The War is Over
Three Months after Cessation of Hostilities Between Federation and Klingon Forces
-3.0 Hours Until Operation Snake-Staff.
“Operation Snake-Staff.”
John stopped and turned his head, but he knew the voice, “Kul vav ghajbe’.”
The Klingon stood in a defiant stance against the constantly shifting backdrop of pedestrians within the rotunda of DS9. In his hand he held a PADD which he brushed through idly, as if it was of little consequence. John knew every word was deep classified and it drove like nails into his fingertips.
“How did you get that?”
“Please, Captain, you know Task Force Omega has always been a joint partnership with the Empire. This mission you depart on will be the culmination of most of its efforts.” He flipped through the pad again while he approached Traise; John caught the glimpse of a nano-bot schematic, “These make use of ‘the cure’ collected at Vorn if I am not mistaken.”
John only nodded, Kul only smiled.
“Who do you think helped retrieve it? I was owed some proprietary information for my service, don’t you think?”
The human gave up and sighed, relaxing his shoulders. His eyes trailed the Klingon’s movements like a lazy caterpillar’s back legs; ones who keep forgetting they are attached to a head going in another direction and begrudgingly bother to keep up.
“It’s ambitious. Bold. Blunt. And above all else…” there was a crack and the splintering of sparks and composites as the Klingon flexed his wrists breaking the PADD in two“…dangerous.” He handed the useless remains over to John. It was an empty gesture, John knew the Klingon would have made copies. “I will be the first to admit I am jealous. It will be a great honor.”
“It’s not done yet.”
“You assume it will fail?”
“I don’t assume anything.”
“Ah, but you wouldn’t have accepted the mission if you didn’t expect it to succeed.” Kul circled the human in a way he likened to a Targ rattling up a meal; it reminded John of a rat circling trash giddily.
“Are you done?”
The Klingon stopped, “You aren’t enjoying our conversation, Captain?”
“Well, that would imply we are conversing.” He returned his attention to his own mission PADD. He could hear the leather of the Klingon’s uniform stretch when the man tensed, the insult worked.
“Then perhaps you should say something interesting. I thought you enjoyed our witty rapports?”
“You’re a pirate and murderer. I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, so hostile!” chided the warrior. “We are no longer enemies. Or, haven’t you heard? The war is over.”
John started towards the Task Force Omega briefing room, but the Klingon’s tree trunk of an arm thrust into the wall in front of him. Passersby stopped by the noise stared briefly, hesitantly waiting for conflict before moving on slightly hurried.
The Klingon stooped in, his breath growled. “You aren’t making this very fun.”
“Good, it’s not supposed to be.”
“I know you. You appreciate this rivalry as much as I do.”
The ship launched for the mission in only three hours. He didn’t have time for this. John glanced up his brow at the glowering Klingon and tried to ignore the dent that his fist had made in the wall.
“Rivalry, Kul? Is that what this is to you?”
His adversary smirked, “A true villain is only marked by his hero.”
There was another sigh, “You don’t get it yet, do you, Kul?”
The Klingon was reproachful, a furry eyebrow arched, “What do you mean?”
John slipped the PADD away in the small of his back, “Kul vav ghajbe’, ‘Kul the Fatherless.’ Lt. General and Captain of various vessels; predominantly the Kri’stak and the Gre’thor 'etlh.” He Raised a finger as if to point this out, “Utilizes adapted Borg Tech, the name Translates roughly as ‘The Sword of Hell’, I’ve got to admit, it’s clever.”
“‘Honorblade of Hell’ would be closer, but, yes, I am proud of it.” His voice for the first time was hesitant; curious of Traise’s motive.
John’s head tilted, “Without the backing of a House you made a name and a career for yourself; first as a Marauder, before moving with aggression into the Federation Klingon conflict. Through a series of successful sortie’s and missions you maneuvered majestically through the complex intricacies of the Empire’s power struggles; largely utilizing a leadership position within Strike Force Kargas. There are already whispers that it won’t be long until your own house, the House of Kul, is fully legitimized.”
“You do care.” Kul’s tone was almost sweet. “You’ve done your homework.”
“No,” John shook his head, “No, homework would be something done casually, in passing. What I’ve done is research. Research and observation.”
The Klingon grew a smile and gestured for the man to continue. It was now John’s turn to circle.
“You don’t wear gloves and are keen to making subtle displays of your scar-less arms. This gives the implication in Klingon society of being unscarred and therefore untested in close quarters combat; while this couldn’t be further than the case. You’ve placed in at least three Bat’leth tournaments under your own name, but I suspect countless others under pseudonyms. You utilize this to get the drop on your opponents, which I assume works all well and good for you, but, it betrays something.”
“Oh?”
“It shows you never do anything without reason. Case in point…” John pointed at an antique Klingon belt Kul was wearing, one he once stole from Captain Traise.
Kul was suddenly rigid.
