Forged in Fire

by Michael A. Martin

  Sulu found himself lost in the noise — and the emotions that propelled them — and began to sing himself, a Banka he had learned as a child, for the funeral of his great-grandmother. It was a Shinto blessing for the dead — a decidedly non-Klingon tradition — but it nevertheless seemed fitting to express the vicarious sorrow overflowing from his heart.

  • • •

  Once he was certain that they were alone, Curzon Dax finally decided to say what was on his mind. He suspected that he wasn’t the only one present who harbored these thoughts, what with Captain Sulu here alongside the three Klingon captains. But none of them had spoken as yet of the threat their old adversary had once made.

  “Kang, has anything further been learned of the cause of my godson’s illness?”

  The elder Klingon regarded Curzon for a moment with an inscrutable scowl before answering. “The physicians still have learned nothing. The disease is unlike anything they have encountered before.”

  Sulu cleared his throat. “If you’d permit me, it would honor me to take the medical records to some of the experts who work with me. With our resources, perhaps we can learn something your doctors overlooked.”

  Kang squinted, his bushy, upswept eyebrows and beady gaze giving the appearance of two exclamation marks. Curzon understood that Kang knew from bitter experience gained long before the Praxis explosion that there was no honor in declining Federation assistance simply out of pride. “I shall consider it, Hikaru Sulu.”

  Curzon waited to see if either Koloth or Kor were going to say something. When they didn’t, he took the plunge. “Could this disease be the realization of the threat that the albino made against us all? He promised to one day avenge himself upon us through our children.”

  “That petaQ!” Kor spat out the words. “He does not have the spine to deliver on any such threat.”

  Again sparing a glance toward Kang to gauge his mood, Curzon pressed. “We all know he is a coward. And who better for a coward to strike at than those who are still unable to defend themselves?” He chose his words carefully, not wanting to upset Kang, especially after such a moving Ak’voh rite.

  “Kang’s son was struck down by an unknown disease that has no known antecedent, and no known cure,” Curzon said. “From what I have heard, the disease’s progression was so fast that it could not have been natural. And the fact that no other Klingon has been diagnosed with this disease leads to one possible conclusion: that this was a specific and targeted bioagent.”

  “ ‘No other Klingon’ is correct,” Koloth said. “If this was an attack on Kang by the craven Qagh, then it should have been an attack on us all. But none of my children — or Kor’s — have shown any signs of this malady, or any other.”

  “This tragedy may have arisen from the bite of some insect, crawled up through the ground from the bowels of Gre’thor,” Kor said, his words carrying the embellishments of a storyteller. “Or it might have been the venom of some reptile, as yet undiscovered. The leap between this tragedy and the actions of a genetic throwback who is probably long dead is a far leap to make, Dax.”

  Curzon saw Kang wince almost imperceptibly at Kor’s mention of Dax’s symbiont name, which was phonetically identical to that of his deceased son. But he also saw a fire in the warrior’s eyes, stoked by the fuel of Curzon’s suggestion. Whether or not the albino was responsible for DaqS’s death, the idea that he could be the architect of this disaster had obviously given Kang something at which he could focus his anger.

  “Captain Sulu, has your Starfleet found any sign of the chalk-skinned Ha’DIbaH?” Kang asked, his voice so even and sharp that it could cut skin.

  The human captain’s brow furrowed. “To my knowledge, no one from Starfleet has encountered the albino since we faced him,” he said. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, his crimson ceremonial uniform retaining its form and lines perfectly. “I’ll immediately search our records to find out if there has been any recent news on the subject.”

  Koloth regarded Sulu, and Curzon was glad to see that the captain wasn’t backing down at all in the face of the highly charged, angry atmosphere that had begun swirling about the Klingon assemblage.

  “And what of your family, Captain Sulu? Have your children faced any unexpected dangers?” Koloth asked.

  “I still have only the one daughter, Koloth,” Sulu said. “She is, however, a fully grown woman now, and serves aboard another Starfleet vessel. I have not heard that she’s faced anything other than the usual dangers of Starfleet service, but . . .” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “We have not spoken for quite some time.”

