A Burning House

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “A shame about Davok,” she said, sipping her warnog. “What happened?”

  For anyone else, G’joth would have embellished, but this was Mother. “It was during the contests on San-Tarah. We were assigned to protect a prize that the San-Tarah would attempt to capture. All five of us were wounded—except for Goran, of course, but no one can harm the big man—and one of the aliens cut off Davok’s head.”

  She shook her head. “That’s awful. After all you’ve been through, to die like that. At least he died on duty. Not like that friend of yours, what was his name?”

  “I do not know who you—”

  “Korlak!” Mother said, eyes widening. “The one who died in the shuttle accident while on his way to a bat’leth tournament.”

  Shaking his head, G’joth said, “Of course.” He’d forgotten about Korlak. They’d served on the Kalvis together and survived many campaigns. In fact, he, G’joth, and Davok had been the only survivors in their company in a battle against the Kinshaya. Then he died because someone hadn’t performed maintenance on the shuttle he was using to get to the tournament.

  “I also wish to see Klaad and Krom while I am home,” G’joth said after a moment.

  “I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.”

  Somehow G’joth doubted that, especially given what Klaad had said to his son, but G’joth didn’t care.

  As he sipped his warnog, he thought, It’s good to be home.

  Nine

  Yopak Port

  Pheben III

  Wol stared angrily at her subordinate and wondered how difficult it would be to find a ship that would take her back to Qo’noS.

  They had arrived at Pheben III on time, a two-day journey on the Mahochu that went without incident. Wol actually had an entire space to herself: a sectioned-off part of the cargo hold that smelled of rotted fruit and dried-out loSpev. The odor notwithstanding, it was still several times larger than her two meters on the Gorkon, and she was grateful for that, though she had trouble sleeping on the straw pallet, missing her metal bunk. Several of the crew played grinnak, and Wol had enjoyed taking their money, which was going toward a new cleaning kit for her blades.

  Then they waited.

  The waiting area at Yopak Port was a small room just off the processing station, which was, in turn, next to the public transporter, as well as a corridor that led to the housing area for the planet-based vehicles. Once the Mahochu achieved orbit, the three of them beamed down to Yopak Port, which was the only place on Pheben III that was authorized to receive public transporter beams. As Klingons and as soldiers, the three of them went through processing without a second glance, and then they waited, where Kagak had said his brother Fuhrman would meet them.

  Kagak had been surprised that Fuhrman had not been waiting for them and said so about a dozen times during the two hours they waited.

  Just when Wol was about to stab Kagak through the neck and then go to the controller’s desk and find a ship that would take her and Goran back home, a man who was as wide as Goran but shorter than Wol came stomping in, his stubby arms spread wide.

  “Brother!” he cried.

  Kagak’s own face lit up. “Brother!”

  They embraced—or, rather, Fuhrman engulfed Kagak and Kagak attempted to breathe. “I did not intend to be late, but the vehicle malfunctioned!” He laughed, a sound that echoed off the metal walls of the waiting area and vibrated in Wol’s crest. “I beat it until it ran again!” He released Kagak and stared at Goran and Wol. “You must be my brother’s shipmates! Welcome to Pheben! Prepare yourselves, for you are about to have the finest yobta’ yupma’ feast in the history of the galaxy!”

  Fuhrman still held his arms wide, and Wol feared he would try to embrace them, but he refrained. Though it might be amusing to see what an embrace between this one and Goran would look like.

  “Leader Wol, Bekk Goran, this is my brother Fuhrman.”

  “I gathered,” Wol said. “Thank you for finally arriving. I was beginning to think that Kagak had planned an elaborate deception.”

  That prompted another crest-vibrating guffaw from Fuhrman. “You give my brother far too much credit for imagination! Why do you think he joined the Defense Force?”

  Goran frowned. “He told us it was because he was a terrible farmer.”

  “That is the other reason!” Fuhrman slapped Kagak on the back. To his credit, the bekk only stumbled a little bit. “The vehicle is waiting for us outside—come!”

