A Burning House

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “That is your story, Captain?”

  Now Gatrell stepped forward, standing against the edge of Kriz’s desk. “It is the truth! I will not stand here and have my honor impugned!”

  Still using the low, menacing tone, Kriz said, “You will modify the tone you take with a superior officer, Captain, or you will have far more to worry about than what you laughingly refer to as your honor.”

  Gatrell’s hand went to his d’k tahg as he said, “How dare you! I—”

  Interrupting, and sounding wholly unimpressed with Gatrell’s bluster, Kriz held up a padd. “This is a report made by First Officer K’Draq—one she made directly to Command. In it, she says that both she and Second Officer Grokla expressed concern that the natives of that system had some sort of organic technology, but that you disregarded that concern and then blamed Grokla for your own failure. She also reports—and this is verified by your gunner and your pilot—that she challenged you and you not only refused the challenge but had your bodyguard restrict K’Draq’s movements, as well as those of anyone else in the bridge crew in order to prevent any others from challenging you.”

  “That is a lie! The record of battle will bear out that K’Draq is a mutinous shrew, who—”

  “Enough!” Kriz said, holding up a hand. “Even if this report were false, your failure to conquer that system is alone enough to condemn you. Hand me your d’k tahg.”

  Klag watched Gatrell’s face contort into a rictus of rage. “Never!” Gatrell cried, though he did unsheathe the weapon, unfurling the side blades with a double click. “I will kill any who dare to—”

  Kriz pulled out a disruptor pistol seemingly from nowhere and fired it upon Gatrell.

  Before his body even fell to the floor, Kriz touched a control on his desk. “This is General Kriz, son of K’Mat. K’Draq, daughter of Sangra, is promoted to captain and given command of the I.K.S. Sturka.” Looking up at the guards who stood at the door, Kriz said, “Get rid of that.”

  As the guards moved to follow that order, Vikagh stepped forward.

  “What are you doing?” Kriz asked.

  Vikagh looked at the general as if he were mad. Before he could respond, Klag found himself speaking and also stepping forward. “A warrior has fallen. The Black Fleet must be informed of his impending arrival.”

  Letting out an annoyed growl, Kriz said, “If you feel you must.”

  After nodding up at Klag, Vikagh knelt down and pried open Gatrell’s eyes. He and Klag then threw their heads back and screamed to the ceiling.

  Several of the other captains joined in the scream. Klag couldn’t help but notice that Dorrek was not one of them. Perhaps Dorrek agreed with the general that Gatrell did not deserve the consideration. Or perhaps he simply didn’t wish to do something Klag endorsed.

  It did not matter to Klag either way. It simply confirmed Klag’s opinion of his younger brother.

  “If you’re quite finished,” Kriz said when they were done, “as it happens, Klag, you are the one I will hear from next.”

  Standing at attention, Klag said, “Sir!”

  “A concern has been expressed,” Kriz said slowly, “regarding the treatment of Imperial Intelligence agents on your vessel.” Quickly, the general added, “Let me assure you, Captain, that this concern has not been expressed by me, but rather by the head of I.I.”

  Stiffly, Klag said, “And what precisely is that concern, General?”

  “You have an agent named B’Etloj on board your vessel, whom you rescued from the Elabrej homeworld. You refused to speak to her.”

  “B’Etloj was the only member of the Kravokh crew who did not remain behind on Elabrej to regain their honor after being taken prisoner. Regardless, she had served her function in providing us with intelligence on the Elabrej in the first place.”

  “Which she provided to an I.I. agent on your ship.”

  “Bekk Trant, yes.” Klag was wondering what the point was of this line of questioning.

  The general looked down at his padd. “This Bekk Trant was killed on Elabrej?”

  “Yes.”

  “I.I. reports that you have not returned his body to them, as per regulations.”

  Klag couldn’t believe what he was hearing. To the general’s credit, Kriz sounded like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, either. But he was evidently under orders. “Those regulations,” the captain said, “state that the body is to be returned to I.I. if at all possible. It was not. The warriors who were with Trant when he was killed were soon thereafter taken prisoner and experimented on like they were animals. I do not know what became of Trant’s body, nor does anyone else, save possibly the Elabrej.”

