To Boldly Go... (a Starfleet quest)

Qo'nos
2325

The summer had settled warm over Mekro'vak, the haze light like a comforting blanket, rather than thick and oppressive as it usually was. The heat tempered with a light breeze that ruffled the natural grasses, then brushed the leaves of a vineyard, that sloped in neat rows up and down gentle hills. On top of one such hill was a cluster of buildings, built with dark stone sourced from the nearby Hamar Mountains. One building was easily three stories tall, the unweathered stone on one wing denoting it as a new addition, along with the unscuffed surface of a patio that overlooked the vineyards. Two Klingons sat there in utilitarian metal chairs, painted black, gazing down at the children playing some distance away in the vineyards. They were ducking and running by an older Klingon in rough-spun clothing. Both of the Klingons were dressed in the garb of warriors, a reminder of a time of conflict, away from the peaceful idyll they new enjoyed.

"This is terrible," said one. His name was Terag, but his friends called him Pole, on account of how tall and thin he was. His enemies called him nothing, for despite how thin and brittle he appeared, he was nothing but hard muscle, which combined with the incredible length of his arms made him a very dangerous bat'leth opponent indeed. Terag leaned forward in his chair, his eyes hungry, but not fixed on the small plate of wriggling humlaw' some servant had left him and his friend. Instead, he was contemptuously gazing at the natural beauty around him. "I'm tired of this... forever peace. The Chancellor demands too much of us, to sit and lounge in the sun."

His companion, Aitel, had her feet up on the bannister ringing the patio, leaning precariously in her seat. She was stockier-built than Terag, and in contrast to his sharp gaze her eyes were half-closed, and she moved slowly and languidly to pick a wriggling worm from the humlaw' plate, almost as if she were underwater. The disruptor on her hip was in a quick-draw holster, however.

"It's not all bad," she replied, then paused to chew slowly, savouring each crunch and desperate wiggle of the many-legged humlaw', "The amount of people starving has certainly gone down. Good for the next war. Never pays to have your next batch of warriors malnourished." She held out the bowl of humlaw' to Terag.

He shoved it away, never taking his eyes off the antics of the children. Aitel shrugged and popped another struggling critter into her mouth.

"It does no service to the next batch of warriors," he said, scowling, "If they are soft whelps, held back from real hardship. Or worse, are one of the subject species. The Selsseress, bah."

In the field, the old Klingon suddenly stopped, dropping to one knee, face red and covered with sweat. One hand went to his chest, and Terag leaned forward, expression suddenly brightened.

"Is your uncle okay?" Aitel said, leaning forward, letting her chair thud against the patio tiles, "He seems--"

"Hopefully he's having a heart attack," Terag replied with obvious relish, "That old fool drank away any valour long ago. Hid in the Industrial Commission during the war." He leaned forward, resting his chin on a fist, "This is exactly where he deserves to die."

Aitel's only response, out of Terag's sight, was to mouth 'wow' and then shovel an entire handful of humlaw' into her mouth, perhaps to avoid the temptation to reach for the medical bag at her foot. She stifled a sigh of relief, and Terag let out an angry growl, when his uncle finally rose to his feet, waving off the children, and stumbled over to the shade of a tree. He settled down heavily there, breathing for several seconds, before he uncorked a bloodwine bottle and took a long draught from it.

Terag rose from his chair so quickly it skidded backwards with a screech, leaving marks on the freshly polished tile. He looked down at small streaks of destruction, then at the chair, suddenly seizing it by the legs. With a mighty bellow of defiance at the perfect day, he brought the chair down onto the bannister. Metal screeched and stone chipped, the horribly twisted chair scraping off the bannister and falling with a muffled thump to the grass below. The children in the field temporarily stopped and looked, before resuming their play. Terag's uncle blearily glanced towards the disturbance, huffed some incomprehensible protest, and then folded his hands on his belly and closed his eyes again.

"Come on," Terag said, kicking at Aitel's chair, "We have a meeting to get to. I can't stand to look at this blasted, non-blasted landscape anymore."

