Star Trek Prometheus -Fire with Fire

by Christian Humberg

  9

  NOVEMBER 5, 2385

  Council Chambers, Qo’noS

  The Klingon Empire’s multi-level government building stood right in the pulsating center of the First City, as the proud—but not necessarily creative—warriors had named their capital many generations ago. It was dozens of meters high, reaching up to the overcast night sky. It served as a symbol of Klingon strength and steadfastness. Columns lined the entrance area, where the Empire’s emblem was displayed in impressive size on the dark façade, illuminated day and night by hidden lanterns.

  Alexander Rozhenko hurried up the steps toward the building’s main entrance, tightly wrapping his cloak around his body to keep warm. He was the son of two public Klingon figures. His mother had been Ambassador K’Ehleyr, a human-Klingon hybrid, and his father was Worf, son of Mogh. He’d spent the best part of his childhood and adolescence aboard various starships, at diplomatic receptions, and in the care of the Rozhenkos, his father’s foster parents.

  His mother’s violent death was one of the reasons why he had lost his way early in life. Approximately ten years ago, he had finally developed an interest in Klingon culture, although he was permanently at odds with it. After initial difficulties, he had finally found his place in the Klingon military, not least because his father and Chancellor Martok, then a general, had put in a good word for him, followed by a second career in the diplomatic corps, also owing to his father’s status and contacts. Rozhenko had been working for almost six years as Federation Ambassador in the Klingon Empire, a job previously held by each of his parents at different times. He served as liaison between the Klingons and the United Federation of Planets, and he had realized a long time ago that he was predestined for this post. It was the perfect place for a person who straddled both nations, yet had no real place in either of them.

  Not that the middle of the night in the High Council is a good place for anyone. Sighing, he entered the government building. His hair, bound into a ponytail, was dripping with water. An attaché, who had apparently been expecting him, scurried toward him in the entrance hall. Larger-than-life statues of various warriors and politicians lined the plain stone walls. Braziers burned in between them, chasing the night shadows away. The smell of smoke and sweat lingered in the air.

  “Ambassador,” the pale attaché greeted him with nervously fluttering hands. A tiny mustache blemished his upper lip. Judging by his slenderness, he was of Munjeb III origin, one of many worlds under the Klingon flag. “My name is Korrt, sir. The chancellor himself has ordered me to take you to him right away. The council is already assembling in the Great Hall.”

  “Is this about Tika IV-B?” Rozhenko asked. He allowed Korrt to guide him, although he would have found the way blindfolded.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have access to that kind of information, sir.” Korrt glanced around furtively as they climbed up the steps to the Great Hall. The wide door was already open, two armed warriors standing guard on either side. Beyond the doorway, Rozhenko spotted the first council members. They were engrossed in conversation, gesticulating furiously, and they were evidently enraged.

  “If you’d like to enter?”

  Rozhenko ignored Korrt’s slight bow at the gate to bid him farewell, and went into the Great Hall. As always he found it elating to enter this room. Nowhere else, not aboard a Bird of Prey, and not even in any of the monasteries did he feel closer to his Klingon heritage than here. The hall was the core of the ancient government building. It was rectangular with a high ceiling. Visitors walked across the shiny marble floor to a dais, where they had to climb up two steps. Various artificial light sources discreetly illuminated the throne of the esteemed chancellor. It was the only piece of furniture in the entire room. A circular, cast-iron chandelier hung above it from the ceiling. The emblem of the Empire was mounted on the otherwise bare wall behind the chair.

  Rozhenko let his eyes wander. Everyone was present. The High Council was comprised of more than two dozen representatives of the Empire’s most powerful families. They oversaw the welfare of their people. As usual, the chancellor presided, and he was already seated in his chair.

  Martok, the one-eyed veteran and leader of the Klingons for more than ten years, sat there with his fingers interlaced in his lap. He wore the ceremonial robe of his office. Rozhenko had served under him in the Klingon Defense Force and knew how little the old man with the wild mane of hair and the bushy eyebrows thought of such symbols of status and grandeur.

