Diplomatic Implausibility (19 page)

“Not at all, sir,” Leskit said quickly. “Just something caught in my throat.”

Kurak came back on.
“Give us a minute, Captain, and
we’ll have your torpedo.”

“Good. Bridge out.”

Klag got up from his chair and walked to the viewscreen. The Kreel were holding position. Their shields were at ten and thirty percent, respectively. He hoped Kurak wouldn’t take too long with the torpedo—that asteroid was drifting away from the second Kreel ship, and soon would be too far away to be useful.

“Captain,” Rodek said, “modified torpedo is loaded and ready.”

Pointing at the particular asteroid, Klag said, “Fire torpedo on that asteroid, gunner. Detonate on my mark.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leskit, head for the other Kreel ship, intercept course. Rodek, the
moment
we’re in firing range, fire disruptors on them and detonate the torpedo.”

Sounding as disinterested as ever, Rodek repeated, “Yes, sir.”

Klag returned to his command chair. The rest of the
bridge crew was obviously caught up in the joy of the battle. Rodek, though, had all the passion of dead
gagh.
Klag wondered why this was.

“In weapons range,” Leskit announced.

“Firing,” Rodek said, “and detonating torpedo.”

The timing turned out to be exquisite. Vessel number three exploded from the
Gorkon’s
disruptor fire at virtually the same moment that the debris from the torpedo-destroyed asteroid tore through the second vessel’s depleted shields and ripped it to pieces.

“Victory!”
Toq cried, thrusting his fist into the air, and the other officers added their voices to a cacophony of cheers.

One of the officers at an aft station started chanting, “Klag! Klag! Klag! Klag!” Soon the others joined in, and Klag basked in the joy of an entire bridge full of warriors bellowing his name in victory.

Then Toq cried over the tumult, “Sir! Receiving a distress call!”

The chanting dimmed as Klag asked, “Source?”

“The first Kreel ship—the
Glione.”

Klag shook his head. “We never did reply to their initial message, did we? It’s past time we did. Leskit, change course to intercept. Rodek, blow the Kreel to
Gre’thor.”

In less than a minute, the
Gorkon
moved to within range of the first Kreel ship and fired its disruptors. The
Glione
went the way of the other five ships in the “fleet.”

Another cheer rose. Toq started to sing,
“Qoy qeylIs
puqloD. Qoy puqbe’pu’.”
He pounded the side of his console on the alternate beats.

It was the Warrior’s Anthem. Leskit and a couple of others joined Toq:
“yoHbogh matlhbogh je SuvwI’.”

Soon, all the bridge crew joined in:
“Say’moHchu’
may’ ’Iw. maSuv manong ’ej maHoHchu’.”

Klag noticed that it was now coming in over the speakers—it seemed they were singing all across the ship. . . .

nI’be’ yInmaj ’ach wovqu’.

batlh maHeghbej ’ej yo’ qIjDaq

vavpu’ma’ DImuv.

pa’ reH maSuvtaHqu’.

mamevQo’.maSuvtaH. ma’ov.

For the first time in over six months, Klag’s right arm didn’t itch.

When the warriors got to the end of the song, and after the subsequent cheering had died down, Klag rose from his chair. “Lieutenant Toq.”

“Sir!”

“You have command of the bridge. Set a course back to taD. Tell the
Sompek
that they missed the battle, and inform the ambassador that he can beam aboard at his leisure. I’ll be in the medical ward.” He looked at Leskit. “Lieutenant, you’re with me. I believe I promised you some medical assistance.”

Leskit laughed, and rose from his chair. Klag and the rest of the bridge crew joined in the laugh.

This is what it should feel like,
Klag thought as he walked off the bridge to the adulation of his crew.

His
crew.

W
ORF GLOWERED AT THE IMAGE
of Minister T’Latrek on the computer screen in his quarters on the
Gorkon.

Due to the distance between Earth and taD, the message from the Vulcan woman—which had arrived just as Worf returned to the
Gorkon
following its successful campaign against the six Kreel ships—had taken several hours to wend its way through subspace, so Worf was not able to respond directly. This was probably for the best, as his instinct was to say something that it was probably unwise to utter in front of a member of the Federation Council.

“I am afraid that your suggestion of relocating the
al’Hmatti to another world, while logical, is simply not
practical. Under normal circumstances, the Federation
would, of course, be happy to do this, but circumstances,
as you are well aware, are far from that. The backlog of
refugees from the Dominion War is considerable. Relocat
ing the al’Hmatti would require committing resources
that we simply do not have.”

It probably didn’t matter. Emperor me’Grmat had made it clear that the al’Hmatti would not accept relocation. But now Worf wouldn’t even be able to propose it.

Worf was in a bad mood. Over the last several years, he’d developed one of two habits when he got into such a mood. He’d either go to the bar—Ten-Forward on the
Enterprise,
Quark’s on Deep Space Nine—and drown his sorrows in prune juice, or he’d go to the holodeck and kill things.

Or he’d go talk to Jadzia.

But the
Gorkon
didn’t have a bar—a major failing in a starship, to Worf’s mind—and Jadzia . . .