  Kriz thumbed his padd. “B’Etloj also claims that you disobeyed Trant’s instruction to yield command of the Gorkon to him when he learned of the Elabrej’s destruction of the Kravokh.”

  At that, Klag bristled. “Trant had no authority to take command of my ship, General—and Chancellor Martok himself approved of my decision. Trant attempted to usurp control of the Gorkon from me. I believe the usual punishment for mutiny is death.” Klag smiled. “In which case, the Elabrej were kind enough to carry out the sentence.”

  Nodding, Kriz set aside the padd. “Very well. Captain, you also are to be commended. Your actions at San-Tarah were correct. General Talak has paid for his dishonor with his life, as it should be. According to Governor Huss, the Children of San-Tarah are being integrated into the empire.” He smiled. “Klingons have already begun petitioning to join them on their Great Hunt.”

  Klag was glad to hear that. He had put everything on the line at San-Tarah and turned what could have been an embarrassing, honorless defeat into the greatest of victories. “I may be joining those petitioners, General.”

  “If your duties permit,” Kriz said acidly. “And that leads me to Captain Dorrek. Step forward.”

  Dorrek did so. “The K’mpec’s repairs are complete, General. What is our next mission to be?”

  Gazing pitilessly upon Klag’s brother, the general said, “This meeting is not about the future, Captain, but rather an examination of the past. In your case, it’s regarding whether or not you are fit to take the K’mpec on its next mission.”

  The look on Dorrek’s face, Klag thought, was quite similar to that of Gatrell shortly before Kriz shot him.

  Kriz continued: “Those serving under General Talak in his fleet may be forgiven for taking up arms against their fellow Klingons at San-Tarah. The general did not reveal the truth, merely informing his subordinates that Klag had disobeyed his orders. That it was a point of honor was of no interest to him, nor did he share that rather important fact with his warriors.

  “He did, however, share that with you. Also you do not have the mitigating factor of being part of his fleet and therefore being under Talak’s direct command. Your actions were as dishonorable as those of Talak, and you are not worthy to command one of the finest ships in the Defense Force.” Again, Kriz touched a control on his desk. “This is General Kriz, son of K’Mat. Mikar, son of Kri’stol, is promoted to captain and given command of the I.K.S. K’mpec.”

  Klag continued to stare straight ahead, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the smoldering expression on his brother’s face.

  But it was not directed at General Kriz—rather, he stared murderously at Klag.

  The meeting continued through several more captains, and eventually they were all dismissed—save for Klag, whom Kriz told to remain behind.

  Once the other captains had departed the room, Kriz said, “Let me assure you, Captain, that I would have been quite content to let those ridiculous questions from I.I. go unasked. However, the choice was not mine.” He snarled. “I have little use for those shadowy yIntaghpu’.”

  “Nor I, General, but they do have their uses. We won the campaign at Elabrej at least in part because of their intelligence.”

  “And if all they did was gather intelligence, the galaxy would be a better place.” Kriz snarled, which wa
s an impressive gesture from his already unpleasantly featured face. “It is when they insert themselves into politics that I wish to have them all disemboweled with a rusty d’k tahg.”

  Klag hesitated. Since he had the general’s ear, he thought he would take a risk. “Sir, what is to become of Captain Dorrek?”

  Kriz regarded him with confusion. “Why do you care? From what I understand, Dorrek is your enemy. Or do you wish to know how far he is to fall?”

  To Klag’s shock and dismay, that was not the reason. “No, sir, I…I wonder if he might be afforded the same clemency you gave to his fleet. Dorrek was following the orders of a general.”

  Shaking his head, Kriz said, “Dorrek was your brother once, yes? Until you discommendated him from your House over this very conflict?”

  “Yes.” Klag hated how weak his voice sounded when he said that.

