—right into a Nausicaan.
Evolved from similar stock to Klingons, Nausicaans were known throughout the galaxy as violent beings—some humans called them “Klingons without all that silly honor stuff.” This one was large even by Nausicaan standards, and had now grabbed Worf in a bear hug.
The Nausicaan was flanked by an Argosian—a massive humanoid—and a mugato—a white-furred, horned, ape-like creature with sharp claws and poisonous fangs. The Argosian, mugato, and skeleton creature all moved in on Worf, the latter still limping.
Worf bent his knees, then straightened them quickly, thrusting himself and the Nausicaan backward. The Nausicaan bent over backward, and for a moment, Worf was perpendicular to the ground. He kicked at the approaching Argosian and mugato with each boot; the mugato barely noticed the impact, but Worf caught the Argosian right in the nose, breaking it, and sending bone fragments into the alien’s brain. Death was instantaneous.
The Nausicaan loosened its grip for only a moment as it tried to straighten back up, but that was all Worf needed. He broke out of the grip, whirled, and slashed at the Nausicaan with his mek’leth, then crouched in a defensive position.
The mugato and the Nausicaan both charged, the mugato slashing with its claws, the Nausicaan punching with a massive fist.
Worf raised his arms to defend from the attacks—the mugato drawing blood, the Nausicaan badly bruising Worf’s right arm, possibly spraining it—then slashed at the mugato with his mek’leth. Worf then dove and rolled, coming up right where the skeleton creature was making its slow advance. He thrust his mek’leth into the creature’s ribs, then hoisted the surprised creature, using the mek’leth hilt as a handle. He swung the creature around, clubbing both the Nausicaan and the mugato in the head with the creature’s legs. He then swung the mek’leth hilt like a human baseball bat against a large tree; the skeleton creature shattered inside its armor.
The bloodlust surged within Worf. The bouquet of the yellow ichor on his mek’leth, the blood from his arm wound, the scent of the creatures before him, and even the smell of the venom on the mugato’s fangs all washed over him, intoxicating him.
The smells of battle.
This time, he did not quiet the cry of his Klingon heart. He gave it full reign.
The Nausicaan’s rounded mouth opened and said, “Die, Klingon!”
Worf’s only answer was a growl that started in the base of his throat and quickly evolved into a warrior’s scream. He charged at the Nausicaan and struck, severing the alien’s right arm. If there was any irony in giving the Nausicaan an identical wound to that of Klag, it was buried deep, for Worf did not even acknowledge it. He simply pressed the attack, slashing at the Nausicaan’s chest, head, and remaining arm until the Nausicaan was dead. The Nausicaan had managed to get in a blow to Worf’s head with its remaining fist. The Klingon’s vision swam momentarily, but he forged ahead, ignoring the pain.
As soon as Worf struck the killing blow, the mugato hit him from the side, knocking the wind from him—and, more importantly, knocking the mek’leth from his grip.
Worf and the mugato rolled on the ground for several turns until the mugato pressed down upon him and moved to bite Worf with its poisonous fangs. Though pain still echoed inside his skull from the Nausicaan’s blow, he still managed to head-butt the white-furred beast on its snout. Having briefly distracted the mugato, Worf rolled it off him, then punched it repeatedly in the face. Long past the point where it was stunned into insensibility, Worf finally stopped, retrieved his mek’leth, and cut the mugato’s head off.
Then the Brikar attacked.
It took most of an hour for Worf to subdue the Brikar, and then only by using a tree that the Brikar himself had uprooted and tried to club Worf to death with. Worf managed to impale the Brikar on one of the larger branches.
After that, it was a pair of Andorians. Then a Chalnoth. And then, finally, a large avian creature that swooped down on Worf with its massive wings. Worf defeated it by severing one set of pinfeathers with his mek’leth, causing its flight to become erratic. After that, it was a comparatively simple matter to stab it in each of its hearts.
Worf was now covered in blood, feathers, hair, and bone fragments. He had cuts and bruises all over him.
