An alarm beeped. Toq looked down at the console. “We are approaching the Kovris system.” He sat down at the pilot’s seat. “Activating cloak.”
Ba’el joined him.
After a moment, Toq asked, “Why did you come with me?”
“I owe it to L’Kor. After Father and I stopped talking, L’Kor became my father in all but name. I want to get him back. And all those people who died deserve to be avenged.” She ran her hands through her long auburn hair. “I may not be much of a Klingon, but I won’t just sit around and let the person who destroyed my home and killed my friends get away with it.” She looked at Toq. “After that, Toq, could you do me a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Take me to see Worf. He’s somewhere nearby, right?”
“He is based in the Federation embassy on Qo’noS. If we survive, I will bring you to him.”
Ba’el nodded. “Thank you.” She sighed. “If we live. I never used to think like that. And I still can’t believe that everyone’s dead.”
Tokath came fore. “I assume by our coming out of warp and cloaking that we have arrived at our destination?”
“Our assumed one, yes,” Toq said. “I’m scanning now for Gorrik’s ship.” After a moment, he smiled. “There it is—a Mark 7 Ferengi Star-Hopper, one running with a Klingon civilian ID. It is in orbit around the fifth planet.” He frowned. “There are no life signs on board. Scanning the surface.”
“Why would he abandon his ship?” Ba’el asked.
Though he had no answer for Ba’el’s question, Toq had found what he was looking for. “The fifth planet is breathable but has no sentient life—except for two Klingon life signs.” He looked at the other two. “It makes sense. Gorrik may wish to keep this entire thing secret, and one person can operate the Star-Hopper if he is a talented enough pilot. According to the dossier Lorgh provided me, Gorrik has the skill.”
“That works to our advantage,” Tokath said. “There are three of us—four, counting L’Kor—and only one of him. It will be a pleasure to kill him.”
Toq turned to the console, setting a course for orbit around the fifth planet. “I believe, Tokath, that that is the one thing on which all three of us agree.”
Sixteen
Tabona’s farm
Pheben III
Wol had never seen so much food in one place in her life.
The House of Varnak had had its share of feasts over the years, and no one ever starved in a Defense Force mess hall, but they all paled in comparison to the huge piles of food that were placed all around the big wooden table in the middle of the clearing in front of the farmhouse.
“I can’t remember the last time I ate outside,” Wol said to Kagak.
The bekk said, “I can’t remember the last time we ever ate inside on the farm, when it wasn’t midwinter.” He laughed. “And sometimes, even then, if Grandmother was feeling particularly vicious.”
Tabona passed by, carrying another tray, this one piled high with gagh—in fact, they were the largest serpent worms Wol had ever seen. The old woman said, “Viciousness got nothin’ to do with it, boy. I just don’t think folks should eat indoors. Isn’t natural.”
“We have very little choice aboard ship,” Wol said with a smile. “Where did you get those gagh?”
“What, these?” Tabona looked down at her tray. “They’re all right, I guess. Hurgor brought them. Usually he brings bigger.”
Wol’s eyes widened as Tabona brought the tray to the already-overloaded table. She didn’t think they bred gagh that large, much less larger.
She and Kagak were standing between the table and the house. The table sat right in front of the north end of the house, bordered on two sides by farm, and on the fourth by the pathway to the main road, where Wol saw the accursed Vikak still parked. Only the fact that it seemed to be the family’s only distance vehicle kept Wol from firebombing the damn thing.
The wooden table was surrounded on each of its two long sides by a bench, with stools on the two ends. It looked like at least thirty Klingons could fit—more if they didn’t mind bumping elbows.
She asked Kagak, “How big is your family? I didn’t see that many bedrooms in the house.”
“Two of the neighboring farms also dine here—particularly on a special occasion such as this.”
Wol frowned. “What special occasion? I thought yobta’ yupma’ was tomorrow.”
