Star Trek #97: In the Name of Honor

by Dayton Ward

  “He was briefed on prison policies?” Korax pressed. “Specifically, my orders regarding the treatment of prisoners?”

  Nodding, Khulr’s eyes flared in growing anger. “Yes, Commander.”

  “Then obviously,” Korax replied, “this soldier willfully disobeyed your orders and mine. See to it that he is executed immediately.”

  He saw the effect his blunt command had on Garrovick and Elliot, and smiled inwardly. He watched as the humans exchanged looks, each reading the question in the other’s eyes: How little were their own lives worth if he could so easily order the execution of one of his own guards?

  Equally surprised by the order, Khulr’s slow-burning anger evaporated, replaced by astonishment as he blinked several times before a single word tumbled from his own lips.

  “Commander?”

  Knowing that the guard would resent being ignored in such a fashion, Korax didn’t respond immediately. Instead he began to pace the width of his office, his hands clasped easily behind his back. Stopping before his desk, he reached out and casually ran one finger along its worn wooden surface, noting the trail created in the light film of dust. His personal servant apparently needed to be reminded about attention to detail when cleaning his office.

  Finally, after a few more moments studying his desk and the trappings of his position scattered atop it, he turned to face Khulr once again.

  “The prisoners cannot possibly be productive in the mines if they are beaten to near death over minor incidents. That is the reason for my orders regarding their treatment, and I will not tolerate disobedience. You will gather your men, Khulr, and execute the disloyal guard as an example to them. The same fate awaits anyone who chooses to defy me as he did. Further, the next time I must make an example of someone, it is I who will execute you. Now, get out.”

  He watched Khulr’s eyes smolder as he listened to his commander’s tirade. Korax knew that being forced to endure such a dressing-down in the presence of prisoners, Earthers no less, would make the guard even angrier than he already was. Khulr stood that way for several more seconds before directing a look of pure hatred at Garrovick and Elliot. Then he turned on his heel and left the office without another word.

  Not even bothering to watch him leave, Korax instead returned his attention to Elliot. “There is still the matter of your having attacked the guard.”

  Garrovick stepped forward, making the remaining guard, Moqlah, reach for his baton, but the human kept his arms at his sides and made no further moves.

  “Commander, I am responsible for the actions of my people. If anyone should be punished, it’s me.”

  “Stephen,” Elliot began.

  “As you were, Ensign,” he snapped, cutting her off. “I’m still your superior officer.”

  Korax watched the brief exchange, noting the added layer of emotion beneath the short, terse words spoken aloud. As Elliot clamped her mouth shut he saw her eyes flare in anger, her volatile nature threatening to spill forth yet again. He knew that Garrovick was the highest-ranking of the remaining Starfleet prisoners, and as such had taken the responsibility for the actions of his crewmates on many occasions. Korax respected the fact that the human had not relinquished his duty even in the face of the adversity he endured here.

  “I alone decide who is responsible,” he said finally. “And I alone decide who is to be punished.”

  What was he to do here? He couldn’t just overlook the incident. Unfortunately, the usual penalty for attacking a guard, death, wasn’t available to him. The Chancellor of the High Council himself had made that quite clear to Korax when he had first taken charge of the prison and custody of the Gagarin prisoners. Korax had therefore been forced to modify camp policies so that all of the prisoners were treated the same way. Instead of the brutal existence that normally characterized life in a Klingon gulag, inmates here were spared unnecessarily harsh treatment. Only in the most extreme of circumstances was a prisoner tortured or killed. He’d been forced to train his guards to display total authority and control while at the same time refraining from acting in accordance with their past experience and training.

  Still, this incident demanded special attention. Korax couldn’t simply ignore standing policies on the penalty for assaulting a guard just to protect the six Starfleet officers. It would arouse suspicion among the other inmates almost immediately. One could never discount the intelligence, ingenuity, or determination of anyone held against their will. Other prisoners would soon deduce that the Earthers held some value that they themselves did not, and might even take steps to utilize the information for their own gain. Korax couldn’t risk any harm coming to the Gagarin survivors, either from his own guards or other inmates.