  “Make up your mind, Captain. Either he is cast out of the House of M’Raq, in which case his welfare is of no matter to you, or he is your brother and you are concerned for his well-being, in which case you let him back into your damned House. Dismissed.”

  That is that, Klag thought sourly as he turned on his heel and left the general’s company. I was a fool to plead Dorrek’s case.

  Klag knew in his mind that removing Dorrek from the family was the right thing to do. In addition to all the other offenses Kriz had listed, Dorrek committed one other crime: he disobeyed the wishes of the head of his House. Klag specifically told him to fight by his brother’s side at San-Tarah, and Dorrek refused. Doing so cost Dorrek a House, and now had cost him his command.

  And it cost me a brother.

  In his heart, though, Klag questioned his harshness. Klag and Dorrek had been as close as twins when they were youths and remained so into adulthood.

  Right up until M’Raq escaped his Romulan imprisonment and went home to the House M’Raq estates to die in his sleep. Dorrek and their mother, Tarilla, both felt that M’Raq had earned that right after all he went through, but Klag thought otherwise. A warrior died in battle, and Klag had always believed his father to be a warrior. Even now, Klag wore his father’s right arm to regain the honor that M’Raq had let atrophy in the decade that he waited for death.

  Klag walked through the corridors of Command Headquarters, nodding to those he knew and admiring the new statuary that adorned the halls since last he was here. He suspected the hand of General Goluk, who had replaced Talak as chief of staff. The artwork that now graced the dark passageways was more austere, reflecting the new person in command.

  Headquarters were located in a large plaza overlooking the Qam-Chee River, about half a qelI’qam from the Great Hall. The main entrance was huge double doors made of wood, reinforced with duranium that had been cut and shaped into the form of two Klingons facing each other with bat’leths. During the day, the doors were left open, and Klag felt the wind brush against his beard as he approached. It was gloriously cloudy today, with electrical storms visible over the Qam-Chee. The plaza was large and crowded with armored warriors going about their business as well as civilian support staff who were performing errands for their superiors. The plaza ended with an overlook of the Qam-Chee, and even from here, Klag could see the mighty river’s whitecaps.

  In the plaza’s center was the qaDrav, a raised rectangular platform surrounded on three sides by a low iron fence. Stairs led up to the fourth side. There was a time when all challenges were played out in the qaDrav. These days, challenges tended to be made and met wherever the two disputing parties happened to be standing, but things, Klag knew, had been more ritualized in the old days.

  As soon as Klag set foot on the ancient stonework of the plaza, a fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. Instinctively, he unsheathed his d’k tahg and looked up.

  He saw his brother standing over him.

  Angrily, Klag got to his feet and sheathed his weapon. Around them, many warriors (though none of the civilians) stopped what they were doing to see what would happen next.

  “Is it not enough that you cast me out of our House for no good reason, Klag? Is it not enough that you slew a great man to further your own misguided attempts at glory? Now you cost me my command!”

  Protocol demanded that Klag ignore Dorrek’s words and turn his back on him—unless they had Defense Force business to discuss, they had nothing to say to each other—but Klag found himself responding. “You disobeyed the orders of the head of the House, choosing instead to take arms against him. And Talak accepted my challenge on San-Tarah willingly. As for your command, I knew nothing of that until you did. You may take it up with General Kriz—if you have the courage.”

  “You dare!”

  “I dare nothing, Captain. I but speak the truth to one who does not deserve it.”

  Then, finally, Klag crossed his arms at the wrists in front of his face, clenched his fists, and turned his back on Dorrek.

  As he walked away from his brother, he heard the shouts: “This is not over, ‘brother.’ There will be a reckoning!”

  Klag ignored his former sibling. He had made his report, done his duty. Now it was time to go home.

  Four

  I.K.S. Gorkon

  Praxis Station, in orbit of Qo’noS

  G’joth crawled around his bunk one final time, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  It was fairly unlikely. He had very few possessions of his own. Defense Force soldiers learned early on to travel light. Bekks and leaders had only one thing to call their own: a two-meter bunk. Soldiers could have anything they wanted at their posts, as long as it would fit in that two meters. On the Gorkon, those bunks were set into the bulkheads on deck eighteen, and G’joth’s was one of five stacked on one section of that bulkhead reserved for Fifteenth Squad.