Terag stalked off towards his aircar. Aitel took one last, longing look at the vineyards, and then at the plate of humlaw'. She took one more bug from the bowl, chewing it with a mixture of relish and regret, before running off after Terag.

-

Half an hour later, and Terag and Aitel had found shelter from the bright sunshine and cool air inside the smoky, dark interior of a Klingon qe'tach, or in Earther terms, a pub. Entering required getting through a heavy door sentried by an even heavier doorman. Aitel had expected a shakedown for money or a good fight, but the upon seeing Terag the doorman had a terse conversation vouching for Aitel's reliability, before waving them through. The pair had settled behind a heavy wooden table in one of the darker corners, and Aitel took in her surroundings with curiosity. Most of it is what one would expect from a qe'tach, but something in particular caught her eye with its alienness: Hanging above the bar, a haphazard placing suggesting a temporary arrangement, was a flag. It was slashed diagonally, bright red on the upper half, black on the lower. The Heart of Virtue, the three-pointed symbol of the Empire since Kahless, sat in the midst of the blood red in the upper right-hand corner.

And in the center of the qe'tach, a cluster of Klingons sat, loudly debating a motion to allocate funds for an exploratory committee to the shipyard world of Path'loq. The matter was settled by a loud and boisterous, but otherwise orderly vote. That was not typical qe'tach fare.

"Good," Terag said, as more Klingons pulled up chairs or turned their attention to the center of the room, "We skipped the boring part. Unimportant procedure so often shackles these meetings."

"Procedure is always important," Aitel said, waving at the bartender and holding up the menu. He nodded, then disappeared. "What is honor but the procedures of war?" She continued, "And more importantly, what have you dragged me into this time, Terag?"

"Just watch," He said, as a Klingon jumped onto the table that had previously been a battleground for funding debates, heedless of the words that had thrown down their lives to ensure Warrior Bazek would be compensated fairly for his travel expenses by drawing from the Special Discretionary Fund, the Travel Fund awaiting fundraising efforts to fill it again.

"Warriors!" He boomed, "I am Lieutenant Commander Qappam. I am glad to see so many returning faces and new ones. For our glorious campaign, our bloody counterattack against the weak policies of Chancellor Renhadd continues!"

The crowd roared its approval. Aitel looked at Terag, "You brought me to a political meeting?" She crossed her arms, "You said we were getting food, not dangerous ideas."

"I brought you to a place of action, Aitel!" Terag said, "Listen to the man, and tell me, as a warrior, you do not agree."

"What I'm thinking," Aitel said, "Is that I should lea--"

"Can I," A voice from behind Aitel interrupted, "Take your order?"

She turned, and twitched with surprise when she saw the waiter that had been sent. He wore a grubby apron, and carried a tray under one arm, holding a tablet with a lightpen poised above it. She kept looking up, and up, into his eyes. They seemed impossibly tired, dark circles under them, and a sort of desperate, yet stagnant, sadness filled them.

Also, he was a Yrillian.

"CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER?" He shouted again, trying to be heard over the din of the Klingons screaming in favor of some rhetorical point or another.

"Uhh," Aitel started. She glanced at the door, then felt her stomach rumble. Damn. Should have had more of Terag's rich boy humlaw'. She shouted back, "WHAT'S THE SPECIAL TODAY?"

On the table, Qappam continued to exhort his comrades. "The Chancellor, who has, in violation of all custom and the basic rights of Klingons, centralized the means of warfare into his greedy hands. Warriors, comrades, we cannot stand this any longer!" A cheer, "Nor can we stand the diluting of our great Klingon heritage by the willful inclusion of less-qualified species, a hollow effort to copy-cat the success of the Federation. No, we must remain strong, and true, to Klingon blood!"

Aitel couldn't hear it over the roar of approval from the crowd (including Terag), but she was pretty sure the Yrillian had let out a deep sigh.