Jadzia . . .

Conveniently, though, the
Gorkon
did have a holodeck, complete with a proper calisthenics program. Worf went there, his
mek’leth
in hand.

“Computer, activate program. Level one.”

The setting changed from the default grid to a jungle glade. Worf started moving slowly through the glade, emptying his mind, letting the sounds and scents ride toward him.

He heard a mild flapping noise.
Bird. Harmless.
He heard something moving through the underbrush, and the smell of leather reached his nostrils.
Possible foe.
He raised the
mek’leth.

A skeletal creature wearing leather-studded armor leapt out at him, swinging with a two-bladed axe. Worf parried easily with his
mek’leth,
then kicked at the creature. They parried with their weapons for several minutes. Worf let himself fall into the rhythm of it, gauging his opponent’s capabilities, waiting for the right moment to strike.

With each thrust, with each parry, his mind became less cluttered. His frustration with recent events ebbed. His irritation with Tiral, Klag, and Drex faded. His everpresent anguish over Jadzia’s death receded. His lingering guilt over the very existence of Rodek died down.

The instant that the opening came, Worf plowed his
mek’leth
into the creature’s bony neck, severing the skull from its body.

That was too easy,
he thought, and just that he could think that clearly meant that he needed to up the stakes. “Computer, level seven.”

The skeleton creature got back up, a new skull materializing on its neck, and charged. Even as Worf parried its ax with his
mek’leth,
he could hear another attacker behind him.

He swiped at the skeleton creature, then swung the
mek’leth
in a
mong’em
maneuver, placing the
mek’leth
behind his neck to parry a blow from behind. He felt the impact of a weapon on the
mek’leth,
then raised his weapon in response.

In one fluid motion, he kicked at the skeleton creature’s leg, shattering the bone, then turned to face the rear attacker.

An armored reptilian creature swung its mace at Worf a second time. Again, Worf parried, this time catching the mace at its handle, forcing the attacker to lose its grip on the weapon. Disarmed, Worf easily dispatched it.

The reptilian creature’s yellow ichor dripping from his
mek’leth,
Worf turned back to the skeleton creature, which was hobbling toward Worf, its ax raised. Worf parried the ax strike easily, but then the creature struck at his face with a bony fist. Worf reeled with the impact, struggling to keep his footing, swinging wildly with the
mek’leth.
He stumbled backward a few steps—

—right into a Nausicaan.

Evolved from similar stock to Klingons, Nausicaans were known throughout the galaxy as violent beings—some humans called them “Klingons without all that silly honor stuff.” This one was large even by Nausicaan standards, and had now grabbed Worf in a bear hug.

The Nausicaan was flanked by an Argosian—a massive humanoid—and a
mugato—
a white-furred, horned, ape-like creature with sharp claws and poisonous fangs. The Argosian,
mugato,
and skeleton creature all moved in on Worf, the latter still limping.

Worf bent his knees, then straightened them quickly, thrusting himself and the Nausicaan backward. The Nausicaan bent over backward, and for a moment, Worf was perpendicular to the ground. He kicked at the approaching Argosian and
mugato
with each boot; the
mugato
barely noticed the impact, but Worf caught the Argosian right in the nose, breaking it, and sending bone fragments into the alien’s brain. Death was instantaneous.

The Nausicaan loosened its grip for only a moment as it tried to straighten back up, but that was all Worf needed. He broke out of the grip, whirled, and slashed at the Nausicaan with his
mek’leth,
then crouched in a defensive position.

The
mugato
and the Nausicaan both charged, the
mugato
slashing with its claws, the Nausicaan punching with a massive fist.

Worf raised his arms to defend from the attacks—the
mugato
drawing blood, the Nausicaan badly bruising Worf’s right arm, possibly spraining it—then slashed at the
mugato
with his
mek’leth.
Worf then dove and rolled, coming up right where the skeleton creature was making its slow advance. He thrust his
mek’leth
into the crea
ture’s ribs, then hoisted the surprised creature, using the
mek’leth
hilt as a handle. He swung the creature around, clubbing both the Nausicaan and the
mugato
in the head with the creature’s legs. He then swung the
mek’leth
hilt like a human baseball bat against a large tree; the skeleton creature shattered inside its armor.

The bloodlust surged within Worf. The bouquet of the yellow ichor on his
mek’leth,
the blood from his arm wound, the scent of the creatures before him, and even the smell of the venom on the
mugato’s
fangs all washed over him, intoxicating him.

The smells of battle.

This time, he did not quiet the cry of his Klingon heart. He gave it full reign.

The Nausicaan’s rounded mouth opened and said, “Die, Klingon!”

Worf’s only answer was a growl that started in the base of his throat and quickly evolved into a warrior’s scream. He charged at the Nausicaan and struck, severing the alien’s right arm. If there was any irony in giving the Nausicaan an identical wound to that of Klag, it was buried deep, for Worf did not even acknowledge it. He simply pressed the attack, slashing at the Nausicaan’s chest, head, and remaining arm until the Nausicaan was dead. The Nausicaan had managed to get in a blow to Worf’s head with its remaining fist. The Klingon’s vision swam momentarily, but he forged ahead, ignoring the pain.