  “Commander, if I may,” said Moqlah, who had been standing silently from the time he had first entered the office.

  Korax looked to his subordinate, slight surprise registering on his face. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Sir, these two have been trained to operate our larger mining machinery. There are only a handful of prisoners who can perform such tasks. If they are killed, our quota could be affected.”

  Yes!

  Korax managed to keep the relief from his face. Moqlah had unknowingly provided a solution to his dilemma, but it wasn’t enough to justify not retaliating for Elliot’s actions.

  “Very well,” he said, schooling his features so as to appear the annoyed prison commander. “Put them in isolation, three days.”

  The isolation cells were in no way a pleasant experience. When a prisoner was placed inside one of the small, coffin-like booths, the contraption succeeded in cutting off all outside stimuli. The occupant could see nothing, could hear nothing save the sound of his own breathing. After prolonged periods, the booths were quite capable of destroying a prisoner’s mental health. Korax knew that Elliot had experienced the isolation firsthand and knew its effects and potential as well as any other prisoner. She’d endured punitive isolation for a lot longer than three days, so Korax was certain she could handle the punishment he had handed to her and Garrovick. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the momentary relief flash in her eyes. That had to be dealt with quickly if the illusion he was working to create was to be maintained. Stepping toward her, he glowered as he leaned in close.

  “But remember this, Earther,” he said in a low voice filled with a menace that he hoped was convincing. “The next time, there might not be an alert, sympathetic guard watching out for you. Take care that you do not disrupt my prison again.”

  The route to the isolation cells appeared to have been deliberately constructed so as to add to the total effect of this particular punishment. Moisture clung to walls crudely cut from the bedrock just beneath the surface of the prison compound, chilling the air of the underground passage. Small lamps hung intermittently along the corridor provided dim illumination. Though Garrovick had traversed this path once before, the sense of foreboding was just as intense as it had been that first time.

  “Thank you,” Garrovick said to Moqlah as the Klingon escorted he and Elliot to the isolation booths. “You could have easily let Korax execute us.”

  “No, I could not,” Moqlah answered simply.

  The blunt reply stopped Elliot in her tracks. She pivoted to face the guard. “What is that supposed to mean? Surely two lowly prison workers can be replaced easily.”

  “Syd,” Garrovick hissed in warning.

  “You are not the same as the others incarcerated here,” Moqlah said. “You are prisoners of war, taken during battle. To execute you would be dishonorable and disobedient to the teachings of Kahless.”

  “Kahless?” Garrovick frowned at the name, one he had not heard since his history classes at the Academy. He recalled that Kahless was supposed to have been a mythical figure of major importance in Klingon culture.

  Moqlah nodded. “Kahless, the creator of the Klingon Empire.” His expression turned somber as he added, “You were denied the right to die in battle. Kahless would not approve of
executing warriors like criminals, and it is he who will decide whether you are to join him in Sto-Vo-Kor or be banished to the depths of Gre’thor with the other petaQ who possess no honor.”

  Moqlah’s words chilled Garrovick almost as much as the damp, cool air surrounding them. He had never seen Klingons display such rich devotion to something other than the heat of battle. It provided a different facet of their culture, one he had never expected to encounter.

  “I don’t think Khulr feels the same way that you do,” Elliot said.

  “There are those in the Empire who reject beliefs such as those held by Khulr. We are growing in number, and our message is sweeping across the Empire. Khulr is a dog, and when he dies he will spend eternity with those who share his dishonor.”

  Elliot nodded in satisfaction. “Now you’re talking. If Gre’thor is anything like Hell, then it’s still too good for him.”