"Under Chancellor Renhadd," Qappam continued, "The terrible policies of command and control started by L'Rell, midwived by Gorkon, and brought to terrible adolescence by Azetbur have taken root once more. But we cannot allow this to continue! And we have the means to stop it. Our friend Venooget had showed us the way!" Qappam turned, gesturing towards the Yrillian waiter, half-way on his return journey to the kitchen. She cursed to herself as Venooget's shoulders slumped, and he slowly walked towards Qappam's position in the center of the room.

"I was ready to kill Venooget, when he first approached me with his ideas," said Qappam, "Ideas some of you have already heard. But I repeat them here, now, for all of you. Warriors, where Venooget is from, the government was once minimal. The Yrillian people were free to form associations, raid and pillage wherever they wished. Does this not sound like paradise?"

There were grunts and shouts of approval.

"But then," Qappam continued, his voice becoming low and dramatic, "Came the Federation." He nodded sympathetically with the boos and hisses of the crowd, "And all that has begun to change. The Yrillian system was too weak to resist. But! -- I propose our own version of Yrillian thought, with Klingon characteristics. A vision, that will take the tools of warfare back from the Imperial Chancellory and into the hands of the skilled warriors who can operate it! To achieve this, we plan to -- Venooget, why don't you say?"

The Klingons all leaned forward. In the respectful silence, the Yrillian sighed, "Your plan," he said, "Which, I have to add, is very poor praxis--"

"Praxis was a poor moon, yes,' Qappam said with a grin. The crowd laughed.

Venooget looked at the ceiling, "Your hope is to establish planetary councils of warriors, unions based around warfare professions, that are federated into a larger Imperial Council that works by voluntary association for larger issues, and selecting a Torchbearer for when unity is required in wartime."

"Exactly so!" Qappam said, reaching down slightly to slap the Yrillian on the shoulder, who flinched, "Yes, I have taken the basic pattern of the Yrillians, and modified it to a form that brings back the best ideals of the old, pre-L'Rell age, while retaining more modern concepts." He looked around the room, "The Great Houses have proven to be valuable, venerable institutions. But we must also recognize that they have so often kept their aristocratic airs, and prevented the best warriors from rising to the top."

Aitel waited to see if Terag would shift uncomfortably. As expected, he didn't.

"By switching to Warrior's Councils," Qappam said, as Venooget stared into the distance, "Based on the planetary level, we can create more rational, more efficient leadership than the Houses provide, while still decentralizing warmaking. No more will we be held back by the simpering peacemaking of the sap-drinkers in the Klingon High Command. And if any leaders do show such spineless appeasement, then as per Klingon tradition and the concepts that I wish to follow, then they are instantly recallable." Qappam ripped his d'k tagh from its sheath and raised it high over his head, "BY THEIR DEATHS!"

The crowd roared, thumping on tables.

"And we will end the practice of taking other species into our warfighting ranks, away from our critical leadership. They sap the unique spirit of the Klingon people, and might scheme against us in wartime. We must leave combat to the species most suited to it--"

"Qappam, please," Venooget said, rubbing his head with his hands, "No, that's not -- none of this is right!" He looked around at the Klingons, pleading, "This -- this is not what I was trying to get across! The common soldiery, yes, does have a role to play in creating a more fair and democratic system. In combating counter-revolution, yes! But councils of all warriors -- claiming meritocracy as your aim while rallying around a chauvinistic conception of Klingons First -- none of this is in line with any of the material I provided!"

Qappam chuckled, and lightly tapped Venooget with his foot, pushing the Yrillian forward, "Ah, my friend, you say we don't understand. But you are the one who cannot understand, for Kropotkin cannot be truly appreciated until you have read him in the original Klingon!"

"Why do you keep saying that?" Venooget shouted, throwing his arms out to the side and almost slamming a hand into the face of a seated Warrior, "The original Klingon this, the original Klingon that. Do you think Shakespeare was actually a Klingon operative or something? And why is it always with Earth stuff? You never say this about Surak--"

"Venooget," Qappam interrupted, his voice suddenly low. The Yrillian glanced around at the angry faces glaring at him, and cowered slightly, "Do not forget your place. You have enlightened me. You have shown me the path. But you can't walk it. It is now for me to take my people and see it to the end."

