I.K.S. Gorkon Book Three

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  QaS DevwI’ Vok’s words echoed in Wol’s ears, but they did not concern her, as the threat in his words was overwhelmed by the pride she felt in being promoted to leader, and of one of the squads in First Company!

  “And then—and then —the petaQ fell on top of my tik’leth!”

  Wol was more drunk than she’d been since the early days of her discommendation, in those dark days before she realized that the Defense Force was an option. But this time she was drunk in the company of her troops. Her troops. The fifteenth was hers, and tonight she brought them back together.

  “But it’s all a lie, isn’t it?”

  What?

  “You’re not a leader.”

  Father, what are you doing here?

  “You’re just a fool of a girl, who was too stupid to mate with Vranx like you were supposed to.”

  You’re dead, Father!

  “Instead, you let your girlish passions lure you into the arms of that toDSaH Kylor.”

  Stop it, Father.

  “Now Kylor’s dead, I’m dead, your mother’s dead, and your son is dead—at your own hand!”

  Stop it, Father!

  “You’re a failure, Eral—or Wol, or whatever name you’ve taken on.”

  STOP IT, FATHER!

  “Interesting.”

  Something pressed against Wol’s chest and legs, preventing her from sitting up as her eyes shot open. Only when she relaxed in response to that sensation did she realize that she was lying down—and that she was now awake. Dreaming—I was dreaming….

  The room she was in was, of course, spherical—rounded walls curved upward from the floor, uniting at the top, providing neither walls nor a ceiling—and filled with all manner of equipment that Wol couldn’t begin to recognize.

  Wol lay in the center of the room. The restraints allowed her to swivel her head—they held only her torso, thighs, and ankles down—so she was able to see the two Elabrej in the room with her. One was armed and decorated in the same manner as those who fired on them in the complex—Wol assumed him to be a soldier of some sort.

  The other was the one who had said, “Interesting.” He—Wol had no way to distinguish gender among the Elabrej, if indeed they even had genders, but she defaulted to the male until proven otherwise—was not decorated with the markings, and he had a device of some sort in three of his ten-fingered hands.

  “I actually understood the alien’s words when she awakened. ‘Stop it, Father.’ I wonder what that means in this context. Obviously, my hypothesis was correct in that these creatures have something on this protective covering they wear that enables their words to be translated in both directions. It’s amazing technology.”

  Wol assumed he was dictating notes, since she couldn’t imagine that his words were for the benefit of either her or the soldier. And he has deduced the translator capability of our wrist communicators. Obviously he is a scientist of some kind.

  She tried to think back on what happened. The last thing she remembered clearly was leading the attack into the Elabrej stronghold. She remembered Trant dying in the initial attack—then nothing. What happened to us? Then, mentally rebuking herself, she thought, It’s obvious what happened to us—we failed. They took us—however many of us survived—prisoner along with the Kravokh crew.

  “I have to say,” the scientist droned on, “I’ve been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to talk to these creatures, but I never imagined I’d actually get the chance.”

  Wol decided to speak. “I have nothing to say to you, Elabrej.”

  The scientist dropped one of his devices, apparently surprised. He bent over to pick it up with one of his middle hands, his upper hands resting on the floor. Then he stood upright on those upper hands and turned around. “So you can understand me? You have language concepts?”

  “Do not turn your back on me, Elabrej! I am a Klingon warrior, and I am here to tell you that I will do everything in my power to escape you—any way I can.”

  Without turning back around, the alien said, “ ‘Turn your back on me’? I’m afraid I don’t understand. What does that—?” Then four of his arms vibrated. “Oh, of course! You can only see in a limited direction—in the small area on one side of your brain pouch. So naturally, you would place some cultural significance on someone who was not directly in your line of vision. Fascinating, most fascinating.”

  Images started to come back to Wol. Fighting the Elabrej. Troops dropping all around her. Many Elabrej dropping, but there were so many more of them.