  As they moved further along the clammy, dark corridor, Garrovick pondered what Moqlah had told them. If other Klingons felt the same way as the guard did, then how far did it go? He wondered if an entire race of beings could change their culture at such a fundamental level. Notions of honor and valor hadn’t been hallmarks of Klingon behavior in Garrovick’s experience.

  If change was indeed on the horizon, his only hope was that he might live long enough to see it.

  Chapter Seven

  NORMALLY CONSERVATIVE and austere in both form and function, the VIP lounge on Starbase 49 had undergone a remarkable transformation. Gone were the Starfleetregulation sofas, chairs, tables, and other standard furnishings, all replaced with lavish banquet facilities. Buffet tables lay overstuffed with foods representing dozens of Federation worlds as well as many Klingon delicacies. At the entrance to the lounge, Kirk took in the scene with the air of a gladiator about to do battle before the frenzied masses. The room bustled with activity as Starfleet officers and Federation diplomats along with Klingon military officers and governmental representatives moved about the room. Though the atmosphere seemed congenial on the surface, one had only to look closer to see a discernible segregation taking place. While politicians from either side were making efforts to mingle and converse, those in uniform were conspicuously separated into small camps, each eyeing the other with varying degrees of suspicion and distrust.

  “Lord how I hate these state dinners,” McCoy said in a low voice as he stood beside his friend.

  “What are you complaining about?” Kirk asked. “You’re not the one the Klingon ambassador is going to single out before we eat.” He had never been comfortable with being publicly honored or praised, content instead with knowing that he performed his duties to the best of his ability.

  “Well, I know just the cure for that,” McCoy replied. “The bar looks to be well stocked, Captain sir. Might I suggest a Saurian brandy to take the edge off? We can celebrate your making it through the entire week without jettisoning a single Federation diplomatic blowhard into space.”

  True enough, the journey to Starbase 49 had been free of incident, one of the rare times during his career that Kirk could remember such an anomalous event occurring. None of the dignitaries traveling aboard the Enterprise had been the least bit of trouble. On the contrary, Kirk had even struck up a friendship with one diplomatic aide, himself a retired Starfleet captain with a penchant for racquetball. The muscles in Kirk’s arms and legs reminded him of how intense the friendly game between the two men had quickly become.

  Noticing the bustle of activity as people began to move to their tables, Kirk said, “Looks like our celebration will have to wait, Bones. The party’s about to start.” He led the way to their table, situated near the raised dais at the front of the room.

  As he moved through the gathering of people, Kirk noticed one Klingon in particular. Tall even for a Klingon, the officer had long dark hair streaked with gray, which flowed about his broad shoulders and highlighted the high brow ridges on his head. The leather of his immaculate uniform gleamed in the reflected overhead lighting, as did the heavy sash he wore draped over his right shoulder.

  Kirk realized the Klingon was looking at him. Their eyes locked, and the Enterprise captain was teased with the notion that he’d met this impressive warrior somewhere before.

  “Something the matter, Jim?” McCoy asked quietly. It wasn’t until the doctor had spoken that Kirk realized he had stopped moving. The words startled him into continuing his path toward their table.

  “It’s nothing, Bones,” he replied. “Just thought I recognized someone, that’s all.” He cast a final look toward the Klingon, who bowed his head formally in Kirk’s direction. A small smile played across the warrior’s lips.

  Kirk shrugged off the moment as he and McCoy arrived at their table to find Captains Spock and Scott, along with Commanders Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu already there. The officers began to rise at their captain’s approach but he smiled and indicated for his comrades to remain seated.

  “Good evening, Captain, Doctor,” Spock offered, a sentiment repeated by the others at the table.

  Kirk took the seat next to his first officer and leaned in closer to the Vulcan. “Spock, do you see that Klingon standing near the side door?” He indicated the officer he had seen earlier. “Does he look familiar to you?”

  Spock took a moment to study the Klingon, after which his right eyebrow rose in the manner Kirk knew meant his friend was intrigued.