As soon as Worf struck the killing blow, the
mugato
hit him from the side, knocking the wind from him—and, more importantly, knocking the
mek’leth
from his grip.

Worf and the
mugato
rolled on the ground for several turns until the
mugato
pressed down upon him and moved to bite Worf with its poisonous fangs. Though pain still
echoed inside his skull from the Nausicaan’s blow, he still managed to head-butt the white-furred beast on its snout. Having briefly distracted the
mugato,
Worf rolled it off him, then punched it repeatedly in the face. Long past the point where it was stunned into insensibility, Worf finally stopped, retrieved his
mek’leth,
and cut the
mugato’s
head off.

Then the Brikar attacked.

It took most of an hour for Worf to subdue the Brikar, and then only by using a tree that the Brikar himself had uprooted and tried to club Worf to death with. Worf managed to impale the Brikar on one of the larger branches.

After that, it was a pair of Andorians. Then a Chalnoth. And then, finally, a large avian creature that swooped down on Worf with its massive wings. Worf defeated it by severing one set of pinfeathers with his
mek’leth,
causing its flight to become erratic. After that, it was a comparatively simple matter to stab it in each of its hearts.

Worf was now covered in blood, feathers, hair, and bone fragments. He had cuts and bruises all over him.

He felt better than he had in weeks. The bloodlust started to abate slowly.

“Impressive work,” came a voice from behind him.

Worf whirled around and charged with his
mek’leth
at the voice. The rational part of him—which was only just now returning to his conscious mind—registered that this was Giancarlo Wu, his aide, and that disemboweling him after less than two weeks on the job was bad form.

But that was still a very small, very recessive part of his mind at the moment. He charged at the hapless aide the same way he had charged at the other creatures.

Wu, for his part, made no attempt to move or defend himself.

Just as Worf was about to strike a killing blow, a
bat’leth
seemed to materialize in Wu’s hands to parry it. The sound of the metal blades clashing, the sight of the gore that encrusted the
mek’leth
being dislodged surprised Worf, and served to bring his rational side even closer to dominance.

Angered, Worf swung again, and once again Wu parried with the ease of an expert. He parried two more strikes. By the fifth strike, Worf’s bloodlust had more or less completely receded, replaced by a much more intellectual outrage. It was a matter of pride as much as anything. Worf was, after all, a champion
bat’leth
fighter, and he was no slouch with the smaller
mek’leth,
either.

Wu moved with a surprising speed and grace, but Worf was now seeing a pattern. If Wu followed true to form, he would use Kilog’s gambit next.

Worf swung and, sure enough, Wu countered with Kilog. This pleased Worf greatly, as Kilog was almost always followed by B’Arq’s defense. Penetrating B’Arq’s defense was nearly impossible.

With an underhanded swing, Worf penetrated Wu’s use of B’Arq’s defense, knocking the
bat’leth
out of Wu’s hands and putting the
mek’leth
to the human’s throat.

“Give me one reason why I should not kill you.”

With remarkable calm, Wu said, “I have a report to give, sir, and it’s rather important, or I wouldn’t have interrupted your session. You can gut me like a fish after I’ve given it.”

Worf stood with his
mek’leth
at Wu’s neck for several seconds.

“A compelling argument,” he said, removing the
mek’leth
from Wu’s throat. In truth, he had no intention of killing Wu—on the contrary, he’d enjoyed the work
out with his aide as much as he had fighting the program’s creatures. A live opponent was so much more thrilling after all, and his presence served as a bridge to bring him slowly back to himself. But he had wanted to gauge the human’s reaction. “Computer,” he said, “end program.”

The setting, and gore covering Worf’s
mek’leth,
disappeared. To Worf’s surprise, the
bat’leth
remained.

“I had no idea you were proficient in the
bat’leth,”
Worf said.

As he retrieved the weapon from the deck, Wu said, “Kind of an occupational necessity. Besides, nobody ever expects me to know how to handle it, so it throws them off guard when I do. Certainly worked on you, sir,” Wu added with a smile. “I had no idea you—or anyone else—could penetrate B’Arq’s defense. Especially with a
mek’leth.”

“Only one person has done it in twenty years, that I am aware of.”

“Well, two now,” Wu said.

“No. My doing so six years ago was the primary reason for my championship standing in the
bat’leth.
I recently adapted the maneuver for the
mek’leth,
though this is the first time I have tested it against a live opponent.”

“Glad to be of service, sir.”

Worf and Wu departed the holodeck, Krevor—who had been at her post outside the holodeck during Worf’s exercise—following silently behind. “You said you had a report.”

“Yes. First of all, I’m sorry to inform you that Emperor me’Grmat XIX is dead. He died in his sleep, apparently.”

“Appropriate,” Worf said.

“Really, sir?” Wu sounded surprised. “I have to confess I hadn’t expected such a reaction from you.”

“It is what the emperor wanted. Indeed, me’Grmat may now be the only person on taD who has gotten precisely what he wanted.”