  With a due sense of anticipation and dread as to what manner of aircar the “vehicle” in question was, Wol followed Fuhrman out the door.

  It rumbled aside to reveal hot temperatures, the yellow sun baking the open air. Yopak Port seemed to be located in the middle of nowhere, as there was nothing around them but flat land. Not even any trees.

  She also saw several ground cars sitting at various spots around the port, which surprised her. Wol had seen wheeled vehicles in the past, of course, and she figured these were used by the port.

  Then Fuhrman led them to one of those vehicles. It was a large boxlike shape with six wheels, three on either side, each wheel as high as Wol’s chest. The front of the vehicle had a large transparency, and the back appeared to be cargo space of some sort, as the top was hinged and looked as if it could be easily opened.

  Wol stopped walking. “No.”

  Everyone stopped and turned to look at her. “What is it, Leader?” Kagak asked.

  “We are not riding in that.”

  Again, Fuhrman laughed, but in the open air the effect was lessened. “Of course we are! How else would we get to the farm?”

  “Aircar?” Wol ventured her question quietly.

  Another laugh, but this time Fuhrman was joined by his brother. When he caught his breath, Kagak said, “Leader, aircars are a luxury we cannot afford. Some of the planetary officials travel in that manner, though they prefer the transporters, but we lowly farmers get by on the land.”

  “Besides,” Fuhrman added, “those khest’n things never work right. No, if you wish to be transported properly, you use a Vikak.” He walked up to the vehicle and waved his hand over a plate.

  The Vikak made a noise, then a gurgling sound.

  Snarling, Fuhrman waved his hand over the plate a second time.

  This time, the rear of the Vikak unfolded to reveal an open space filled with tools and bags of things that Wol did not recognize. All the way in front were two benches behind one stool. In front of the stool were three long levers that went from the floor of the Vikak to about chest level. Presumably, they were used for steering.

  It was quickly determined that the wooden benches could not support Goran’s girth, so he sat on the floor in the cargo area with their luggage, while Wol and Kagak took the bench behind the stool.

  Transported properly, indeed. I should’ve stayed on Qo’noS.

  Fuhrman settled his wide frame onto the small stool and ran his hand over another plate, which resulted in the whirring sound of an engine of some kind.

  Then the engine went dead.

  Kagak shook his head. “When was the last time you changed the battery, Brother?”

  “It isn’t the battery,” Fuhrman said, waving his hand over the plate again. “The battery’s fine.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  “A month ago. The battery is fine.” The engine started, then gurgled and stopped again. “Qu’vatlh!”

  Fuhrman kicked the area near his feet on the other side of the levers.

  The Vikak started up again and stayed running.

  Wol looked at Kagak. “He beat it until it ran again?”

  “That is the way of things with my brother,” Kagak said.

  The ride to the family farm took several hours. It wasn’t so bad for the first half hour or so, since the Vikak was driving over flat ground of either stone or dirt, but the farther they got from the port, the worse it got. Several times, Wol was thrown from the bench as Fuhrman drove over a rock or a divo
t. Her buttocks ached from the constant jerking motions the Vikak made. She was able to distract herself by thinking of all the ways she was going to kill G’joth for talking her into this.

  From the rear, Goran asked at one point, “Is it always this bumpy?”

  “No,” Furhman bellowed from up front as he used the levers to make a right turn down an incline, “it used to be worse, back when we had the Sporak! Those things have no suspension! The Vikak is much better!”

  Wol had always had a fairly vivid imagination, but she found, as the Vikak rumbled over a boulder with a bone-bruising impact, that she could not imagine a ride worse than this.

  She had tried to distract herself with the scenery of a new world, but that proved useless after a while, because it was all the same: flat ground filled with crops, occasionally broken by a long, one-story structure. From this distance, it was hard to tell the crops apart, especially given that Wol had no idea what any of them were. Farming was always something that other people did; Wol was perfectly happy to simply reap the rewards of it, as it were.

  Of course, she could have asked Kagak, but he was third on Wol’s list of people she wanted to disembowel, right after G’joth and Fuhrman.

