by John M. Ford
The boy sighed. He missed his mother.
And now, at least for a while, he missed his father as well. He wished Worf had been able to tell him something more about his mission. It would’ve made the darkness a little less dark if he knew something. Anything.
Suddenly, he remembered. His father had received a subspace message recently. Alexander hadn’t thought to ask about it at the time, assuming it was something official or Worf would have discussed it with him.
But now he wondered. Could it have had something to do with the mission his father was on now? If that was the case, there would be some evidence of it in the ship’s computer system.
Swiveling in bed, Alexander lowered his feet to the floor, got up, and padded over to the computer terminal in the next room. At the same time, he called for some illumination.
As the lights went on, the boy deposited himself on the chair in front of the computer screen. Then he accessed the log for this particular terminal. It showed him a long list of communications, the vast majority of them from other sites on the Enterprise.
There was only one from off-ship. And its origin was the Klingon Empire!
Alexander’s hands clenched into fists. His instincts had been right on target so far. Now it was a matter of bringing the message up on the screen.
If it was classified information, he would be out of luck. No one could get into those files without Starfleet priority clearance. And even if he could somehow hack his way around that fact, he wouldn’t. He liked the officers on this ship too much to get in trouble with them.
With a few touches of his padd, the boy established that the message wasn’t classified after all. But it was restricted to this terminal and one other—the captain’s.
And Captain Picard had gone with Alexander’s father on the mysterious mission. The pieces are starting to fall into place, thought Alexander. Whatever was in the message, it had something to do with Worf’s being called away.
Of course, he could tear the cover off this mystery right now. Tapping again at his padd, he called up the file.
What he saw came as a surprise to him. There was no call for help. In fact, it wasn’t really a message at all. It was a history of some kind.
Curious, he read a few lines. And then a few more. It talked about Kahless and the kinds of things he did when he was young, but it didn’t seem to jibe too well with what Alexander knew of him. In fact, it seemed to be talking about someone else altogether.
Intrigued, the boy propped his elbows on his desk. Resting his face in his hands, he read on.
Picard couldn’t help frowning a little as he followed Kahless and Worf into the dining hall in Tolar’tu. After all, his hood was hardly a foolproof disguise. Anyone who had an opportunity to peer closely inside it would realize in a moment he was no Klingon.
All the more reason not to attract undue attention. Keeping his eyes straight in front of him, the captain felt the warmth of the firepit as he crossed the room.
There was a table in the corner with room for three. Kahless gestured, and they all sat down. Taking a moment to survey the place, Picard decided it was just as the clone had described it.
Nearly everyone was wearing a hood. Most were sitting alone, minding their own business, but there were pairs and trios as well. And everyone spoke in such low voices it was difficult to hear what they were saying.
The captain turned to Kahless. “Are they here?” he whispered.
The clone shook his head. “Not yet. But soon.” He eyed Worf. “And you will recognize Lomakh when you see him, I promise. That is, if you look closely enough.”
Picard and his security officer exchanged glances. Worf sat back in his chair and frowned.
No doubt, the lieutenant was wondering if he’d done the right thing encouraging his captain to come here. The closer they’d gotten to the dining hall, the more skeptical Worf’s expression had become.
Still, Picard mused, they had ventured this far. As the expression went, in for a penny, in for a pound.
He had barely finished the thought when the door opened and two men walked in. One was tall, the other shorter and broad. Like everyone else here, they wore cowls to conceal their features.
Kahless turned to his companions. Picard could tell from the gleam in the Klingon’s eye that these two were the ones he’d warned them about. Nonetheless, Kahless felt compelled to underline the point.
“It’s them,” he breathed.
Worf looked past him at the newcomers. They sat down at a table on the other side of the room and bent their heads until they were almost touching.
“You see?” Kahless commented. “Do they not look like conspirators?”
The captain sighed. The newcomers looked no more conspiratorial than anyone else in the place. “You said Mister Worf would recognize one of them.”
The clone nodded. “Yes. The tall one.”
Worf’s eyes narrowed in the shadow of his hood. “I cannot tell from here,” he decided. “I will need a better look.”
“Then by all means, take one,” Kahless urged.
His frown deepening, the security officer got up and crossed the room to the firepit. Once there, he made a show of warming his hands by its flames. Then he returned to the table.
“Well?” Kahless prodded.
Worf paused for a moment, then nodded. “I believe the tall one is Lomakh. I do not recognize the other.”
“Then you see what I am saying,” the clone hissed, triumphant. “What would Lomakh be doing in a place like this, concealing his face with a hood…unless it was to plan Gowron’s overthrow?”
“Unfortunately,” said Picard, “he could be doing a great many things.” He was still unconvinced.
“I told you,” Kahless insisted. “I read their lips. I saw them speak of plucking Gowron from the council like a fattened targ.”
As on the colony world, the captain turned to Worf, relying on his judgment and his expertise. “What do you think?” he asked.
The lieutenant sighed. “As an officer in the Defense Force, Lomakh is taking a risk coming here. It does not make sense that he would do so—unless he deemed it a greater risk to conduct his conversation elsewhere.”