He felt better than he had in weeks. The bloodlust started to abate slowly.
“Impressive work,” came a voice from behind him.
Worf whirled around and charged with his mek’leth at the voice. The rational part of him—which was only just now returning to his conscious mind—registered that this was Giancarlo Wu, his aide, and that disemboweling him after less than two weeks on the job was bad form.
But that was still a very small, very recessive part of his mind at the moment. He charged at the hapless aide the same way he had charged at the other creatures.
Wu, for his part, made no attempt to move or defend himself.
Just as Worf was about to strike a killing blow, a bat’leth seemed to materialize in Wu’s hands to parry it. The sound of the metal blades clashing, the sight of the gore that encrusted the mek’leth being dislodged surprised Worf, and served to bring his rational side even closer to dominance.
Angered, Worf swung again, and once again Wu parried with the ease of an expert. He parried two more strikes. By the fifth strike, Worf’s bloodlust had more or less completely receded, replaced by a much more intellectual outrage. It was a matter of pride as much as anything. Worf was, after all, a champion bat’leth fighter, and he was no slouch with the smaller mek’leth, either.
Wu moved with a surprising speed and grace, but Worf was now seeing a pattern. If Wu followed true to form, he would use Kilog’s gambit next.
Worf swung and, sure enough, Wu countered with Kilog. This pleased Worf greatly, as Kilog was almost always followed by B’Arq’s defense. Penetrating B’Arq’s defense was nearly impossible.
With an underhanded swing, Worf penetrated Wu’s use of B’Arq’s defense, knocking the bat’leth out of Wu’s hands and putting the mek’leth to the human’s throat.
“Give me one reason why I should not kill you.”
With remarkable calm, Wu said, “I have a report to give, sir, and it’s rather important, or I wouldn’t have interrupted your session. You can gut me like a fish after I’ve given it.”
Worf stood with his mek’leth at Wu’s neck for several seconds.
“A compelling argument,” he said, removing the mek’leth from Wu’s throat. In truth, he had no intention of killing Wu—on the contrary, he’d enjoyed the workout with his aide as much as he had fighting the program’s creatures. A live opponent was so much more thrilling after all, and his presence served as a bridge to bring him slowly back to himself. But he had wanted to gauge the human’s reaction. “Computer,” he said, “end program.”
The setting, and gore covering Worf’s mek’leth, disappeared. To Worf’s surprise, the bat’leth remained.
“I had no idea you were proficient in the bat’leth,” Worf said.
As he retrieved the weapon from the deck, Wu said, “Kind of an occupational necessity. Besides, nobody ever expects me to know how to handle it, so it throws them off guard when I do. Certainly worked on you, sir,” Wu added with a smile. “I had no idea you—or anyone else—could penetrate B’Arq’s defense. Especially with a mek’leth.”
“Only one person has done it in twenty years, that I am aware of.”
“Well, two now,” Wu said.
“No. My doing so six years ago was the primary reason for my championship standing in the bat’leth. I recently adapted the maneuver for the mek’leth, though this is the first time I have tested it against a live opponent.”
“Glad to be of service, sir.”
Worf and Wu departed the holodeck, Krevor—who had been at her post outside the holodeck during Worf’s exercise—following silently behind. “You said you had a report.”
“Yes. First of all, I’m sorry to inform you that Emperor me’Grmat XIX is dead. He d
ied in his sleep, apparently.”
“Appropriate,” Worf said.
“Really, sir?” Wu sounded surprised. “I have to confess I hadn’t expected such a reaction from you.”
“It is what the emperor wanted. Indeed, me’Grmat may now be the only person on taD who has gotten precisely what he wanted.”