Tabona, having somehow contrived to find room for the gagh on the table, said, “It’s for you, of course. Ain’t every day my grandson returns to the nest, and ain’t every day we have guests of your caliber. Now what’re you standing here for? Sit! Eat!”
Wol let Kagak lead her to an appropriate spot. He sat at one corner, next to one end of the table. Wol sat next to him. She looked around and saw Goran talking to B’Ellor, Kagak’s sister. Tabona approached them, waving her arms and pointing at the table.
Shortly thereafter, the two of them walked over, even as Klingons and Phebens started pouring in from all sides—some from the house, some from the farm, some from the path to the road. Everyone’s clothes (well, the Klingons’ clothes, as Phebens didn’t dress themselves) were covered in a certain amount of grime and dirt, adding the peaty aroma that seemed to hang over this place.
People greeted each other with laughs and head butts, and welcomed Kagak with equal enthusiasm. Goran eventually managed to squeeze his way onto one of the benches next to Wol, and B’Ellor took a seat opposite the big man, leaving room for Fuhrman, who sat between her and the head of the table, which Wol presumed to be Tabona’s place.
Now seated, Wol had a chance to examine the contents of the table more closely and saw plenty of familiar foods, but the proportion was different from what she was accustomed to. No doubt due to what they produced, there were a lot more vegetable- and grain-based plates. Where such would be only a side dish or garnish at House Varnak or on the Gorkon, they were in greater evidence here. She also saw a basket full of jInjoq bread—only this had the odd shapes and sizes that indicated that it was handmade. One of House Varnak’s chefs had made jInjoq by hand; it had been a sad day for Wol when she died.
From the far end of the table, one of the Klingons said, “Hey, Fuhrman, ain’t you gonna set traps for the korvit? Didn’t see any when I walked over here.”
Wincing, Fuhrman said, “QI’yaH, is that thing back again?”
The Klingon nodded. “Ate through half my khest’n fence and tore through my hurkik.”
Another Klingon settled in next to B’Ellor. He had a scar on his cheek and a patch missing on the chin of his beard. “So, you work with Kagak, eh?”
“Yes. And you farm?”
He laughed. “I provide food for the empire, yes.” He grabbed some food off a plate and started to move it toward his mouth.
“Kaseli! Stop that!”
Wol turned to see Tabona heading for the table, fury in her eyes.
Quickly, Kaseli threw the food back onto the table.
“You know better than to start eating before we’ve all sat down,” she said as she walked around and hit him on the back of the head. Then she turned to Wol. “Feel free to ignore this petaQ, Wol. I wonder why I continue to let him sit at my table.”
His mouth widening into a huge grin, one that accentuated the bald spot in his beard, Kaseli said, “Because you cannot deny my charm?”
“Oh, watch me deny your charm, Kaseli.” She rolled her eyes and went back toward the house.
Wol regarded her retreating form with apprehension. “She isn’t getting more food, is she?”
“Probably,” Kagak said. “This is less than we usually have.”
Wol swallowed, then said, “It is nice to see that some things remain constant.”
“What do you mean?” Kaseli asked.
“On the Gorkon,” Wol said, “we also do not eat until the appropriate time.”
Kagak added, “Though in our case, we wait for a song.” He smiled. “When B’Elath sings—”
“So,” Kaseli said, “what is it, exactly, that you do on that ship? Do you fly it?”
“No, that’s for the bridge officers.”
“Engineers, then?”
Emphatically, Wol said, “No.” She’d managed to avoid encountering Kurak during her tour, but she’d heard plenty of stories about that madwoman. “We are the ship’s soldiers—the ground troops who fight our captain’s battles.”
Kaseli grunted. “Seems to me he should fight his own battles.”
Wol bristled. “He does. But most battles require more than one participant.”
“So let all the captains do it,” Kaseli said with a laugh. “What else do you do?”
“We have many duties—they vary depending on the situation. We guard sensitive areas of the ship, we provide the ship’s security, we—”
“So you fight? All day? That is all?”