“In other words,” said Picard, “you agree with the emperor’s assessment of the situation.”
Again, Worf paused a moment, ever cautious. “Yes,” he replied at last. “For now, at least, I agree.”
The captain absorbed the response. As far as he was concerned, they had seen enough. They could go.
But if they left without eating, Lomakh might notice and wonder about it. And if he really was part of a conspiracy, it might then dig itself an even deeper hole, from which it would be impossible to extricate it. So they hunkered down within their cowls and stayed.
A couple of minutes later, a serving maid came over. The clone ordered for all three of them. Fortunately, Picard was a connoisseur of Klingon fare, so he would arouse no suspicion in that regard.
His only disappointment was the lack of fresh gagh. Apparently, he would have to settle for the cooked variety.
The food wasn’t long in coming. But at Kahless’s request, they lingered over it, giving him more time to read lips and gather information. In the end, he failed to discover anything useful.
After a rather extended stay, Lomakh and his crony paid for their meals and left the place. The captain felt a bit of tension go out of him. Lomakh hadn’t seemed to pay any undue attention to them. Apparently, they had been careful enough to avoid suspicion.
Finishing their food, which was as tasty as the clone had predicted, they gave Lomakh enough time to make himself scarce. Then Kahless took care of their bill and they departed.
Outside, the air was chill and the sun was beginning to set, turning the sky a few shades darker in the west. Obviously, they had been in the dining hall longer than Picard had imagined.
As they retraced their steps toward the main square, which was a good half-kilometer distant, the captain ask
ed “Now what?”
Kahless looked at him. “I was hoping you would have a suggestion, Picard. After all, the captain of the Enterprise must wield considerable power.”
Picard understood the implication—or thought he did. “Not the kind you need, I’m afraid. We can’t exactly assume orbit around Qo’noS, beam down a security team, and place Lomakh under arrest. That is, if we even believed that was a good idea.”
“Which it is not,” the clone agreed. “As I myself pointed out, Lomakh is only a part of this. If we were to arrest him, we would never expose the rest of the conspiracy.” His eyes narrowed beneath his bony brow. “I was speaking more in terms of your influence, Picard. Surely, the Federation maintains spies within the Empire, who would—”
The captain looked at him. “Spies?” he repeated. He laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Kahless returned the look. “It is only logical. With the surgical techniques available, I imagine—”
“The Empire and the Federation are allies,” Picard asserted. “We have no spies among the Klingons.”
The clone smiled a thin smile. “Either you are naive or you seek to conceal the truth, human. I will give you the benefit of the doubt and embrace the first possibility.”
The captain shook his head. “I am neither concealing anything nor am I naive. We conduct no espionage within the Empire, period.”
Kahless harrumphed. “Then your Starfleet Headquarters informs you of every move it makes—without exception?”
Picard could see this was getting them nowhere. “Believe what you like,” he said. “The bottom line is I have no influence here, no resources. If we are to expose Lomakh’s conspiracy, we will have to resort to other means.”
The clone frowned. “Very well. If you won’t help, or can’t, we can always call on our—”
Picard looked at him, wondering why he’d stopped in midsentence. Then he saw the masked figures emerging from the alleyway to Kahless’s right, each of them clutching a three-bladed d’k tahg in either hand.
Even as the captain prepared himself for their onslaught, he spared a glance in the opposite direction—and saw more trouble coming from the alley opposite. Altogether, it looked to be six or seven against their three. Fortunately, Picard and his allies weren’t entirely unprepared.
They hadn’t been able to carry phasers off the Enterprise, for fear of being identified by them—and disruptors might also draw undue attention. But everyone carried a blade of some sort, and Kahless had seen to it they were no exception.
Slipping his d’k tahg free of the sheath on his thigh, the captain braced himself. Before he knew it, one of their assailants was on top of him. Twisting quickly to one side, Picard narrowly avoided disembowelment. And as the Klingon’s momentum carried him past, the human slammed his hilt into the back of the warrior’s head.
The masked one hit the ground and lay still. Picard barely had time to kneel and pick up a fallen d’k tahg before the next assault came. This time, perhaps seeing what the captain had done already, his adversary approached more slowly and deliberately.
Then, with a viciously quick and accurate lunge, he stabbed at Picard’s throat. The human fended off the attack with one of his own blades and countered with a backhand slash of his own. The Klingon leaped back, and the slash fell short.
Almost too late, Picard turned and realized what was really happening. The frontal assault was only a decoy, so a second Klingon could stab him from behind. Reacting instantly, he ducked—and the second assailant sailed over his head, confounding the first.
That gave the captain a chance to see how his companions were doing. He noted with relief that they were both still alive. There was blood running down the side of Worf’s face and Kahless had a wet, dark rent in the shoulder of his tunic, but their wounds weren’t slowing them down.
Picard watched as Worf lashed out with his foot, cracking an opponent’s rib, then faced off with another. And Kahless wove a web of steel with his dagger, keeping two more at bay.
As the captain turned back to his own assailants, he found them separating in an attempt to flank him. A sound strategy, he thought. Cautiously, he backed off, hoping to buy some time.