  There were people visible, including several on wheeled vehicles she did not recognize. Wol was starting to think that farmers were all mad, if they preferred this type of transportation to a sensible aircar—or just walking. Not that there weren’t people on their feet: she saw many Klingons, and quite a considerable number of jeghpu’wI’, mostly multitentacled Phebens, who operated equipment that Wol also didn’t recognize.

  The Vikak came to an abrupt halt, the engine ceasing its noise, and Wol feared that it had broken down again and they’d be stuck for hours, but then Fuhrman said, “We have arrived!”

  Wol blinked. “We have?” Then she admonished herself. If all the farms looked alike, how was she to know that the one they were driving past was the right one?

  Fuhrman had brought the Vikak to a halt right in front of a long path that led to a one-story structure. The north end (assuming the Vikak’s perambulations hadn’t completely destroyed Wol’s sense of direction) of the building had many small windows, with the center and south end having fewer and bigger windows, so she assumed that to be storage, with Kagak’s family living in the north end.

  Without asking, Furhman opened the rear and removed the luggage, carrying it all himself. Wol considered objecting, but after being bounced all the way here, she was willing to let someone else carry her duffel, and Fuhrman was wide enough to be able to carry all three. Besides, they were Klingon soldiers—they didn’t carry much.

  Removed from the stench of the Vikak, Wol took a deep breath, taking in the new scents of this farm. In some ways, it reminded her of the hunting preserves on House Varnak’s estate, but there were a lot more scents here. More animals, for one thing, beyond the avian and reptilian ones you expected in a hunting ground, and plants she didn’t recognize, plus the expected tinge of fertilizer. While Wol knew little about farming, even she knew of that ingredient.

  The large wooden front door of the house, which was on the north side at the end of the path, was engraved with the words good harvest in an ornate, old-fashioned script.

  “I like your door,” Goran said.

  Kagak said, “My great-grandmother had that put in after the previous door was destroyed by a tornado.”

  That brought Wol up short. “Tornado?”

  “This was in the days before weather control,” Kagak said quickly. “That doesn’t happen anymore.”

  Wol exhaled. “Good.” This trip was going to be nightmarish enough without weather difficulties added to it.

  Kagak then ran ahead to open the door for the laden Fuhrman.

  As soon as the large piece of engraved wood swung open with a creak, Wol found herself awash in familiar scents. Alien this world may be, but anywhere in the empire, a kitchen in use smells like a kitchen in use. Spices, sauces, and raw meat all wafted across Wol’s nostrils, reminding her of the hours before the evening meals growing up.

  Before she had a chance to dwell on that, Fuhrman bellowed, “We have returned!”

  Kagak held the door open for Wol and Goran—the latter had to duck his head to get through the doorway, but the big man was used to that.

  The foyer they entered was dark and cluttered with an amazing amount of things: padds, figurines, rolled-up scrolls, codex books (Wol hadn’t seen any of those in years), assorted weapons in various states of disrepair, containers of varying sorts ranging from jars to boxes, data spikes, and other things Wol couldn’t identify, all of which was strewn about against the walls and on the floor and on shelves. There were two open doorways on the far side of the foyer, the right one leading to a hallway, the left one leading to a kitchen, where Wol could see an older woman wearing a cooking drape, slicing something on a countertop. Next to her was a younger woman, also wearing a drape and also chopping something.

  The older woman said, “Be right out!” She chopped a few more things, then said to the younger woman, “Cut them smaller than that, B’Ellor.” B’Ellor—who, if Wol remembered right, was Kagak’s other sibling—nodded, and started chopping in a smaller arc. “Much better.”

  Then the woman came out from around the counter and entered the foyer. Wol could see that her hands were covered with what smelled like animal blood.

  Breaking into a smile, she said, “Kagak! Welcome home!”

  “Thank you, Grandmother. These are my crewmates: Leader Wol, the commander of our squad, and Bekk Goran. This is my grandmother, Tabona, daughter of Jirak.”

  Tabona opened her arms wide. “My house is yours, Leader, Bekk.”

  Bowing her head, Wol said, “We are honored, Tabona.”