  “Your daughter follows your path, and yet you do not find that honorable?” Kang asked.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Sulu said.

  “Family relations always are, Captain,” Kang said gravely. “But I would give all I have to be able to watch my child honor me. Instead . . .” He didn’t finish, but looked up toward the sky.

  Curzon said nothing. Though the others assembled here today probably knew more about Kang than did anyone else in Starfleet or the Klingon Empire combined, they did not know every secret he harbored.

  They certainly didn’t know of the decision he had made five years ago, regarding the fleeing albino and his parting threats. . . .

  • • •

  Standing away from the others, Sulu opened his communicator. Its familiar chirping sound had long ago become a part of his workaday environment, and he rarely gave it a second thought. In this windswept and emotional atmosphere, however, it sounded inappropriately bright and cheery.

  “Sulu to Excelsior.”

  A second passed, and then the voice of his longtime friend, Commander Pavel Chekov, issued from the device. “Excelsior here, Captain. Is everything going . . . properly?”

  Sulu could tell that his executive officer had groped for a second to find the correct word, in case anyone else had happened to be within earshot. He was glad to have his old shipmate at his right hand aboard Excelsior, after the long succession of temporary first officers that had followed the departure of Lieutenant Commander Cutler.

  “It’s going as well as can be expected. I anticipate that the ambassador and I will be returning to the ship sometime in the next four to five hours, barring any unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Very good, Captain.” Although his Russian accent was almost imperceptible these days, Chekov’s “very” still sounded like “wary,” and his “captain” came out closer to “keptin.”

  “Pavel, please ask Commander Rand to set up a remote subspace comlink to the Enterprise.”

  “Sir?”

  “I need to speak to my daughter, Commander,” Sulu said. Kang’s words had stung him. Whatever had gone wrong between him and Demora, they still had time to fix it.

  But just as importantly, he wanted to ascertain that Curzon’s supposition was wrong. Other than Kang — if indeed the death of DaqS had been the work of Qagh — nobody among the quintet had experienced the brutality of the albino in quite the same manner as Sulu had. The memories were decades old, but the terror-stricken cries of Sulu’s parents remained as fresh and loud as those of the mournful Klingons attending today’s ceremonies.

  “Captain, I have the Enterprise for you on subspace.” That was the voice of Commander Janice Rand, another old Enterprise shipmate who now served on Excelsior. “Captain Harriman is waiting to speak to you on channel B.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Sulu said. “Please put him through.”

  “Hello, Hikaru,” said John Harriman, Jr., his tone subdued. “It sounds like you’re at a very noisy party. Can you talk away from the crowd?”

  “Hello, John,” Sulu said. “It’s actually a Klingon funeral.” He walked several more paces away from the noise. “I apologize for the unorthodox communication, but something came up, and I didn’t want to wait until I got back to the ship to contact you. Is my daughter available?”

  Harriman took a bit too long to respond, and Sulu im
mediately knew that something was wrong.

  “Hikaru, I’m sorry to —”

  No. Don’t say that, Sulu thought.

  “— tell you that —”

  Please. No. His knees felt weak.

  “— Demora fell ill less than an hour ago. Doctor Michaels is doing everything he can, but he’s never encountered anything like this before.”

  Not dead. Thank God.

  “What are the symptoms, John?”

  “It’s not pretty, Hikaru. She’s expelling liquids, her body is in some bizarre kind of twisted rigor. Doctor Michaels is keeping her as sedated as he can. I was going to call you as soon as we knew something definitive, but —”

  “It may be a tailored bioweapon of some sort, targeted directly at her.” Sulu nearly shouted into the communicator, interrupting the other man. “I need you to help me find out where and how she might have been exposed to it.”

  “A bioweapon?” Harriman sounded alarmed, and rightly so. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I’m at a Klingon funeral,” Sulu said. “The decedent died of the same symptoms. And the one thing the Klingons and I have in common is an old enemy with a taste for biological terrorism.”