  “Ambassador,” shouted Martok when he noticed the latecomer, beckoning him closer. “Come. Here, to my side.”

  The chancellor is asking me to join him? Surprised, Rozhenko followed the request. He usually addressed the council in his role as ambassador from the floor or he stayed in the background to observe. This was something different.

  He greeted Martok with a nod.

  But Martok was already looking the other way at the council. “Silence!” He had to stomp his foot three times before they finally grew silent. “We shall begin!”

  “Is it really true, Chancellor?” a giant with a gray beard shouted. Rozhenko couldn’t bring his name to mind. A deep scar ran across his right check—a mark of honor. “Did these red-skinned demons back up their words with deeds? Is this a repeat of what happened at Starbase 91?”

  Murmurs rose in the hall. Clenching their fists, the delegates exchanged looks and uttered curses. Composure and being Klingon were two concepts very seldom related—except where Martok was concerned.

  The chancellor rose from his seat. “I convened this session in order to inform you all of the latest developments. Our mining facility on Tika IV has been the target of a malicious, unprovoked attack by unknown forces, and…”

  “Unknown?” the gray-bearded man cut him short and snorted derisively. “Let’s not be fooled! We all know who’s behind that nefarious act, don’t we? This Renao fanatic announced it; it was too bold a statement to miss!”

  “The Federation has its doubts about that,” Martok replied loudly. He stared at the man with the gray beard, threateningly. “There is no evidence save for that holomessage, to which you’re obviously referring, Grotek.”

  Grotek spat. “The Federation is a bunch of quixotic weaklings. The day when I will listen to what Earth and the Federation lackeys have to say will definitely be my final day.”

  “Chancellor, I must agree with the son of Braktal,” Britok said. The muscular representative of the House of Konjah glanced at Grotek, nodding. He wore his Defense Force armor, his hand resting casually at his hip, poised to pull out his disruptor. “What evidence does President zh’Tarash need if a confession isn’t enough for her? Does she need to witness the atrocities of these red-skinned cowards first hand before she’s prepared to believe it?”

  “Well, she won’t have to wait long,” Grotek stated, and everyone around them murmured approvingly. “Remember the flags in the dirt in front of the Renao. If we don’t act now, these petaQpu will target their next objective soon. They’re attacking out of nowhere, Chancellor! They deceive us with half an eternity of inaction, and when they finally show their true colors they don’t even have enough honor for a fair fight face to face! In the name of the Klingon people I demand revenge!”

  “Listen to Grotek!” Britok demanded. He no longer addressed the chancellor; instead facing the council. “Do we really want to stand idly by until they have made a decision on Earth? Are we turning into Starfleet’s lapdogs? If so, we should cancel the Khitomer Accords that bind us to be the Federation’s allies, immediately!”

  At this moment it dawned on Alexander why Martok had summoned him. “The Lembatta Cluster is part of Federation territory,” he said loudly and firmly. Silence fell over the council. More than twenty pairs of eyes stared at him, clearly annoyed at his unsolicited contribution to the discussion. “It wouldn’t be a good idea if you hastily dispatched an invasion fleet to that region. Such an act might be misinterpreted.”

  “Bah!” Britok took a step
toward the dais where Martok and Alexander stood. “Let Earth be afraid. If they’re failing to notice our true motives, it’s because they’re slow-witted. Let zh’Tarash believe that we’re coming for her. It’s imperative that we act now!”

  “Zh’Tarash is no fool,” Martok took control again, his deep bass carrying through the hall. “But it seems to me that you are, Britok.”

  The man from the House of Konjah squared his shoulders, and his eyes widened. His accusatory gaze was fixed on the chancellor. “How dare you?”

  Alexander shook his head. “No, how dare you? As a member of this esteemed assembly, you should be aware of the current shape the Defense Force fleet is in. You should also know how little is truly known about the circumstances surrounding the tragedies at Starbase 91 and Tika IV-B. And you should know that more than loud noises and rash actions are required in order to respond to provocations.”

  “Spoken like a true Federation lapdog,” Britok growled. “Once again, the son of Worf shows his true colors.”