“Ah. Well, in any event, there’s apparently a traditional mourning period of three days before the new one is announced, so Governor Tiral will probably wait until then.” They arrived at their quarters. Krevor took up her position outside the door as they entered. Wu continued: “The other thing is something I’ve noticed in compiling reports. After you told me what the governor had said about the increase in production, I decided to take another look at the actual figures—specifically with relation to the empire’s other sources of topaline. I mean, it’s all well and good to improve one’s own work, but we hadn’t really looked at it in the context of the whole, as it were. There are presently three domestic sources for topaline, and two primary sources from which the empire imports it. However, even with the governor’s increase, taD is presently fifth of five on the list of topaline providers.”
“Fifth?”
Wu nodded. “It’s not only behind the other two domestic sources, it’s still bringing in less than either the Yridians or the Capellans.” He showed Worf his padd. “I did a projection on what effect the loss of taD’s topaline production would have on the empire. It is, to say the least, negligible. It might require increasing the amount imported from either the Capellans or the Yridians, but neither would be a major hardship—especially if you factor in the reduction of costs on taD if the empire gives it up.” He replaced the padd inside his vest pocket and took a deep breath. “If I may be blunt, sir, the empire doesn’t need this world. Is there any way to convince the High Council to let the al’Hmatti have it and be done with it?”
Worf shook his head. “The empire needs the unrest to end, but not at the cost of appearing weak. Martok specifically said that he cannot allow—”
And then it came to him.
“Allow what, sir?” Wu prompted.
Worf sat at the desk. “Martok’s exact words were, ‘Under no circumstances can I allow taD to be ruled by anyone other than Klingons.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Worf to engineering.”
“Vall.”
“Lieutenant, I need a connection to Chancellor Martok on Qo’noS immediately.”
“Yes, sir. Give me two minutes.”
Wu smiled. “That was a lot easier than the last time.”
“Indeed. I would hate to think I was losing my touch.”
Rubbing his neck, which had a spot of red from where Worf had held the mek’leth, Wu said, “No danger of that, sir. Ah, won’t you want to clean yourself up before speaking with the chancellor?”
“Why?” Worf asked, confused.
“Oh, no reason, sir,” Wu said with a sigh.
B’Oraq was setting a bekk’s arm when Klag entered the medical ward—the captain recognized the young man as one of the guards. The patient stood at attention when he saw Klag come in.
“It’s all right, Bekk,” Klag said. “Doctor, when you’re finished with him, I will speak with you.”
“Of course, Captain.”
Klag went to B’Oraq’s desk and waited while she finished setting the arm. The bekk nodded to the captain and left without saying a word.
“So, Captain, what can I do for you? Oh, before I forget,” B’Oraq added, tugging on her braid, “fine work suturing Lieutenant Leskit’s wound. I only had to redo about three-quarters of it. Another five or six years, and you might make a decent doctor.”
Klag frowned. “Your sarcasm is inappropriate, Doctor. I made Leskit a promise in front of the crew—I could not go back on my word.”
“Of course not, Captain. However, I can’t help but remember something the human instructors at Starfleet Medical Academy used to say about ship captains. ‘They don’t expect you to tell them how to run the ship, so don’t let them tell you how to diagnose a patient.’”
“I’ll keep that in mind in the future, Doctor. If you’re quite finished, we have matters to discuss.”
Sitting on the other side of her desk, B’Oraq said, “Of course. We’ve only suffered one casualty since we last left Qo’noS—Lieutenant M’Rep—but his blood type doesn’t match.”
“M’Rep was an engineer. I want a warrior.”
B’Oraq tugged at her braid again. “You said you would be making that determination, Captain. I am simply looking for a biological match. In any case, I checked the medical records on taD. Two of the Klingons who died in the attack on the refinery are compatible—at least from my perspective.” She called up something on her computer terminal, then turned the display toward Klag. “Now you must decide if they are from yours.”
The captain stared at the screen. The first record was for one of the supervisors, a man named Kori. Although he came from the most noble of Houses—he was the brother, ironically, of the captain of the Sompek—Kori himself was a fat, indolent worm. From all accounts, he served well at his post in the refinery, but he was hardly worthy of having his arm continue to serve in this manner.