  Then Tabona laughed. “Enough of that ritualized nonsense.” She looked at Fuhrman. “Where are my gizzards?”

  Fuhrman, who was still carrying all three duffels, bowed his head into his all-but-nonexistent neck. “I was unable to procure them.”

  “You were gone half the khest’n day, you stupid yIntagh. Why couldn’t you get me my gizzards?” For good measure, she smacked Fuhrman on the back of the head.

  “The Vikak broke down again, and by the time I was able to make it run, Kinvoh’s was closed.”

  Staring angrily at him now, Tabona said, “When was the last time you changed the battery?”

  “It is not the battery!” Unlike the last time Fuhrman made this declaration, he sounded a bit whinier. “I changed it a month ago.”

  Shaking her head, Tabona said, “I should never have let you talk me into getting that khest’n Vikak. The Sporak was just fine.” She looked at Wol. “I suppose he spent the whole time from the port extolling the Vikak’s virtues?”

  Wol smiled. “Not the whole time, no.”

  “And now I can’t make the gizzards, which ruins the entire meal.”

  From the kitchen, B’Ellor called out, “We still have those klongats in stasis! We can use their gizzards!”

  Turning around, Tabona said, “Did I teach you nothing, B’Ellor? You do not serve klongat gizzards with zilm’kach.” Again shaking her head, she said to Wol, “You try to teach them the way of things, but they simply will not listen.”

  “I like klongat gizzards,” Goran said. “I eat them with zilm’kach all the time.”

  Tabona glowered up at Goran. “Are you telling me how to prepare food in my own home?”

  “No, ma’am. I was merely saying that I would not object if you served that.”

  Wol held in a laugh. Goran was simply being Goran.

  “Good to know,” Tabona said dryly. Then to Fuhrman: “Boy, why are you standing there? Go put down those bags in the guest rooms.”

  Wol blinked. “Rooms?” She had expected to be placed with Goran in the storage area or with the animals.

  “Of course ‘rooms,’ girl, what do you think this is? You’re a guest in my house, and I won’t have you sleeping in the straw when I’ve go
t plenty of perfectly good QongDaqpu’.” To Fuhrman: “Boy, will you move?”

  Nodding quickly, Fuhrman moved to the right-hand door down the hallway, which presumably led to the guest rooms.

  Kagak asked, “Where is everyone else?”

  “Did they take out your brains on that ship of yours? It’s low sun the day before yobta’ yupma’, where do you think they are? There’s loSpev to be brought in, you know that.” To Wol, she asked, “He always this dumb, or just lately?”

  “He only recently joined my squad,” Wol said truthfully, “so I am unaware of precisely when the removal of his brain occurred.”

  At that, Tabona laughed. “Oh, I like this one. Kagak, take them to their rooms so they can change. I need to get back into the kitchen before B’Ellor completely fouls it up. Besides, I gotta figure out what to make now, since I don’t have my khest’n gizzards. I swear, that boy’s brains leaked right outta his damn ears. Damn Vikak probably didn’t even break down, he was just joyridin’ on the thing.”

  She turned around and walked back into the kitchen, still muttering to herself.

  Wol turned to Kagak. “Change?”

  Kagak smiled. “Grandmother will not serve you food if you sit at the supper table in uniform, Leader.”

  “Oh.” Wol let out a snarl. “I do not have any civilian clothing.”

  Goran asked, “Why not? I have some for when I am off duty.”

  I have not been off duty since I joined the Defense Force. Wol managed not to say that out loud. “The need has never arisen.”

  Kagak turned toward the kitchen. “Grandmother! Leader Wol has no other clothing!”

  “What?” Tabona came back out, her bloodstained carving knife still in hand, and holding it in such a way that Wol half expected the old woman to come at her with it. “You just wear that khest’n armor?”

  “I have no need for other clothing,” Wol said, choosing her words carefully, as she had no desire to share her life story with this woman, who probably didn’t care about it in any case. “Whenever I am away from my post, the uniform affords me respect.” Respect I would not have otherwise as a Houseless outcast.