  “He is wearing the uniform insignia of a ship captain,” Spock noted. “Therefore it is reasonable to presume that he commands one of the two escort vessels used to bring the Klingon delegation to the conference. According to the intelligence reports made available to us while en route, he is either Captain K’tran or Captain Koloth.”

  Koloth?

  “Captain,” the Vulcan said, “we met another Klingon named Koloth, nearly twenty years ago on Deep Space Station K-7. At the time, he was commanding a border patrol ship, the IKS Gr’oth.”

  “Tribbles,” Scotty said, having overheard the captain and Spock’s comments.

  Spock nodded. “That is correct, Mr. Scott. As I recall, the incident ended with you falling somewhat out of favor with the crew of the Gr’oth.”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Uhura added, a smile brightening her face as she saluted the Enterprise engineer with her raised glass.

  “You don’t think he might still be holding a grudge?” Sulu wondered, the end of his sentence dissolving into a chuckle.

  McCoy turned back in his seat to face his companions. “Somebody correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember Koloth looking anything like that the last time we saw him.”

  Not saying anything, Kirk was nevertheless sharing the doctor’s confusion. During his career in Starfleet, he had encountered two distinctly different types of Klingons. As the years passed, he had assumed, as he figured most people might, that the Klingon Empire was made up of several different species, just as the Federation was composed of hundreds of races occupying an even larger number of worlds.

  But what about Koloth?

  Looking past the delegates and other people milling about the room, Kirk returned the Klingon’s scrutinizing gaze. Though their paths had crossed occasionally since the incident at K-7, it had been several years since he had last seen Koloth. Still, as he studied this Klingon warrior, looking past the longer hair, fuller beard, and yes, even the pronounced forehead ridges, the piercing eyes that Kirk remembered as one of Koloth’s more defining characteristics were decidedly familiar.

  “As crazy as this sounds,” Kirk said after a moment, “I think that’s the same Koloth.”

  The thought was interrupted as he noticed a distinct diminishing of the various background conversations and other activity taking place around him. A hush gradually fell over the conference hall and his attention was drawn to movement on the dais holding the head banquet table. In addition to the Federation and Klingon ambassadors, the table also held a handful of high-ranking Starfleet personnel. As the audience waited, Ambass
ador Catherine Joquel, the Federation envoy to the current peace proceedings, made her way to the podium positioned at the front of the dais.

  “May I have your attention, please,” Joquel said once she had reached the podium, her voice amplified by the lounge’s audio system. After giving the audience a few moments to take their seats and direct their attention toward the front of the room, she continued.

  “For many years, you and those who came before you, whether you be officers of Starfleet or the Klingon Empire, have sworn oaths to serve your people in defense of their enemies. Unfortunately, for that same number of years, your enemies have been each other. However, after decades of distrust, hostility, and conflict, we have arrived at a crossroads. The leaders who guide you, those you have sworn allegiance to, have decided that it is finally time for change. They have arrived at the conclusion that we are stronger if we join together than if we continue to hold each other at arm’s length as enemies.”

  She indicated the Klingon ambassador, seated to her left at the head table. “Along with Ambassador Kaljagh and our respective teams, we have traveled here today to begin that process. Hopefully, our efforts will place us all on the path to that day when we will no longer refer to each other as enemy, but as friend.”

  Kirk noted the murmurs of approval that filtered through the room, barely audible but there nonetheless. One thing was certain: Catherine Joquel knew how to work a room.

  “And now,” she continued, “it is my great honor to introduce the Klingon special envoy to the Federation and one of the architects of the effort which brings us here today, Ambassador Kaljagh.”

  Applause erupted as the mighty Klingon ambassador rose from his chair and made his way to the podium. He nodded respectfully to Joquel as he moved beside her, though his face was that of the typical, hardened Klingon warrior.

  “He looks like he could fight us all single-handedly,” Chekov muttered in Sulu’s direction.