“You see, that belt has a bit of a history with the Albion. The Albion – A, as it were, the Miranda you stole a model of when you snagged that. But, I’m betting you knew that already.”
John allowed himself a casual appraisal of Kul before he continued his analysis.
“You see, in the closing days of the first war between the Klingon Empire and the Federation the USS Albion and a Klingon vessel were both caught in an anomaly while in orbit over a planet which curiously has been scrubbed from most records within both the Empire and the Federation. But I digress…”
The human paced behind the wall of a man, eyes darted to catch him when he appeared back into view.
“Lore aboard the Albion went that, in order to escape, both ships and their crews needed to set aside their differences and work together. Despite some predictable resistance at first both groups came to collusion and were able to free themselves and defeat whatever… space entity or some-such that were common back in those early days of exploration.” There was a dismissive hand wave at the comment, but, ever the slightest twinge of envy in his voice.
“At the end of their shared endeavor, and before they returned to being enemies, the Captains of both vessels met and exchanged gifts, so that they could always remember the camaraderie they shared in the brief moment when they allowed themselves to work together. The tale went on to inspire in the Federation among those who knew it, and for many members of the Albion’s crew, past and present, served as a reminder of what can be accomplished through unity. However, the story of what happened to the Klingon ship and crew was far less… ennobling.
“You see, when they returned to Qo’noS and shared what transpired, relating their victories alongside of their enemies, they were brandished traitors. Their ship was struck from the record and their Captain and his entire house suffered discommendation; three generations were to live with this shame. Needless to say, trying to find any records or names from this period are a little difficult.
“But, what I did find was a hospital record from an outlying system which was not opposed to keeping records on ‘objects’… you know, because those without honor were not considered Klingon.” The man’s smile was met by cold eyes with coals melting away their core. “It was an account of a woman dying in childbirth. She apparently screamed of many things on her deathbed. Her dishonorable Grandfather of whom she refused to name. The Forgettable man who sired her child. A house, her house, which lost all honor and that in her death she would drag her family’s shame with her into Grethor. Her shrieking was fierce enough to make an impression on the staff, enough that they recorded it; and that the child survived. A male.
“What happened to this child, you ask? He was sent to an Orphanage closer to Qo’noS, but their records indicate that he ‘escaped’ at the age of twelve. And, something tells me,” Traise said as he took a chance in poking the Klingon’s chest, “you already know this half of the story.”
Kul slapped the hand away, hard enough to bruise, “Why tell me this ‘fairytale’? You have no proof of anything. If it is even worth anything.”
Traise slapped his own face, a look of self-depreciating stupidity painting itself flamboyantly across it, “Doy! I forgot the most important part. I never did tell you what it was those two enemy captains gifted one another all those years before to start this mess, did I?”
There was no response from Kul; he knew his enemy, he knew that Traise did now too.
“The Federation Captain gave up his prized possession: a hand carved cherrywood tobacco pipe. And what did the Klingon Captain trade? The very belt that he was wearing.” The human pointed at the Klingon’s waist. “How’s it feel to reclaim your ancestor’s honor? Literally?”
“Conjecture.”
“And when you stole the only thing your mother had of value when she died? The only thing they sent you to that orphanage with: a hand carved pipe of Terran origin. You started on a crusade for honor all over a forgotten chunk of wood. Or is that conjecture too?”
There was a smile, Kul slowly began to rally behind a clap, “Well done. You are the first person to truly know my past. But tell me, knowing what you must now…” Kul turned his head to the side, leaning in with glistening teeth, “Does it put you at ease knowing that twenty three of your crewmen died that day so I could steal a belt?”
Captain Traise didn’t even skip a beat. “No, but this little overlooked tidbit does.”
Kul’s eyebrows furrowed, he didn’t think there were any tidbits left to be looked at.
“You made a career out of fighting the Federation. Piracy, then Privateering, before eventual official commendation in the Klingon Defense Force. All those promotions and advancements both public and private from fighting an honorable enemy. But what are you going to do now that your former enemies are your only allies against your ‘illusive pretender’ foes? Where are your great victories and spacebattles against unarmed colonists and reserve fifty year old starships? The Federation in its multifaceted wars was a good enemy, and easy enemy. An old adversary with great standing to the Klingon people. But now,” Traise clapped suddenly and raised his hands apart, “your greatest source of prestige is now closed off to you… we are no longer enemies.
“Or… haven’t you heard? The war is over.”
The Klingon’s nostrils flared.
“You focused so hard on one enemy, on me, that you don’t know how to fight anything else. And now that you have to you have nothing,” Traise pulled is PADD back out and started reading while walking away, “… and are no longer worth my time.”
Kul stood there, stunned cold by the full implications of his adversary’s revelation.
“Oh,” the human stopped a few meters away, “I almost forgot.”
The Klingon said nothing.
“Good luck, Kul the Fatherless…”
Kul licked his dry lips and for the briefest of moments could swear he tasted blood. He couldn’t help but grin.