  The words of the QaS DevwI’ who trained him came back to G’joth: “Inside those two meters, you are allowed to be yourself. Once you set foot outside those two meters, you become a tool of the Defense Force. Nothing outside those two meters belongs to you—not even your honor. Never forget that.”

  Over his years of service, G’joth had found those words to be less than the truism the QaS DevwI’ claimed. For one thing, even the lowliest soldiers had their own honor.

  The bunk was clear, save for G’joth’s satchel. With a glance inside, he made sure everything was present: the padd on which he did all his writing, the data spike on which he backed up those files, the spikes that had the late, unlamented Bekk Tarmeth’s recordings of Battlecruiser Vengeance that G’joth had claimed after that mutineer was put to death, his bat’leth, and a small box.

  Reaching into the satchel, he pulled out the box and opened it. A lock of dark hair sat curled inside it.

  G’joth never used to be sentimental. He had lost many comrades over his decade in the service. Yet when Davok and Krevor had died, he’d felt it keenly.

  Though he was a tiresome little petaQ with whom he spent most of his waking hours arguing (and many of his sleeping ones, if it came to that), Davok had still been G’joth’s best friend. They’d served together for all ten years that they’d both been in the Defense Force, and nothing had been able to fill the gap left by his death.

  As for Krevor, they had shared a bunk on more than one occasion, and it had been quite glorious.

  They both died well at San-Tarah. He’d had remembrances of both of them, but only Krevor’s beautiful hair—a gift from her shortly after she’d cut it—remained. G’joth also had Davok’s prized qutluch, but he’d later given it to Captain Wirrk on Elabrej. Davok probably would’ve hated G’joth’s giving it to an officer, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

  In retrospect, G’joth wished he’d kept it. But no—I hate those damned things. The weight’s all wrong. Better for it to have gone to someone who had use of it. The weapon of a paid assassin, a qutluch was a very specialized weapon, heavier and more difficult to use properly than the more common d’k tahg. Davok claimed to have taken it off an as
sassin who tried to kill him years ago. G’joth had no idea if that was true or not, but he certainly had no trouble believing that Davok could have annoyed someone enough to drive him to hiring an assassin.

  Closing the satchel, he climbed out of the bunk and onto the ladder that would take him to the deck.

  Only Wol was standing there, and the other bunks were all empty. “Where are Kagak and the big man?” G’joth asked.

  “The commode,” Wol said.

  Checking his timepiece, G’joth said, “They’d best hurry. They’ll be calling us to the transporter soon, and if they miss it—”

  “They know, G’joth,” Wol said testily. “They’ll get bumped to the end of the line, and they won’t leave until all the troops have beamed off, and then they’ll probably miss their cargo flight to Pheben and they’ll miss Kagak’s precious yobta’ yupma’ meal.”

  G’joth stared at Wol. “You seem irked, Leader.”

  That broke her, and she burst out in a laugh. “Indeed. I find myself with nowhere to go.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Wol stared at him. “It was a simple enough statement, G’joth, that even you should have been able to parse it.”

  Smiling, G’joth said, “No, I mean I do not understand how that can be. You declined Kagak’s offer—I assumed it was because you had a better one.”

  “No.”

  G’joth read a significant amount of regret in Wol’s tone. “Then why did you decline the offer?”

  “That is not your concern, Bekk.” The testy tone returned.

  However, G’joth was having none of it. “Come off it, Leader. We’ve been through too much, you and I. If being with Kagak and Goran offends you—and I can’t blame you if that’s the case—then come with me. My mother is not quite as gregarious as Kagak describes his own grandmother to be, but I’m sure she wouldn’t object to one more place at the table.”

  “No,” Wol said forcefully. “I would sooner slice out my own heart then set foot in that targpit of a city you call home, G’joth.”