  “The son of Worf is still ‘Ambassador Rozhenko’ to you,” he snarled with an icy voice, his glare fixed on the man in uniform. “What’s more, I’m also the son of Ambassador K’Ehleyr. Your house has a lot to thank her for if my memory serves. You would be well advised to remember that… son of Graak.”

  That had hit home. Alexander noticed that Britok’s face had drained of color. It was widely known throughout the First City that the House of Konjah owed most of its wealth—and the social status coming with it—to an export deal with the Pakleds that the late ambassador had arranged for Britok’s father. The family all too willingly profited from this deal but they preferred not to mention this agreement openly. The Pakleds were by no stretch of the imagination the sort of business partners who would earn a high-ranking and renowned Klingon honor.

  Alexander didn’t allow Britok to come up with a verbal counterstrike. “Let me speak to my superiors in the Federation before you embark on a campaign against Onferin with what little the Defense Force can muster right now.” Slowly, he shifted his gaze from one furious face to the next. “I can understand your fury. What’s more, I share it. And I share your concern. But I also know that President zh’Tarash is not your enemy; she’s your ally. The best course of action in response to the incident on Tika IV-B is by means of dialogue.”

  “Which I have already initiated,” Martok said. He had settled back into his chair but he didn’t seem placid at all. “I was told that the Federation will dispatch a ship to the Lembatta Cluster. Its mission is to shed a light on Starbase 91’s demise—and to get to the bottom of the holomessage.”

  “One ship?” Grotek glanced around incredulously. “Why not a runabout? Or a shuttle?”

  “The ship they are sending is the U.S.S. Prometheus, under the command of Captain Adams,” said Martok.

  Grotek fell silent. He was obviously familiar with this name—and he was aware of the firepower that this ship had at her disposal.

  “I intend to follow the Federation’s suit,” the chancellor continued. “We will also send a ship to provide backup for Captain Adams and assess the situation.” He stroked his shaggy beard. “And if we find out that the Renao are behind these attacks…”

  The chancellor left his sentence unfinished. No further words were needed to clarify the meaning—even Martok’s composure had its limits.

  “I will go along for this mission,” Alexander said suddenly, surprising himself as well as everyone else. “As liaison between the two factions. I will act as the direct link between us and the Prometheus.”

  Martok simply nodded. Rozhenko couldn’t help but feel that the old strategist had expected him to volunteer.

  I’ll never question why he’s asking me to attend the High Council again, the young ambassador thought. The answer will invariably be that he wants something from me.

  “Which ship will it be?” Britok faced his head of government. He still felt depleted from the virtual blow that Rozhenko had dealt him. “We must act, Chancellor. But there is, as far as I know, only one ship near that region, and it’s in orbit around Korinar, is it not?”

  Martok sighed quietly. “I’m afraid so.”

  10

  NOVEMBER 5, 2385

  Korinar

  The Chic Inn was anything but that. The rundown, distinctly unhygienic dive in an alley of a nameless settlement that had formed around the small space port had nothing in common with exotic elegance.

  Dirty tables had been placed around a small and filthy stage in the taproom of the one-story building. Small spotlights cycled through a color-changing sequence every couple of seconds, illuminating two scantily dressed Orion dancers who went about their job with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Music that was only bearable if you had consumed a considerable amount of alcohol continuously blared from a hidden loudspeaker in the low ceiling. A bald Cardassian with tattoos on his upper arms loitered behind a long counter by the right wall, watching the dancers while less than three steps away smugglers sealed deals under his ridged nose. Near the back wall, a handful of scruffy figures had gathered around a Dom-jot gambling table that had definitely seen better days, much like them. The air was smoke-filled and so thick you could have cut it with a knife. The stench of sweat and fermentation assaulted unsuspecting nostrils.

  Especially near the floor.

  Kromm pushed himself up from the stone-tiled floor with his hands, coughed up blood, which he spat out, and looked up. “Is that all you’ve got?” the young, strong Klingon snarled, the bloodied corners of his mouth twitching.