  Goran killed the most, of course. Twice the size of any Klingon, and three times the size of these headless beings, he tore through them with his hands and his ancient disruptor.

  But eventually, even he was brought down. The Elabrej weapons didn’t kill him, she remembered that much at least.

  And she remembered something else. “Take them alive,” someone had said. “Take the rest of them alive.”

  She could not remember if any of the fifteenth—besides Trant—had died. If they did, at least they are in Sto-Vo-Kor instead of being poked and prodded by this monster.

  “Tell me, creature—do lower beings like you have a name?”

  Wol said nothing. She had said everything she intended to say to the alien scientist. Instead, she tested her bonds.

  “It is as I suspected. These are just simple animal creatures, no doubt the slaves for a properly evolved species.”

  Controlling her reaction, Wol instead continued to strain at her bonds. Let this bloodworm believe that we are weak. I will take pleasure in cutting him open to show him the error of his ways.

  “It’s obviously something on the armor that does it. We’ll sedate her and then remove the armor so we can study her more closely.” As he spoke, the scientist moved closer to her and used his upper arms to place something on her neck. She tried to angle her head away from him, but the bonds held her too tight. More and more she struggled, but the room started to grow hazy and indistinct, and the words that came out of the scientist’s mouth were so much gibberish, and her thoughts started to fragment….

  Images—her father rebuking her in the House Varnak estate’s sitting room—Goran killing several Elabrej—Kylor kissing her in the woods behind the estate—Skragg training her on Ty’Gokor—her son dead at her feet by her own hands in the village of Val-Goral—B’Oraq treating her wounds in the medical bay—G’joth discussing his abortive writing projects in the mess hall—Krevor dying at the hands of the Children of San-Tarah—Trant’s arm being blown off on Elabrej—Krantor giving orders that would get them all killed on Mempa IX—Vok telling her she was leader of the fifteenth on the Gorkon—

  Then she was awake again. She had no idea how much time had passed, but her uniform had been removed, and the straps adjusted so that they would restrain her naked body. Again, she strained against those bonds, shaking her head back and forth—

  —then she stopped, noticing something amiss.

  It was impossible to be sure, but Wol was fairly certain that this alien petaQ shaved off her hair!

  The petaQ in question continued to make observations, but with her communicator—and everything else—removed, Wol couldn’t understand a word he said. Instead, she continued to push against her bonds, even though they cut into her flesh, and also looked more closely at her surroundings. She noticed that the items in the room were all focused on the center, with nothing up against the walls. Thinking back, she remembered that the other rooms were decorated like that as well.

  Her struggles were fruitless. Whatever the bonds were made of, it was something she could not rend, especially not with bare skin. It appeared to be flexible to a point, probably to allow for the different sizes and shapes of people it was used to restrain. Finally, she stopped struggling and relaxed.

  The bonds, which had been conforming to her shape, did not snap back to tighten against her body. They’ve slackened.

  Wol grinned. No doubt the straps were designed for the smaller Elabrej. Holding a much larg
er Klingon was obviously straining their tensile strength.

  Eventually, the scientist finished his endless droning, and then touched a control on one of the devices he was holding.

  Pain sliced through every cell in Wol’s body. A scream ripped from her throat as agonizing pain that seemed to come from no particular source tore through her.

  Just as quickly, the pain stopped, though Wol thought she would feel its aftereffects for some time.

  While she lay on the table trying to keep herself conscious, the scientist started to babble again. Then he touched another stud.

  As bad as the pain was the first time, it was several orders of magnitude worse the second. Wol felt as if she was being torn limb from limb, muscle from muscle, cell by cell. It was as if every atom that comprised her form was being individually stabbed with a rusty blade and then twisted.

  Then, again, it stopped, prompting the scientist to drone on some more.

  Wol’s breathing was heavy and labored, and she could barely focus her thoughts, but she knew that the restraints were still slackened.

  The alien scientist walked over to her and moved to once again place the sedative on her neck.

