A Burning House

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  With a chuckle, G’joth said, “I can assure you, Leader, that were my family not present, I would feel the same. Sadly, my parents and sister did not show the same wisdom as I, and remained in Krennla.” Then G’joth frowned. “What was the occasion that brought you to live in Krennla the first time?”

  “What makes you think I lived there?” Wol asked defensively.

  “Yours is a contempt that can come only from residency. Trust me, Leader, I know it well.”

  Wol’s defenses dropped. “It was…it was after I was discommendated from the House of Varnak and before I thought to enlist in the Defense Force. It is a time in my life I am not eager to be reminded of.” She ran her hand through what there was of her hair. “That is also why I do not wish to go to Pheben and Kagak’s festival. I have lived at the heights of Klingon aristocracy and the depths of the Klingon common life. I want no more of either.”

  G’joth found the flaw in her logic. “Leader, do you really think that Krennla and a farm on Pheben are the same?” He laughed. “You know, when you first told us that you were once a highborn petaQ, I doubted it, but now I see that it is very much so. I suppose from the lofty heights of the warrior class, all those beneath are the same. Leader, the depths that you experienced in Krennla were likely the nadir of life in the empire—I know, because I grew up there, and I at least had a family. You didn’t even have that much, and I know what can happen to women on their own in Krennla, even ones as capable as you.”

  In a surprisingly small voice, Wol said, “I was not so capable then.”

  At that, G’joth simply nodded in acknowledgment. “But do not assume that it will be the same on Kagak’s farm.”

  “There is more than that,” Wol said. “I do not think I could bear to be in the company of a happy family.”

  “Why? You have no trouble being in the company of the fifteenth.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Of course it isn’t. The fifteenth isn’t the same as the House of Varnak, which isn’t the same as my family, which isn’t the same as Kagak’s family. They’re all different. And I can assure you that nothing on Pheben will remind you of Krennla.” He smiled. “It couldn’t be that bad.”

  Wol had been staring straight ahead at the bunk in front of her.

  “Leader?”

  Shaking her head, Wol looked up at G’joth. “If you’re wrong, G’joth, I will personally slit your throat.”

  Smiling, G’joth said, “If I am wrong, Leader, I will hand you my d’k tahg to perform the act.”

  “First Company, report to transporter rooms. First Company, report to transporter rooms.”

  Just as that notice came over the speakers, Goran and Kagak walked around the corner corridor to rejoin them at their bunks. “We are ready to go,” Goran said.

  Wol looked at Kagak. “Bekk, can your friend accommodate one more in his cargo ship?”

  In all the weeks that Kagak had been with the fifteenth, G’joth had never seen quite so gleeful a look on the young soldier’s face. “Of course, Leader!”

  “Good.” She looked at G’joth. “Perhaps a homemade meal is just what I need.”

  G’joth laughed heartily, and all four of them proceeded down the corridor.

  Five

  The Lukara Edifice

  Novat, Qo’noS

  It was the second day of the KPE conference, and B’Oraq was already convinced that this was to be a disaster.

  The first day had only one activity: the opening ceremonies, which consisted of a lot of bloodwine, a lot of head butting, and almost no discussion of medicine beyond complaints of headaches. The Lukara Edifice—named after Kahless’s mate and the woman who was responsible for keeping the Great One’s message alive after his ascension to Sto-Vo-Kor—had one giant hall on the ground floor and several dozen smaller rooms on the three upper levels. The Edifice had served as a substitute Great Hall when the one in the First City was under construction or renovations in the past—after the Praxis explosion, as well as during Morjod’s coup attempt shortly after the Dominion War—and also housed functions that required large gatherings. The Age of Ascension ceremonies of many a highborn Klingon had been held here—including B’Oraq’s.

  The previous day’s drunken revelry was held in the ground-floor hall. The various other events of the conference were to be held in the smaller rooms, which had been set up with a stage facing dozens of stools. Two talks and one demonstration were to be given today. Two more were scheduled for tomorrow, the second of which was to be B’Oraq’s description of the transplant procedure she did on Klag.