  The Chalnoth was big. Very big. He wore a fishnet muscle shirt showing off his broad shoulders and muscular build. His pants were greasy, his belt had been cobbled together from leather and small bones, and his disheveled dark hair seemed to form some kind of corona around his incredibly ugly head.

  “Terik no touch with hand!” he growled, baring the formidable tusks in his mouth. Menacingly, he shook the fist at Kromm that just seconds ago had swept him off his feet with ease. “Never touch terik. Rules are rules, Klingon!”

  “And just who’s making the rules these days, hmm?” Kromm staggered when he made it back to his feet. Not taking his eyes off his opponent, he dusted himself down. “You?”

  The brute from the planet Chalna nodded firmly, taking a step toward Kromm. “Me,” he stated belligerently.

  The corners of Kromm’s mouth twitched again. Two could play the aggression game—especially on an evening like this when he was spurred on by bloodwine. “You,” he repeated, only slurring his words ever so slightly, “and whose army? Eh?”

  That was precisely what the Chic’s clientele had been waiting to hear. Kromm had barely evaded the hideous giant’s second hit when the music stopped. When he returned the punch and almost broke his knuckles on his opponent’s remarkably hard abs, they were already surrounded by a crowd consisting of far more than just Dom-jot players. The giant threw his head back and laughed. One of the Orion dancers had already grabbed a data pad, taking bets on the outcome of the brawl that was about to ensue.

  “My rules, Klingon!” the Chalnoth shouted. “On Korinar only my rules!”

  We’ll see about that, thought Kromm, swinging for him again.

  The Korinar system was located deep in the Beta Quadrant on the periphery of the Klingon Empire, and it was both small and insignificant. If a band of Tholians hadn’t attacked this system several years ago, chances were that nobody would have heard of it outside its borders that were hardly ever crossed. Korinar III was the only Class-M planet in this system, and it had once been a settlement of Klingon idealists who wished to bring their lives back to the basics of Kahless’s day. After several decades, however, little remained of that idealism. These days it was only the criminal riff-raff from nearby border worlds, or the odd space traveler who had strayed from moral and interstellar paths who found their way to Korinar’s streets… or Korinar’s dives.

  Kromm ducked away from the Chalnoth’s huge hand
s before lunging at him. He threw himself against his opponent but failed to knock him down. Instead, he felt the forceful impact of a knee.

  He muttered, “ghay’cha’,” gasping as the air was forced out of his lungs.

  The gawping onlookers cheered. Kromm could hear them through the rushing of his own blood in his ears. The noise was giving him a headache—or was his bleeding chin the cause?

  “My Korinar!” the Chalnoth cried gleefully. “My Korinar!”

  That was enough. Kromm dropped backward as efficiently and forcefully as his drunken state permitted, brought up his right knee and kicked the stalwart loudmouth between the legs. He grimaced as his backside hit the ground hard.

  Still, he had hit the bull’s-eye. Kromm heard groaning from the crowd. He blinked and when his focus returned, the giant had doubled over, looming over him. His ugly face was pale, and his mouth formed a silent O. He rolled his eyes.

  Uh oh.

  Kromm rolled sideways, bumping against the legs of several onlookers. The Chalnoth dropped to his knees, emitting a surprisingly high-pitched wail, before falling flat on his monstrous face in exactly the same spot where Kromm had been lying only seconds earlier.

  The crowd erupted. Klingons with enormous potbellies who probably weren’t able to recognize honor if it bit them on the nose, demanded their winnings at the top of their voices. Frustrated, a shady looking Edosian sporting a broad scar on the left side of his face, walked to the exit, pushing everyone who got in his way aside. The smugglers at the counter gave each other a high five—they had evidently bet on the drunkard from Qo’noS.

  Kromm didn’t let his audience wait for long. As soon as the Chalnoth had hit the floor, the Klingon clambered to his feet again. He would have immediately fallen again if the crowd hadn’t supported him, but he was certain of victory. With a triumphant grin on his lips he growled, lifted his foot with his heavy boot, and had every intention of placing it on his opponent’s back.