  Wol bit his hand.

  Screaming, the scientist moved quickly away from her, cradling his bitten hand with one of the other ones. He summoned the soldier over and pointed at Wol with a third hand, giving some kind of instruction.

  As soon as the soldier was close enough, Wol slipped her right leg out from under the strap and kicked the soldier at center mass. She had no idea where the Elabrej were vulnerable physically, but she assumed a hard enough kick would hurt.

  In that, she was correct. The soldier stumbled backward for a moment, then lunged for her.

  This time she was able to slip her arm out and grab the weapon out of the creature’s surprised hands. At least, I think he’s surprised. Damn difficult to read a species with no faces….

  Wol saw that the weapon had a single button on it, though it was unclear which end it fired from. Holding it up so that one end faced the soldier and the other whatever was behind her, she pushed the button.

  The energy beam left the soldier dead a moment later by his own weapon.

  She then turned the weapon on the alien scientist. Unlike the soldier, the scientist screamed as he died. The screams didn’t last as long as Wol’s did when he tried his little pain test on her, but Wol took heart in the fact that she lasted longer than he did. Her only regret was that she could only kill him the once.

  I have to move quickly, she thought, before someone notices when the soldier doesn’t check in or the scientist doesn’t make his report on time. She wriggled out of the restraints and moved toward the door, naked, hairless, and unarmed but for the Elabrej weapon.

  It will have to be enough.

  After all, she still had a mission to fulfill. And if she couldn’t get the prisoners out, she now at least had the means to give them an honorable death….

  Chapter Eight

  Leader Kylag of the one-seventy-first was about ready to put his d’k tahg through Bekk Goz’s throat. Goz was a good warrior, a fine soldier, and the very first person you’d want covering your back, but he simply would never shut up. And right now, as they worked their way through the humid grasslands of this forsaken moon in the middle of hostile territory, Goz would not shut up.

  Kylag and Goz had joined up together during the war, fighting on the Paklor and then later the Kreltek. On the latter ship, Kylag was promoted to leader, and he always made sure to keep Goz in his squad. After San-Tarah, they came over to the Gorkon, a move that disheartened both of them.

  But Kylag had kept his dismay to himself. Goz never kept anything to himself.

  “I’m telling you, Kylag, they know.”

  “If they knew,” Kylag said for the dozenth time, “we would all be dead. Lokor may serve an honorless slime devil, but he is no fool, nor is he to be trifled with.”

  They were walking ahead of the rest of the detail so their words could not be overheard. Plenty of their fellow transfers—and some of the Gorkon crew—felt as they did that Klag was not worthy of his rank and that something should be done about it. Kylag would have preferred not to speak of it at all, but that was a lost cause where Goz was concerned.

  “Then why did they put us all in the same company?”

  “As I told you the last several times you asked that, for the same reason why officers do anything—to keep themselves busy in order to justify their position. This is no more unusual than when we went to the Kreltek. Remember, they bunched all the transfers there, too.”

  “This isn’t the same thing!”

  Before Kylag could tell Goz to shut up, one of the bekks from the one-seventy-seventh approached. “Leader, we have found some wood that might be useful.”

  Goz snorted. “As if there could be any usable wood in this sauna.”

  Kylag glared at Goz, then turned to the bekk—whose name, he finally recalled, was Moq. “Good. Have Leaders Agkil, Grumal, and Pu’kor investigate further—the rest of us will stand fast.”

  “Yes, Leader—and Leader?”

  “What?”

  Moq hesitated. “I could not help but overhear the end of your conversation—and I can assure you that the troops are rotated constantly, and not in ways that always make sense. During the campaign at San-Tarah, two decorated troops were transferred from the seventh to the fifteenth for no discernible reason.”

  With that, Moq moved off to tell the leaders of the one-seventy-second, one-seventy-third, and one-seventy-fourth to gather wood. Kylag chortled. “Perhaps I was wrong—perhaps Lokor is a fool. Moving troops downward makes no sense.”