It would have been the right move, if not for the recovery of the Klingon he thought he’d knocked unconscious. Hearing the scrape of the warrior’s boots, Picard whirled in time to catch a downstroke with crossed blades—but the maneuver left him open to the other two.
The captain could almost feel the shock of cold steel sinking into his back. But it never came. Instead, he saw his adversary withdraw into the alley that had spawned him. Turning, Picard saw the other masked ones retreating as well.
Then he saw why. A group of warriors were approaching from the direction of the dining hall, eager to even the odds. Fortunately, there was nothing a Klingon disliked more than an unfair fight.
Kahless started after the masked ones, caught up in a bloodlust, but Worf planted himself in the clone’s way and restrained him. Seeing that his officer would need some help, Picard added his own strength to the effort.
“Let me go!” bellowed Kahless, his eyes filled with a berserker rage.
“No!” cried Worf. “We have got to get out of here, before people start asking questions!” Then he caught sight of the captain and his lips pulled back from his teeth. “Sir!” he hissed. “Your hood!”
Picard groped for it—and realized it had fallen back, exposing his all-too-human face to those around him. He pulled it up again as quickly as he could and looked around.
As far as he could tell, no one had seen him. The newcomers were far too eager to plunge after the attackers to notice much else.
Worf turned back to the clone. “Now we have even more reason to leave,” he rasped.
Kahless scowled and made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. Thrusting Worf away from him, he probed the wetness around his shoulder with his fingers. They came away bloody.
“The p’tahkmey,” he spat. “This was a perfectly good tunic. Mark my words, they’ll pay for ruining it.”
“You’ll need medical attention,” remarked Picard.
The Klingon looked at him and laughed. “For what?” he asked. “A flesh wound? I’ve done worse to myself at the dinner table.”
Then he gestured for Picard and Worf to follow, and started for the square again. Behind them, their rescuers were still hooting and shouting, but there was no din of metal on metal. Apparently, the attackers had gotten away.
The captain saw Worf turn to him, his brow creased with concern.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Picard nodded. “Better than I have a right to be. And you?”
The Klingon shrugged. “Well enough.”
The captain cast a wary glance down an alley as they passed it. “It seems we were not as circumspect as we believed. Someone realized we were on Lomakh’s trail and sent us a message.”
Worf grunted in agreement. “Stay clear of the conspiracy or die.”
Kahless looked back at them. “Is that what you’ll do, Picard? Stay away, now that I’ve shown you the truth of what I said?” His eyes were like daggers.
The captain shook his head. “No. Staying away is no longer an option. Like it or not, we’re in the thick of it.”
The clone smiled, obviously delighted by the prospect. “You know,” he told Picard, “we’ll make a Klingon of you yet.”
Then he turned his massive back on them and walked on with renewed purpose. After all, his point had been made, albeit at the risk of their lives.
Twelve: The Heroic Age
Kahless cursed deep in his throat. His breath froze on the air, misting his eyes, though it couldn’t conceal the urgency of his plight.
Up ahead of him, there were nothing but mountains, their snow-streaked flanks soaring high into wreaths of monstrous, gray cloud. As his s’tarahk reared, flinging lather from its flanks, the outlaw chief turned and saw the army less than a mile behind them.
Molor’s men. With Molor himself leading the hunt.
Again, Kahless cursed. The tyrant had come out of nowhere, surprising them, rousting them from their early Cold camp. He had forced them to fly before his vastly more numerous forces, and the only direction open to them had been this one.
So they’d run, and run, and run some more, until their mounts were slick with sweat and grunting with exhaustion. And all the while, Kahless had had the feeling they were being herded somewhere.
His feeling had been right. Now they were pinned against a barrier of steep, rocky slopes, which their s’tarahkmey had no hope of climbing. They had no choice but to turn and fight, and acquit themselves as well as possible before Molor’s warriors overran them.
Nor would their deaths be quick—Kahless’s, least of all. Molor had to be half-insane with his thirst for vengeance. Starad had been the most promising of his children, after all. The tyrant would make his son’s killer pay with every exquisite torture known to him.
As Molor’s forces grew larger on the horizon, the outlaw glanced at his men. They were watching their pursuers as well, wondering how they could possibly escape. Kahless wondered too.
No doubt, the tyrant had been tracking them for some time, feeding on rumors and s’tarahk prints, edging ever closer. That was the way he stalked those who defied him—with infinite patience, infinite care. And then he struck with the swiftness of heat lightning.
And this trap—this too was in keeping with Molor’s method. Many was the time Kahless had engineered just such a snare, in his days as the tyrant’s warchief. And to his knowledge, no one had ever escaped.
“Tell everyone to be ready,” he barked, eyeing Morath and Porus and Shurin in one sweeping glance. “Molor won’t hold any councils when he arrives. He’ll pounce, without warning or hesitation.”
For emphasis, Kahless drew his sword, which had become nicked from hewing tough, gnarled m’ressa branches. But he had had little choice. It was either that or go without cover from the snow and rain.