“That is enough. We fight for the empire.”
Kaseli frowned. “Seems risky to me. Doesn’t that increase the likelihood that you’ll die?”
“Of course.” Wol couldn’t believe she was even being asked this.
A few other Klingons had sat down around them. One said, “C’mon, Kaseli, that’s what the Defense Force is there for. To die for us.”
“I don’t want anyone to die for me,” Kaseli said.
Snorting, Wol said, “Trust me, Kaseli, when I die, it won’t be for you. Besides, I believe your friend meant all the peoples of the empire when he said ‘us.’ ”
The other Klingon asked, “Why do you do it, if it carries such great risk?”
“It is the wish of every Klingon to die in service of the empire.”
That got a bark of laughter from Kaseli. “Every Klingon warrior, perhaps, but we are not all so fortunate as to be warriors. Besides, I have no wish to die in the service of the empire or anyone else. If I die, who will till the fields for my family?”
The one next to him said, “Any one of a dozen other members of your family, and they’d all do it better than you, you lazy toDSaH.”
“Hah! I still do it better than you, Kosted.”
A Pheben sat next to Kosted, which surprised Wol. Others did likewise. “The jeghpu’wI’ sits at the table?”
“Of course he does,” Tabona said, on her way back from the house. “Where else would he sit?”
The Pheben said, “Tabona honors us by allowing our lowly selves to sit with her.”
“Oh, stop that,” Tabona said as she placed yet another tray, this one containing a huge rokeg blood pie, on the table, squeezing it between the skull stew and the mutant gagh. “You work the fields, you eat the food.” Then she stood at the stool at the head of the table and shouted, “Everyone sit down! It’s time to eat!”
The few who were still standing took their seats on the benches. Only the stool at the other end was left empty. Wol was considering suggesting Goran be allowed to use it—he was straining the capacity of the bench as it was—but assumed that, with this many people, if a seat was left empty, it was done so for a reason.
Everyone quieted down, which was Wol’s latest surprise. Even on the Gorkon, when the premeal song was sung, no one ever got completely quiet.
Tabona held up a mug that appeared to be empty. In fact, there were mugs throughout the table—much more battered than the ones Wol was used to on the Gorkon, though in better shape than the malformed things she was forced to drink from in Krennla—all empty.
“K’Zinn, daughter of Kasara, was my cousin. When we were younger, a tornado came, one that was far stronger than our yIntagh of a governor said it would be. The force field generator went out, and K’Zinn immediately, without thought to herself, ran out of the house to repair it. My cousin died that day, as the winds carried her off and straight into a tree. But before that, she fixed the generator. The force field activated, and the crops were saved. It was the day before yobta’ yupma’, just as it is today, and if the force field hadn’t protected the crops, our family would have had nothing—nothing for yobta’ yupma’, nothing for the market, nothing for our market buyers. We would have had no food for the winter—no surplus crops to store, no crops to sell to pay for food. That would have been the end of us. We continue to live because she died. She cannot drink with us, nor eat with us, so the first drink is empty to honor her!”
Everyone raised their mugs and shouted, “K’Zinn!” Wol and Goran said nothing, of course, since they hadn’t known what to shout until it was too late. She noticed that the Phebens also joined in the toast.
After that, they all dry-sipped their mugs and threw them aside.
“Now let us eat!” Tabona cried.
Wol held back as everyone else dove into the food, grabbing bits of everything and tossing it onto their plates. Another way in which this is familiar, she thought.
She leaned over to Kagak. “I have never heard of that manner of tribute before.”
“Really?” Kagak asked through a mouth filled with some kind of vegetable Wol belatedly realized was a gonklik—she was used to them being sliced. “It is an old tradition—I thought everyone did it.”
Wol shook her head. “In all my days, I never saw such a thing.” She smiled. “However, I do like it.”
Once the initial frenzy had died down, Wol grabbed some food at random, though she made sure to get some of the gagh. Her teeth bit into the wriggling creature’s flesh, and the worm’s blood was rich and thick, saltier than usual. “Tabona, you must tell me where you get this gagh.”