  “Nothing on this ship makes sense. Why did we come behind the lines like this, only to be almost destroyed on this moon? We should be with the rest of the fleet engaging the enemy, not hiding in the shadows like a kuvrek.”

  “Because we were ordered to.” As Kylag spoke, several troops came to a stop; some of them were walking toward Kylag and Goz. Most were Kreltek transfers, and all of them were sympathetic to the concerns of Kylag and others about the command structure of the Gorkon and its need to change.

  Goz snarled. “Captain Klag was also ordered to conquer San-Tarah. Does he only follow stupid orders?”

  One of the troops, Bekk Kam of the one-eightieth, said as he approached, “Is there such a thing as an order that isn’t stupid?”

  Several of the soldiers laughed at that.

  “This,” said Zurlkint, leader of the one-seventy-ninth, “is a bad day to die—and a bad way to die.”

  “We’re not going to die here,” another soldier said.

  Kam said, “I think now would be the time to set our plan in motion. We have K’Nir and the rest of the sec—”

  Kylag hissed in annoyance. “Be silent, you fool! Now is not the time to discuss this!”

  “What better time?” Goz asked. “We are away from the ship and among—”

  “We are among potential spies for Lokor. I do not wish—”

  “You yourself said he was a fool.” Goz chuckled. “Besides, if he was unwise enough to put us together—”

  I am surrounded by imbeciles. “Then he may be smart enough to put a spy here so we may incriminate ourselves.”

  “If that’s the case,” Kam said, “the damage is done.”

  Kylag found he could not argue that point.

  “Either way,” Goz said, “I do not believe you are correct, Kam. Now is not the time to strike. Yes, we think we have the second-shift bridge crew, but we do not have Kurak, and—”

  Kam frowned. “Zaloq said Kurak was in.”

  “No.” Goz shook his head. “When Gaj gave me my shot earlier, she told me that she talked to Kurak, but she refused to join us.”

  “But Zaloq said Kurak hates Klag.”

  One of the soldiers who had not come over from the Kreltek said, “That was a mistake. Trust me, I’ve served on this garbage scow since it left the shipyard, and
I can assure you that Kurak was never going to be interested in something like this. Yes, she hates Klag, but only because she hates everyone and everything. The only thing we can count on from her is contempt.”

  “Then she can die with the rest of them,” Zurlkint said.

  Goz laughed. “I thought today was a bad day to die.”

  Even as others laughed at Goz’s words, Tarmeth, another of Kylag’s troops of the one-seventy-first, said, “Are we sure this is wise?”

  Kylag, having surrendered to the inevitability that this was going to be discussed, asked, “What do you mean?”

  “We keep saying that Klag’s actions at San-Tarah were dishonorable—but Chancellor Martok gave those actions his blessing.”

  “So?” Goz practically sneered the word. “Some highborn toDSaH does something despicable and some other highborn toDSaH gives it credence. What of it?”

  “Martok is no ‘highborn toDSaH,’ ” Kam said defensively. “He is a commoner like us.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “No,” Zurlkint said, “he’s right. Martok was born in the Ketha Lowlands. He was a soldier like us, and he rose to power—”

  “Where he became a politician.” Goz spit onto the ground. “Where he was born is irrelevant—the House of Martok is a noble House like any other. That makes him as despicable as the rest of them.”

  Another soldier said, “Goz is right. Martok is highborn in all but birth.”

  Tarmeth growled. “You are truly a fool. You cannot be highborn if you were not born to it—that’s what the word means.”

  While Kylag was garnering no small amusement from the discussion, it was a sidetrack. “If we’re going to discuss supplanting Klag, let us discuss it, not semantic minutiae about the chancellor. We need to—”

  Kylag cut himself off when he heard the sounds of battle.

  All the other warriors turned in the direction—the same direction that the one-seventy-second, one-seventy-third, and one-seventy-fourth had gone only minutes earlier.