"Of… of course. Of course." Venooget bowed his head, slowly backing, "I have orders to get, I'll carry on."

As Venooget disappeared into the kitchen, Qappam glanced around the room, taking an offered tankard of bloodwine, "Now then, it is time to put into practice what we discuss. This here is a warriors' council, friends, for the Mekro'vak region. Does anyone wish to speak--"

"Yes." A hooded figure at the bar said suddenly. He was stooped over a metallic stein, still steaming slightly from a heat bath. Slowly, he raised a bottle to fill it, the lip tap-tap-tapping against the stein as it shook slightly in his hand.

Terag's eyes were glued to the shaking bottle. Aitel saw a rare expression on his face -- naked, undisguised fear. "We need to go," he whispered, pulling at Aitel as he scanned the room, "This way!"

"But the special…" Aitel said, her own eyes glued on the bloody plate being carefully brought her way. Another insistent tug from Terag, one that nearly pulled her off her feet, and she rolled her eyes. "Fine," she spat, following him.

"I just hope they don't have the place completely surrounded," Tureg muttered.

Oblivious to this drama, the hooded man continued, "I have to ask -- why is this desirable, exactly? Think of the Syndicate, how foolishly they started a war that ended them, completely outside government control. The Yrillian pirates who have forced their government to become less lenient, more involved. The Licori could not restrain their Mentats, and now they fight like mere carrion-birds of the remains of an Empire. Is this what you desire for ours? Reckless bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed, leading to the placement of a heavy yoke?"

Qappam laughed, "Is there anything more Klingon than bloodshed? But you have a point about control, and preventing foolishness. I say that the real foolishness is when old men, or young men, forget the battlefield and commit to battles they cannot win. So the solution is simple. By taking the power away from political figures, and making sure that recall prevents warriors from becoming politicians, as happened with Renhadd, we will follow the wisdom of the subject matter experts of war -- the warriors themselves."

"And what of the civilian economy? The industry you desire? Who controls that?"

"That is still a matter for debate. Some say it should be suborned to the Warrior's Councils, or perhaps put into the trust of an inter-Council agency."

The hooded man took a sip of his drink, setting his stein back down with a small rattle. "Or perhaps," he said, "You could allow those industries to band together as well, and elect their leaders. Maybe even aliens with subject matter expertise, as you say. Such as, oh I don't know… Orions?"

The crowd snarled, and several Klingons half-drew their d'k taghs and mek'leths, an obvious warning. Qappam shook with anger. "Never!" he shouted, spittle flying, "We cannot allow the vital industries, the mighty machines that drive our war engines, to fall into foreign hands. Such things might serve the Federation, but not here. Aliens are only good for manual labour, some technical skills. They should never be allowed leadership except in the most nominal capacity."

"Hm," the hooded figure said, "I would disagree. And I would also disagree that any of you are fit to lead a warrior's council. I think your unthinking adherence to the old ways means you're all about to die."

There was a shocked silence. Qappam ripped a mekleth from his waist and pointed it at the man. He opened his mouth to speak, but the man just waved an arm.

Qappam couldn't see them, but two glowing green orbs sparked to life in the dark rafters above him. Some long, metallic thing fell from the darkness, surrounding Qappam in an instant. As it rose slightly from the tabletop, it began to resemble a Seyek dipped in polished metal, with knives for fingers and emerald lamps for eyes.

Qappam stepped backwards, dropping to a fighting stance, twisting his body to deliver a mighty cut. But creature moved fast, wrapping its plated body around him before he could even let out a challenging bellow. Klingons backed away, yelling with shock and fumbling for weapons. With a whirr of servors and the whine of hydraulics and myomuscle, it crushed the Klingon with a sickening crunch. Then, almost as an afterthought, the glowing emerald orbs that served as eyes glowed brighter, and two disruptor beams erupted forth, sweeping across the Klingons closest to the hooded man. Then it let Qappam's lifeless body drop to the ground, and slithered forth to cause havoc in the crowd.