From down the table, someone said, “Oh, no! You let the Defense Force know about this, and they’ll buy them all up! We’ll never see it again!”
“I have no intention of telling the Defense Force,” Wol said, “merely my ship’s quartermaster.”
Several laughed at that.
B’Ellor said to Goran, “Have you always been a soldier?”
“No,” Goran said, his mouth full of skull stew. “My parents were prison guards on Rura Penthe, and I did as they did. Then they were killed, and I left to join the Defense Force.”
Her eyes growing wide, B’Ellor said, “You’ve been to Rura Penthe?”
“I was born there.”
Kaseli said, “I’ve heard that all the prisoners there are killed by wild animals and eaten for food by the guards.”
Goran straightened with outrage, making his already large form seem considerably larger. “That is not true!”
“I don’t see why not,” a Pheben said. “Why else have the prisoners?”
“They do the work,” Goran said. “The prison has to be maintained.”
“Why?” Kaseli asked. “They cannot leave the prison, and the prison is maintained only so it can house the prisoners.”
Fuhrman gave one of his ground-shaking laughs, though it was muted in the greater ambient noise of Tabona’s supper table. “Someone mark this day down! Kaseli has said something intelligent!”
“No, he hasn’t,” Wol said with a wicked grin as she swallowed more gagh.
“Really?” Kaseli chewed on a piece of zilm’kach. “I’d say my logic is quite sound.”
“Were this a Vulcan supper table, that would matter—but no Vulcan would have the stomach for Klingon food.” Wol chewed on another serpent worm for good measure. “And even if it were a Vulcan table, you would be cast away from it like a fool, because your logic is flawed. The prisoners on Rura Penthe are there to be punished for their crimes.”
“Is death not the ultimate punishment?” Kosted asked.
Goran answered that. “Death is an honor. It should not to be wasted on the likes of prisoners.”
“Death is death,” said the Pheben who sat on the other side of B’Ellor from Goran. “Why does it matter?”
“Because death is death,” Wol said. “It is the only surety of life—that it will end. So how you achieve it matte
rs more than anything.”
Kaseli laughed, spitting grapok sauce. “I suppose you have to believe that in order to fight the idiotic battles of the Defense Force.”
Goran slammed a fist on the table, shaking several pieces of food off their trays and plates. “We fight for the honor of the empire!”
“And to preserve it,” Kagak said. “And you’re all wasting your breath. Kaseli has made this argument before.”
“Yes, right before you decided to throw your life away,” Kaseli said.
Fuhrman said, “It is his life to throw, Kaseli! Besides which, you’ll notice he is still here!”
“For now.” He turned to Wol. “Tell me, how many of your soldiers died in order to defend some aliens you’d only just met? Yes, I know all about your ship. We could hardly not, what with them composing operas about it.”
“Operas?” Wol frowned as she tore off a piece of the still-warm jInjoq.
Tabona said, “On Ty’Gokor a month or two ago, they debuted a new Reshtarc opera about your ship’s battle at San-Tarah.”
“It’s now playing on Qo’noS,” B’Ellor said, “at the opera house in Krennla.”
Kagak turned to Wol. “Didn’t G’joth say his sister performed at that opera house?”
Wol nodded absently as she chewed the soft, delicious jInjoq but was focused on Kaseli. “You feel that we fought for no reason?”
“The world was conquered anyhow. Why sacrifice so many warriors like that? Your captain should have just done what the general told him to do and taken the planet.”
“He gave his word,” Wol said.
“So?”
Wol laughed. “Strange sentiments from a man who shares a table with jeghpu’wI’.”
Kaseli snarled. “That is different.”
“How? Would you renege on a promise made to any of the Phebens sitting at this table?”
Tabona glared at Kaseli. “Not if he wants to ever sit at this table again.”
A Burning House Page 16