  He didn’t want to even think it, but the words came into his mind unbidden.

  Same results.

  He shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge the thought. She’s not dead. Demora’s. Not. Dead.

  “Keep me updated, John,” he said grimly. “And keep my daughter alive.”

  Before the other captain could respond, Sulu snapped the communicator shut, then sprinted toward Kor, Koloth, Kang, and Dax.

  “Get your surviving children into medical isolation now,” he blurted out to all of them as they looked at him questioningly. “They may be in danger.”

  But how could they stop the threat the albino had made half a decade earlier — especially if the threat had already been carried out?

  Sulu felt his blood run cold.

  PART I:

  DEATH AND LIFE

  The woe’s to come; the

  children yet unborn

  Shall feel this day as sharp to

  them as thorn.

  — William Shakespeare

  (1564–1616);

  Bishop of Carlisle,

  Richard II, Act IV,

  Scene I, Line 322

  ONE

  2218 (the Year of Kahless 844,

  early in the month of Merruthj)

  Qo’noS

  “The Lady Moj’ih grows impatient,” Do’Yoj said brusquely. Her boots drumming an impatient rhythm against the stone floor as she walked, she ushered the two physicians down the dim corridor toward the sprawling villa’s center, where its largest bedchamber lay.

  The master bedchamber had become the sole domain of the Lady Moj’ih ever since her husband Ngoj had fallen in battle against the cursed RomuluSngan at Nequencia nearly four months ago. And since that unhappy time, the ornate room’s tapestry-draped walls had come to mark the boundaries of the Lady’s existence. Do’Yoj thought it had become a veritable throne room for her reclusive mistress, who was now the de facto head of the House of Ngoj, one of the few ruling matriarchs among the noble classes of Qo’noS.

  And now, as the Lady Moj’ih’s ever more complicated pregnancy advanced inexorably toward term, the chamber had become a prison in all but name.

  “My apologies,” said Hurghom, the taller of the two doctors, speaking a bit too obsequiously for Do’Yoj’s taste as he came to a stop behind Do’Yoj just outside the heavy wooden bedchamber door. Was he mocking her? Or was he merely trying to adopt the tone most appropriate for a smooth-headed QuchHa’ such as himself?

  Dr. Nej, whose darker countenance contrasted sharply with Hurghom’s owing to its prominent frame of cranial ridges, spoke a good deal more boldly.

  “I am sure that the Lady Moj’ih will understand the reason for the delay,” Nej said, raising to eye level the small black valise he clutched in his gnarled right hand, as if to emphasize his point. “The procedure we must undertake this day requires the utmost delicacy if we are to avoid bringing harm to the Lady’s child.”

  “We have to be certain that we get this right in every detail,” Hurghom said, his disturbingly smooth head bobbing in agreement with his colleague’s words. “I’m sure you will agree that much is at stake. And what is at stake is nothing less than a male heir to the House of Ngoj.”

  A future patriarch of this noble House, Do’Yoj thought with no small amount of resentment. An heir who will doubtless have as much to conceal as his parents did, if he is to maintain this House’s power and prestige.

  Answering Hurghom with only a tart scowl, Do’Yoj turned and pushed on the door with her shoulder, leaning into its superbly balanced bulk so that it began to move smoothly and silently inward on its well-oiled duranium hinges.

  The room beyond the threshold was dark, shrouding its sole occupant in gloom. Do’Yoj entered and stepped to the side, allowing the physicians to waste no further time before converging upon the large bed that was mounted on the raised dais in the center of the room. Do’Yoj wasn’t entirely sure that the Lady Moj’ih was actually in the bed until she spoke, her rounded belly moving noticeably beneath the tangle of bedclothes.

  “What is the reason for your tardiness?” the Lady said, addressing both physicians in an imperious tone suited to a woman of noble breeding. Do’Yoj thought it was a tone suited to one born to the birthright of the HemQuch, those who, unlike Dr. Hurghom, possessed the cranial ridges that had been the genetic patrimony of every Klingon, from the boldest warrior to the humblest tiller of the soil, since long before the time of the unforgettable Kahless.