Klingons rushed towards the rack on the wall where many had propped their weapons, a few staying behind to grapple and rain bat'leth blows down on the snake-bot, to little noticeable effect. They were then shocked when the wall burst outwards in a shower of dust and wooden splinters, the metallic bulk of a skimmer's ramp now suddenly within the qe'tach. Warriors suddenly poured out, bat'leths, pistols, mek'leths in hand and joined the fray, killing the Warrior's Committee members with abandon. They were followed by the stooped figure of a massive Gorn, a braid of hair tied around his head spikes.

He hefted an ornate rifle -- more a cannon -- in his hands, all wood and gleaming metal. He raised it to his shoulder, pulled back the coolant manifold, and leaned forward as the rifle let out a blinding, scintillating green beam, that blasted apart any Klingon warrior it touched. Red-hot coolant cartridges flew out of the top-mounted ejection port, smoking and sizzling wherever they landed on wood.

At the bar, Berst pulled back his hood, watching the carnage unfold around him. His warriors were pouring in from every doorway, down staircases, and now that Kaphar's armored vehicle had moved forward slightly, the giant hole in the wall. Light poured in from the open wound in the side of the qe'tach, illuminating the dark interior inside, competing with the bright flashes of disruptor fire.

It was, of course, not very wise for him to be on location of such brutal raids. Even with his precautions -- the assassin-bot, the personal force field generator, the bodyguards seeded in the crowd, and the disruptor pistol cleverly concealed in his robes, it was a risk. But Berst, for all his spying and skulking, for all his physical weakness compared to other Klingons, still was one. To put himself so in harm's way restored some measure of honor to these fights, even though the ill-prepared patrons of such establishments rarely put up a satisfying or glorious resistance The Warriors' Council on Mempa, the one who had dug themselves into the caverns and catacombs there -- for them, Berst had stayed well back. Very far back. Leaked the location to the Black Fleet, let them do all the hard work, thinking they were striking a blow against anarchy in the name of the Houses. Then sent in his own troops, and finished the weakened remainder.

He turned towards the doorway as a hunched over Orion appeared in it, holding the door open politely for one of Berst's screaming Klingons, who rushed through immediately plunged his bat'leth into the guts of a similarly screaming Warrior's Council unfortunate. The Orion's poor posture was due to all the technology he carried -- a backpack with two manipulator arms, a pair of almost arachnid-looking goggles propped up on his head, a tool vest with extraneous glowing lines, and even exoskeleton attachments on his legs. He walked over to Berst, seemingly oblivious to the bloodshed. He paused for a single moment as a Warriors' Council member stood in his way, a bloody d'k'tagh in one hand. But then the Klingon was vaporized by the eye-cannons of the snakebot.

The Orion smiled appreciatively at the murder-machine. "Excellent work, dear!" he called, as it went back to its butchery. He sat down next to Berst, momentarily pushing the goggles down over his face and using them to closely examine a cup of bloodwine. "Aha!" he said, flipping the goggles back, "No one has drank from this yet. Completely sanitary." He removed smoking forearm still gripping the cup and took a long drink. He sat there in for a moment, enjoying the sudden silence that had descended over the bar. The battle was already over, and the snake-bot, task complete, slithered over to him.

"Your… Syzor," Berst said, eyeing the metallic snake-person, "Is incredibly effective, Doctor Rozier. It's…"

Rozier looked at him expectantly, and Berst looked at the snakebot. It was clearly patterned after the Seyek body-form, but the construct was purely mechanical in nature. Rozier sprayed disinfectant on Syzor's snout, wiping away the blood there, and then lightly tapped the metal. Syzor let out a screeching shriek that made Berst wince, and Rozier grinned. "That's a good Syzor. Now open up." Syzor's 'jaw' unhinged, revealing row upon row of serrated teeth-like blades, caked in blood and bits of Klingon. He looked expectantly at Berst as he absently began scraping the debris away, forming a pile on the floor.