  Whatever hopes B’Oraq had that this might be a true medical conference were all but dashed when she saw that she was one of only three people attending the first talk, and that number included the speaker. Worse, the talk was supposed to be on emergency surgical procedures but was instead a discussion of different knife techniques.

  The second talk was slightly better attended: a workshop on medical interrogation methods. B’Oraq had actually found that talk to be useful, but the point of this had been, she thought, to move Klingon medicine forward, and this talk did nothing to accomplish that goal.

  As for the demonstration, it was in triage techniques, and B’Oraq found herself correcting the speaker—a doctor serving on the I.K.S. Klivin. She wasn’t even the only one. A man and a woman—the former a civilian, the latter in a Defense Force uniform—also pointed out better and more efficient methods of field diagnoses.

  Another person in the audience asked, “What if a woman is about to give birth?”

  The doctor frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “What is the procedure?”

  Laughing now, the doctor said, “Summon a midwife, of course. The task of birthing new warriors falls to them—it is hardly a medical matter.”

  B’Oraq shook her head. That was a fight she’d given up long ago, but only because there was no circumstance under which she would trust the average Klingon doctor over the average Klingon midwife to aid in the birth of a child. In many ways, midwives were better physicians than the doctors.

  Eventually, the doctor threw up his hands and said, “Pfagh! If you know so much, then you hardly require my presence on this stage!”

  He stomped out. By this point, most of the audience had done likewise.

  B’Oraq walked over to the two doctors and said, “Thank you for your qI’bI’tlhIng.” At the physicians’ confused look, B’Oraq laughed. “It is a human term; it refers to people who comment on what others are doing.”

  They both nodded, then glanced at each other with apprehension.

  “I am B’Oraq, daughter of—”

  “We know who you are,” the man said. “I am Kandless, this is Valatra. We must depart.”

  They turned to go, but B’Oraq called out after them. “Will you be attending my talk tomorrow at low sun?”

  Kandless turned around and said, “Of course.”

  Valatra also turned, smiled quickly, and added, “We would not miss it for all the bloodwine in the empire, Doctor.”

  Then they both left as if they were being pursued by a wild klongat.

  Departing the room at a more leisurely pace, she exited to find a familiar face standing under a poorly sculpted statue of some generic warrior or other. He was a short, squat man with a dull crest, small, beady eyes, an unkempt beard, and puffed-out cheeks. This was Kowag, the doctor in charge of the Great Hall.

  “Ah, the butcher herself. I had been hoping we would meet before your presentation. It gives me the opportunity to spit on your boots.”

  “Go right ahead,” B’Oraq said with an insincere smile. “I do hope that you plan to attend the presentation, as you are quoted quite extensively in it.”

  “Am I?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Kowag walked toward B’Oraq and stared up at her. B’Oraq took a certain pleasure in the fact that she herself stood half a head taller than this incompetent toDSaH. “You are a fool to think this is a
nything other than a sham to make Chancellor One-Eye happy. We will have this charade, and then life will go on as before. You have done nothing.”

  “No, Kowag, you have done nothing. It has been the hallmark of your career as a physician.”

  Now Kowag did spit on her boots. “You violate every tenet of Klingon life, butcher. I will live to see you put to death for your barbarity.”

  Tugging on her braid, B’Oraq said, “As I recall, Kowag, the last prediction you made was in that monograph you published saying that Klag’s transplant would fail within the next four months following the monograph’s release—that release was five months ago, and I last saw Klag doing bat’leth drills with his right hand.” In truth, she last saw Klag naked in his bunk, but she saw no need to share that with Kowag. Instead, she leaned in and smiled down at him, trying to ignore the cheap warnog on his breath. “I’m sure this prediction will come just as true.”

  Then she turned her back on him and walked away.

  She went down the grand staircase at the rear of the Edifice to the ground-floor hall. Several Klingons were milling about, drinking and talking and laughing. She saw Kandless and Valatra at one table, and decided to take a chance.