The other was for an engineer named Takus. At first, Klag was going to dismiss him out of hand, but then he noticed the man’s record. He had served in the Defense Force for many years, and had even received the General Koord Medal of Honor during a border skirmish with the Romulans fifteen years earlier. And, ironically, his right arm was about all that was left intact of him, as he had been in the center of the refinery explosion, working until the last second to try to defuse the bomb.
But then Klag came to why Takus had left the Defense Force: apparently, there’d been some kind of scandal involving a woman under his command. The details were not in the record, but Klag had seen enough euphemistic records to know the signs. Takus had left the Defense Force in disgrace, though he avoided censure to his House.
According to the records, Takus was of the House of K’Tal—which meant he was a relative of Kargan’s.
Under no circumstances will I place anything relatedto that petaQ on my person.
“Neither of these are acceptable,” he said aloud, turning the terminal screen back toward B’Oraq.
Tugging on her braid some more, the doctor said, “Captain, I fail to see what difference any of this makes. These are just empty shells. Their hearts have gone on to the afterlife. What does it matter what they did in life when the spirit that inhabited them is long departed? Your spirit will inhabit this limb, regardless of who had it before.”
Klag shook his head. “I do not expect you to understand.”
“Good, because I don’t.”
Searching his mind for an appropriate simile, Klag finally said, “It would be as if you brought me the arm of Duras or General Chang or some other traitor to the empire—or as if you gave me the weapon that Morath used to fight Kahless. I would not want the stigma of their dishonor, even if it is secondhand.”
B’Oraq turned the computer terminal back toward Klag. “Takus is—was an engineer who died trying to save lives. Are you saying that he’s the equivalent of a Ha’DIbaH like Duras?”
“Only in terms of worthiness to live on in me.”
Leaning back, B’Oraq tugged at her braid again. “Something else you should be aware of, Captain: you do realize what you’re opening yourself up to here, don’t you? The war changed a lot of attitudes—if it hadn’t, this medical ward would be half the size and a quarter as well equipped as it is now. But still, this step you’re taking is a big one. I personally think it’s the wrong step, but just by replacing a lost limb, you’re flying in the face of tradition. It could have an adverse effect on how people react to you.”
“Doctor, yesterday in the holodeck, I realized that possessing only one arm is having an adverse effect on my ability as a warrior. Ultimately, that is my only concern. How ‘people’ react t
o me is their problem.”
Klag hoped he sounded more convincing than he actually felt.
“Worf to Klag.”
Klag frowned. “Klag.”
“I need to speak with you immediately in your office.”
“I’ll be there shortly.” He looked at B’Oraq. “Continue the search, Doctor.”
“What should I tell people when they ask why I am looking for these items? I told them on taD that I needed cadavers for medical research, but I doubt that I will be able to use that excuse on a wider search.”
Klag was amazed at the question. “You will tell them the truth, Doctor—that you are operating under orders from your commanding officer. That is all that you will need to say.”
As Klag turned to leave, B’Oraq said, “Captain?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. I know you’re doing this for yourself and not for me—especially since you’re not going about it the way I would recommend—but the fact that you are doing it means a lot to me. Having the Hero of Marcan accept a medical procedure such as this will have a profound impact on the future of Klingon medicine, I think.”
“As you said, Doctor, I am not doing this for you.” He smiled. “But you’re welcome.”
B’Oraq returned the smile, and Klag turned and left.
He headed to his office, trying very hard to convince himself that he had done the right thing. It felt right, certainly—and the memory of the constant defeats at the hands of the holographic Jem’Hadar reinforced it. On the other hand, he just won a rather impressive battle against six Kreel ships in which the number of his arms was irrelevant.
One thing was for sure—he would not graft one of those machines onto his body. The very idea made him ill. It would be the arm of a warrior or no arm at all.
B’Oraq was right about one thing, however: there were many who would shun him, and call his behavior dishonorable and not worthy of Kahless.
DIPLOMATIC IMPLAUSIBILITY Page 18