  Do’Yoj, of course, knew the real truth behind the Lady’s brave façade. As the Lady Moj’ih’s most trusted personal retainer, there was no way that Do’Yoj could ignore the fact that her haughty, proud-visaged mistress was actually just as smooth-browed — and thus every bit as disgracefully QuchHa’— as Dr. Hurghom and his ancestors. Do’Yoj was all too aware that the Lady’s striking brow ridges, scarcely visible in the room’s dim light, were prosthetic fakes. They were biosynthetic implants — which required frequent cosmetic maintenance, despite having been surgically attached to her skull — and had been used covertly by members of the influential House of Ngoj ever since the Great Qu’Vat Plague of 1462, a disaster that lay more than half a century in the past.

  Maintaining the noble deception with sufficient care from day to day is becoming too taxing for the Lady in her current condition, Do’Yoj thought, blending invisibly into the blood-hued tapestries as she watched her mistress begin conferring with her physicians, one of whom applied a moist towel to her forehead, which the Lady held in place with her hand, covering up her false brow ridges. If the Lady Moj’ih would not trust even Do’Yoj to see to the upkeep of her prosthetic forehead — perhaps she was unwilling to appear vulnerable before a social inferior whose own natural cranial appurtenances marked her as one of the Lady’s biological betters — then it was unsurprising that Moj’ih had opted to hide her chronic shame using both a towel and a shroud of darkness.

  “We came as quickly as we could, My Lady,” Dr. Nej said, matching the Lady Moj’ih’s brittle tones with the no-nonsense manner of a senior physician who was used to receiving more deference from his patients — even the noble ones.

  Perhaps, Do’Yoj thought, this is because he, too, knows the truth that the Lady must keep concealed at all costs.

  “The procedure we must undertake has not received extensive testing prior to today,” said Hurghom, again speaking in that placating manner that Do’Yoj found so very irritating. “We had to be as certain as possible of the outcome before proceeding with the final phase of the child’s genetic alterations. Especially in light of . . . the unfortunate occurrence not so very long ago on Qu’Vat.”

  “I should think you would be the last one to remind anyone of your failure at Qu’Vat,” Moj’ih said, the moist, sharpened point
s of her bared teeth glinting in the room’s scant light.

  Though she remained standing in silence at the room’s periphery, Do’Yoj was inclined to agree. How many had died on the Qu’Vat colony during Hurghom’s most recent attempt to rid the Klingon people of the Earther genetic baggage with which his ancestor Antaak had saddled them during the previous century? The death toll had to be in the tens of thousands, at least. That many QuchHa’ had died in the space of a single afternoon, the shame of their Earther-smooth foreheads — the tragic, so-far-indelible mark with which Antaak had imprinted their forebears decades earlier in the process of saving them from the Levodian plague — compounded with the shame of being denied entry into Sto-Vo-Kor through a warrior’s honorable death in battle.

  Do’Yoj reflected that Hurghom’s failure could have been far worse. After all, the doctor’s ancestor Antaak had inadvertently killed millions during his own attempts to rid the Klingon genome of the Earther taint he had inflicted upon it decades ago.

  “Wisdom comes from experience,” Dr. Hurghom replied in a meek voice.

  “Just as experience may come from foolish errors,” Nej added with an audible sneer as he set his black valise upon the foot of Moj’ih’s bed and opened it. He withdrew a wicked-looking, almost mek’leth-sized device that Do’Yoj assumed was a hypodermic needle, along with a small handheld scanning device.

  “My Lady, can we get some light in here now?” Nej said, displaying his instruments as best he could in the room’s inadequate illumination. “Then we can get on with the task ridding the next head of the House of Ngoj of the consequences of Antaak’s so-called cure.”

  Responding to a nod from her mistress, Do’Yoj moved toward the lighting controls in the chamber’s southeast corner and brightened the room.

  She watched in silence as Nej slowly pulled back the bedclothes, raised the needle, and leaned toward the Lady Moj’ih.

  • • •