  First she went to the bar and asked for a mug of chech’tluth. The bartender, a bored-looking jeghpu’wI’, dolefully filled a mug with the steaming beverage and handed it to B’Oraq. After she paid for it, she turned to move toward the two physicians.

  Upon sighting her, they both got to their feet, draining their mugs.

  “May I join you?” B’Oraq asked.

  “Doctor,” Valatra said, “we’re sorry but we cannot stay. I must report back to headquarters.”

  “And I have just received an emergency call,” Kandless added.

  B’Oraq debated pointing out that she had heard no such call, and the room was empty enough that any communication device would have been heard. But perhaps his is silent.

  “We will see you tomorrow, Doctor,” Valatra said as they retreated. “Qapla’.”

  “Qapla’,” B’Oraq said with little enthusiasm.

  “Get used to it, butcher.”

  B’Oraq turned around to see two more Defense Force–armored men—though in both cases, it was the lighter armor of the medical division. The one who had spoken was Tiklor, who served at the base on Mempa V, last she’d heard. She didn’t know the other one. While she’d seen both of them drinking heavily the previous night, neither of them had shown up for any of the three presentations. “What did you say, Tiklor?”

  “I said, get used to it. No one wants you here. No one wishes to be seen with the likes of you. No one cares what you have to say. And none will drink with you, for you are the enemy. You are contaminating a once-noble profession with barbarism.”

  Gulping down some of her drink, B’Oraq said, “I would say the same of you, Tiklor. I still remember how you nearly killed Captain Grannk with your bungled incisions. You were lucky not to be put to death.”

  Slamming down his mug, Tiklor stood up. “I saved his life!”

  “It should never have been in danger in the first place! You could train a trigak to perform that operation, it’s so simple, yet you botched it. Had I the position I have now, I could have had you put to death for that.”

  Tiklor unsheathed his d’k tahg. “How dare you! I will not stand here and be insulted.”

  “A bit late for that, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps.” Tiklor unfurled the side blades of the weapon. “But the insult will not go unanswered.”

  There it is, then. B’Oraq sighed. She had been hoping to get through this conference without a duel.

  Making a show of finishing her drink first, she unsheathed her own d’k tahg.

  Suddenly, the hall seemed more crowded. It’s as if they smelled the blood before it was spilled, B’Oraq thought uncharitably. Given the disdain most were showing for this whole endeavor, most probably viewed this as the most exciting thing that was likely to happen during the conference’s duration.

  Tiklor started circling B’Oraq. She stayed in place, pivoting only so she could continue to face him. The other physician had a large grin on his long face. “I will be hailed as one of the great heroes of the empire today, butcher. They will build statues to me as the one who rid the empire of a tiresome—”

  Suddenly, B’Oraq lunged with her own d’k tahg, striking right under one of the seams in the armor, which was also between the fifth and sixth transverse ribs. Mentally, she made a note to have that weakness in the armor covered up.

  The blade sliced right into Tiklor’s third aorta.

  To his credit, he managed to swing his own blade at B’Oraq’s side, which was left open by her lunge. She felt the metal slice into her flesh, but not even cutting all the way through. Fire burned in her belly at the intoxicating smell of both Tiklor’s and her own blood. She figured she could afford to lose some blood, so she didn’t bother trying to hold the wound shut. It would be several minutes before blood loss would be a concern.

  However, that turned out not to be an issue. As B’Oraq had thought, she had penetrated his heart, and Tiklor fell to the ground, dead.

  The battle lust had barely had time to build before it subsided with her opponent’s death, and B’Oraq looked around the hall.

  Silence.

  Normally, in such a duel, there would be cheers as people goaded on one or the other or both to victory. But she ended the fight too fast, and the resounding silence that greeted her victory showed that nobody here was goading her on to anything save the Black Fleet.

  Shaking her head, B’Oraq knelt in front of Tiklor and moved to pry his dead eyes open so she could perform the death ritual. But then Tiklor’s drinking companion rose to his feet and roared, “Away from him!”