"...terrifyingly effective." Berst finished.

Syzor let out a horrific screech that Rozier had told him was 'Appreciation Response #4.'

Berst left the Doctor to his ministrations. Frankly, Rozier was so in love with his work, it sometimes made it hard to communicate with him. He slowly turned in his seat, surveying the handiwork of his troops.

He was about to smile, when a large, red-headed bulk suddenly slid onto the barstool next to him.

"Having fun, Berst?" Segfed said. She shoved a Yrillian towards him, "Your security people found this one. He's the agitator."

Berst looked the Yrillian up and down. His coveralls had been badly stained in the fight, by dirt, dust, and blood. He took a half-step away from Segfed, his hands were nervously playing with the string that held his apron on. But he was looking Berst in the eye, and the Klingon appreciated the bravery.

"Finally," Berst said, "I meet Mr. Venooget. I'm afraid your time here is at an end. The Empire doesn't appreciate foreigners undermining our stability."

Berst gave Segfed a hard look when it looked like she was going to say something. Instead, she reached behind the counter.

Venooget shifted. "Are you going to kill me?" He sounded almost bored.

As Berst contemplated the Yrillian, Segfed knocked aside a vintage bottle of bloodwine, instead grasping the antique disruptor the unfortunate bartender had hidden, and never had a chance to touch. She looked it over, appraising it, before throwing it over her shoulder with a disappointed snarl.

Berst suppressed an urge to take the disruptor and break it over Segfed's head. "That's up to you, Venooget. You can die here with your comrades, for their ideology. Or we can debrief you and send you home--"

"Home." Venooget said, "Definitely home. Damn it!" The Yrillian stomped his foot for emphasis, "Damn it. I wanted to bring egalitarianism to those who most needed it. I thought I should start with the Klingons. If I could sway even some of them, then the entire galaxy could be changed!"

Berst nodded, "But it was not so simple."

Venooget shook his head, hard, "I should have listened to my father. He said the Rigellians, or even the Amarki were a better start. Said things were too… wild." He still looked into Berst's eyes The spymaster had expected despair, but found anger, the Yrillian's huge fists clenched so hard that Segfed eyed him with concern.

"But you pushed on," Berst said sympathetically.

"But I pushed on! I thought I was finally getting through to someone with Qappam. But all he did was misinterpret everything I said. It was insane! Anarchy for warriors and some sort of imperialism for everyone else? How does that make any sense?" He shook his head again, sadly, "I'll tell you whatever I know. I'd feel bad if this was an actual revolutionary cell, but they're basically my kidnappers. And so racist. Though from what I can tell, you got most of them."

"The Empire thanks you for your service," Berst said, almost sounding genuine, and waved a warrior over.

"Ugh," Venooget said, disgust obvious on his face, "Now you're making me regret this." But he offered no resistance beyond an annoyed glare to the warrior who roughly took his arm and escorted him away.

Once the Yrillian was gone, Berst turned and scowled at Segfed, "You shouldn't be here, Segfed. Do you know how big of a target this place is, with both of us here?"

"It's relative," Segfed smiled, "Do we truly present a bigger a target than you, sitting dramatically at the bar? Saved from a Warrior's hands only by the graces of…" She gestured at Syzor, "That thing?"

Berst glared at her, and crossed his arms. "Well, if you were hoping for a military disaster, dear Segfed, I'm sorry I didn't deliver."

"That is actually my concern," Segfed said, surveying the battlezone, "I fear you are finding too much success with these operations."

"Ah. So I should stop conducting them? Let these groups scheme in the dark?" In spite of his sarcasm, Berst was genuinely curious where Segfed was going. She usually stayed out of skulduggery, disdained Berst's work, if agreeing it was necessary. Her being here… was unusual.

