts at this juncture, he would be taking a risk either way. And if there was a conspiracy after all—and he ignored it—he would have to live with that oversight the rest of his days.
He turned to Worf. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”