  She looked up. Tiklor’s friend had a snarl on his face and spittle mixed with warnog flew from his mouth.

  “You will not defile Tiklor’s body!”

  In a tight voice, B’Oraq said, “I had no intention of doing so. He died honorably, and I was going to—”

  “No!” The man batted his arm at B’Oraq’s. “Such as you are not worthy to herald his arrival in Sto-Vo-Kor!”

  The notion was ridiculous. Klingon tradition was that, if one died honorably in a duel—as Tiklor had done—the victor had the honor of performing the ritual: prying the deceased’s eyes open and screaming to the other warriors in Sto-Vo-Kor that another warrior was about to cross the River of Blood to join them in the Black Fleet.

  Grumbles from around the hall indicated that most of those present were in agreement with Tiklor’s friend. Or, at the very least, were unwilling to say that they weren’t.

  Snarling, B’Oraq got to her feet. Pain sliced through her left side. She had forgotten about her injury. Though she was in a hall full of alleged physicians, she could not bring herself to ask any of them for aid in binding the wound.

  In fact, she couldn’t even bear to walk past them. Activating her communicator, she said, “B’Oraq to Praxis Station—one to beam to the Gorkon.”

  As the transporter whisked her away, she heard Tiklor’s friend lead the others in the scream to the heavens.

  Six

  Office of Doctor Qa’Hos

  Kri’stak City, Qo’noS

  The dreams continued to plague Rodek.

  He finally admitted to himself that he needed medical advice, but B’Oraq was now unavailable. Since he was on leave anyhow, he went home to his father Noggra’s estate in Kri’stak City. They almost missed each other, as Noggra was traveling to Mempa XII on a case. Noggra was a top advocate, and one of his clients was having some difficulties in the Mempa sector. When Rodek told his father of the dreams, Noggra immediately made an appointment with Qa’Hos, an old friend of Noggra’s family, for the following morning, right after Noggra was to depart.

  Rodek arrived at Qa’Hos’s office on time for the appointment. His office was located on a back street of Kri’stak, inside a large green building wit
h dozens of private offices. The door to the office labeled qa’hos, physician rumbled aside at Rodek’s approach, but no one was inside. There was a desk with a computer station, various medical implements on the walls—at least, Rodek assumed them to be medical implements. Several of them resembled items that he’d seen in medical bays on the Lallek and the Gorkon, at least.

  He went to the computer station to find it inactive and with no data. Now the open door made sense—Qa’Hos probably kept all of his data on a spike, so the only items would-be thieves could obtain were the pieces of equipment.

  After a few moments, Rodek was ready to leave and question his father’s friendship with this fool, but then a tall Klingon with short, white hair entered. “Who are you?” he asked testily upon entering.

  “I am Rodek, son of Noggra. I—”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, of course. Well, come in, come in.”

  “I am already in.”

  “Right, yes, of course.” Qa’Hos stepped around the desk, took a seat, and removed a data spike from his pocket. “You’re Noggra’s boy, eh? Mm. Surprised I never saw you before. Well, not that surprised, Noggra’s like most advocates.”

  Rodek frowned. “And how is that?”

  Qa’Hos grinned, showing very few teeth. “A damned secretive old toDSaH. So, what’s the issue?”

  Slowly, Rodek explained what had happened on San-Tarah and at Elabrej. “Since then, I have been having odd dreams.”

  “What kind of dreams would those be?”

  For a moment, Rodek hesitated. Then he castigated himself. You came to him because of the dreams, fool. Tell him!

  “I keep remembering myself in places where I have never been. In the captain’s chair on a Vakk-class vessel. On a Federation starship. In a cargo bay wearing a Bajoran Militia uniform. In the council chambers in the Great Hall.”

  “How do you know that that is what those places are?” Qa’Hos asked. “I mean, all right, everyone knows what the council chambers look like, but have you ever even seen a Federation starship or a Bajoran Militia uniform? I didn’t even know the Bajorans had a militia. I mean, I suppose they must have, but I hadn’t given it any thought.”