"Maybe," Segfed said, "Maybe. But they are not completely wrong in everything they say. Black Fleet, or this Warrior's Council, they are all angry about the same thing -- they feel denied a chance for battle, for honor, for Sto'vo'kor. An honor typically gained by fighting outsiders. But now, the biggest battles… are ones like these." Segfed stopped.

"And? Are they not big enough?"

"No. That is not the problem. The problem is, they are the most glorious battles left. Everyone knows that your service selects only the best, even if it does take in aliens. But what that means is that the best battles are against…" She gestured at the bodies strewn about. All of them were Klingon.

"It's… not ideal," Berst said, "But it is the terrain on which I do battle."

"Not ideal? It is much worse than that!" Segfed whirled to look at Berst, "The Houses have always bickered. Fought, even. Families and cadet branches struggling, maybe a few ships exchanging fire. But the Empire always survived, because those were minor skirmishes, and we were united by our desire for expansion, for conquest. United against the outside. The Gorn, the Nausicaans. The Orions. But what is spreading across the Empire is… this. This is war against Klingon. And I fear what it means for our Empire."

Berst's face was motionless, except for the slight clench of his jaw. He clenched one hand into a fist. It bounced against the bartop, until Berst held it to his chest. He turned slightly over his shoulder, "Rozier, gone." Then, louder, "Everyone, out!"

Rozier packed up his tools quickly. The other warriors quickly filed out, but kept a perimeter, just out of sight.

Berst turned back. He wasn't shouting, but anger was evident in every syllable. "What choice do we have, Segfed? You know as well as I that we are in no condition to fight anyone. Not anyone of any importance. Not anyone honourable."

"There is honor in every conflict," Segfed said, "Even what you've done here today. Those who died here went to Sto'vo'kor."

"Don't lecture me on honour," Berst snapped, "If you are so knowledgeable on the subject, you should know some things yield more honour than others. The likes of the Pagarians or the Frozen Protectorate would be little more than distractions. The Federation is too large, and in the time it would take us to prepare for another war with the Romulans, they will have gone deeper into the Federation's favour. The Harmony of Horizon is far away, and to send a fleet would leave us vulnerable to the Romulans. We can't fight the Gorn or Ittick-Ka for another five years, unless they go to war with each other, which the Federation is trying to halt. And the Gorn might ally with the Cardassians, who so eager to humiliate us they would be willing to travel a great distance indeed to burn our vessels. Attracting the attention of enough of the Hishmeri septs could doom us to humiliation and bondage. The Empire could not survive that." Berst shook his head, "You know there are no viable options. Our only hope is to keep this dissent under control."

"The smaller nations could serve as a stepping stone. It's not so hopeless. And at least it has Klingons fighting instead of doing…" She jabbed at the red-and-black flag, scorched by disruptor fire, "That."

"Yes, and then we run into our other issue. The Federation is more active and interventionist than any time since T'Kuvma's war, or since the Organian treaty. As we speak they are blasting raiders out of the sky. If we are too bold, too aggressive, they will set their sights on us. And they might not be in a very gentle mood if they are concluding a war with the Harmony of Horizon." He shook his head, "Perhaps contributing to Liberty would be a good course of action -- if we could trust the Federation would back us against Hishmeri aggression."

"Or if we had ships to spare away from the Romulan border." Segfed looked down, contemplating the patterns of the bartop, and then rose. "Perhaps you are right. But that does not mean I have to like it."

"Perhaps the outlook is not entirely bleak," Berst said, the anger having suddenly fled from his voice, driven away by the cold facts they confronted again and again. "Despite my best efforts, some of the Orion Hypercorp executives seem to be slowly working to arm themselves. And there are whispers the Syndicate wishes to reestablish in our space." He looked at Segfed, "I will try to stop them, but maybe there will be non-Klingons to send your warriors after."

Segfed looked down at him for a long time. "If I didn't think it would be too dishonorable, even for you," she said, "I would think that maybe you are allowing this little crisis with the Orions to brew deliberately. Let those who champion our species above all have an acceptable target, allow those who wish to fight the chance to do so, and ensure its aimed at the ridgeless."

Berst shook his head, "Believe what you want, Segfed. Just as long as you keep to your duties. As I should get to mine." He rose and left the qe'tach, leaving the carnage and Segfed behind. A few minutes later, several Arin'Sen wearing heavy-duty coveralls came in, unfurled plastic bags suitable for biohazard material, and began the process of cleaning up.



Aitel and Terag sat across from each other, alone in the back of an armored skimmer. Terag's hope that they might slip away unnoticed had only lasted until they reached the alleyway of the qe'tach. They had been a meter from freedom before being unceremoniously tackled and thrown into the back of the transport. Better than what pretty much everyone else got, judging from the muffled sounds outside the vehicle.

A security raid. On her first, and only, radical meeting. Aitel's future in the KDF, or even in a House fleet, was over. And she'd never got the special…

The door suddenly slid open, and into the vehicle stepped an imposing woman, red hair and angry eyes. Aitel repressed a gasp -- Segfed, hero of the Empire. She who had duelled a Syndicate mecha suit, one that had taken the lives of dozens of Aerocommandos, and who had won single-handed. The woman who had fought the Secret Witch of Jeridd-Sal, duelled her in mind and body. The woman who was at Renhadd's right hand in the Romulan Senate, plucking the Sword of St'ask from its place on the Empty Chair and running it through all nearby, be they Romulan Senator, Reman bodyguard, or ordinary legionnaire. Presenting it to Renhadd, then continuing her rampage beyond the Senate chambers. Returning to Qo'nos in triumph. A living legend.

Well, if she had to die, Aitel supposed, it would be high honor to arrive in the afterlife by this woman's hand.

She was quite shocked when Segfed suddenly reached out and cuffed Terag across the ears.

"Ow!" He exclaimed, "Segfed--"

"My cousin!" Segfed yelled, raining blows down on Terag's head, aiming for the few soft spots on the Klingon's skull, "At a Warriors' Council meeting? What were you thinking?"

"I--" Terag began.

"YOU WEREN'T!" Segfed shouted, grabbing the lanky Terag, pulling him off the ground, and then throwing him out of the vehicle. Aitel slowly got to her feet and went to the hatch, half-concealed as she looked out at the family drama.

Terag hit the ground hard, rolling on the gravel-strewn pavement with a crunch. Yet when he rolled over it was defiance that burned in his eyes, "Their ideas were strong, I wanted to hear them out!" Terag yelled back, apparently heedless of Segfed's impressive capabilities, "We are cowering, focussed on building, you yourself are angry!"

"That is no excuse," Segfed said, picking Terag up, and shaking him, "You, and your little friend, are lucky to be alive. Had you not called me Berst would have, at best, killed you. At worst, he might have used you to blackmail me. Or, one of the Chancellor's opponents might have found out, used you to undermine all of us." She snarled in his face, "Your selfishness could have undone all the good things our family has now. The ones I know you hate so much."

Terag snarled back, but it was clearly empty posturing. He didn't reach for a weapon. Slowly, Segfed lowered him to the ground.

"Take your friend and go," she said, "I will figure out some punishment later. But listen here, cousin -- if I find out you have gone out and attended another meeting like this, I will not save you again. You are permitted only a few missteps on the path of Honor. Be glad this was one you can recover from."

Terag was faintly vibrating with rage, biting down on his lip. He slowly, tensely nodded his agreement, then stiffly waved at Aitel's hiding place. She came out, gave Segfed a deep bow, mumbled something about how glorious it was to meet her and how unworthy Aitel was, and then she spun and followed the sulking stride of Terag, who was looking for an aircab.

Segfed looked into the sky. It was still sunny outside, not a cloud in the sky. A rare sight, after Praxis. She let out a low snarl, then signalled Klingon High Command for a transport, gone seconds later in a swirl of red sparkles.