Star Trek: Klingon! Read online

  Then Gowron turned to Barclay and stared at him over the knife. “Do you follow the story?”

  Barclay nodded yes.

  “Good.” Gowron sat back, smiling. “For soon Pok will be truly tested. His life for a right decision.”

  Riker could hear Barclay swallow. Even Captain Picard laughed with Gowron this time.

  All Riker could think was, Poor Mister Barclay.

  Chapter Ten

  THE BRIDGE OF THE DURAS SISTERS’ Bird of Prey was dark under cloak. Lursa held her position in the command chair while B’Etor paced to her left. Only the click and hum of the ship broke the silence.

  On the main screen the Federation Deep Space Nine station floated against the field of black stars. The Federation flagship Enterprise held position near it, seeming to dominate all around it. Gowron’s ship and a second Klingon Bird of Prey held an area of space on the opposite side of the station.

  The surprise had been the two Cardassian ships.

  Lursa had not expected Cardassians.

  B’Etor stopped beside her sister. “I have no patience for this.” Her voice was low and firm.

  “I know, sister.” Lursa said. “But we must wait. Hoq is on the station now. He will contact dRacLa. We will learn Gowron’s movements. Until then we wait.”

  “This could take days.”

  “It might.” Lursa remained staring at the two Cardassian ships holding off the station. For some reason their presence bothered her. She was willing to face the station. The Enterprise. Gowron’s ships. But Cardassians she did not expect.

  But now all they could do was wait, holding at long range scan distance, until their operatives gave them more information. They had no other choice.

  Again B’Etor stopped her pacing and said, “I hate waiting.”

  And again Lursa said, “I know, sister.”

  Riker watched as Gowron glanced around at his audience. The Klingon was a good storyteller. There was no doubt of that. He even had Admiral Jellico interested, which was more than the admiral seemed to be during the official meetings.

  “Do any of you know the drinks I talked of?”

  Gowron asked. “Pelat? Ora? Necti?”

  Riker nodded. “I have tasted Pelat. Sweet, made from a fermented Talaran berry, if I remember right.”

  “You remember right,” Gowron said. Then he smiled as mischievous a smile as Riker had ever seen. “Commander. You know your drinks, I see.”

  Riker smiled back at him, toasting him with a glass of blood wine. “I know how. And have had much practice.”

  Gowron laughed and toasted Riker in return. “Do you know of the others?”

  “No,” Riker said. The word Necti sounded familiar, but more as a poison than a drink.

  Gowron nodded. “I am not surprised. Ora has little kick. A nasty taste. Not much worth the effort. But one of my guards drank it, so I ordered it. Necti is another matter. I drink it at times. A Birani beverage. They say it is made from reactant fluid distilled in the blood of Necti warriors.”

  Gowron glanced at Admiral Jellico’s shocked look, but made no comment. “If I had a bottle of it here, I would let you smell it. Like fresh ground turned for a grave.”

  Gowron looked at Riker, who was nodding. He had remembered correctly. “Necti is a poison to humans.”

  “Correct, Commander,” Gowron said. “To all of the more delicate species. Ferengi. Romulan. Human. To a Klingon it burns going down, and scars the stomach as well as the brain. I have known of Klingons who have died drinking it too fast.”

  Gowron smiled. “It is an interesting drink. And plays a part in Pok’s story.”

  “I could tell young Pok enjoyed his Pelat. I sipped at the Necti. Its burn filled me while my guards mingled among the crowd. The singer finished her song and I yelled across the bar to her. ‘You sing well.’

  “‘Thank you,’ she called back. ‘Requests?’

  “‘Klingon opera?’ I did not expect her to know any. She appeared to be human. But she surprised me. Without looking away from me she started into tlhIngan jIH, a popular opera about the nature of being Klingon.

  “Pok and I sat and enjoyed it. She finished and we cheered her, as did my guards. The rest of the bar joined in.

  “I moved from my place at the bar, taking my drink. Pok stayed at my side.

  “‘Few humans understand the spirit of Klingon opera,’ I told her. ‘You are a true artist.’

  “She smiled at me. ‘The melodies are simple. Quite repetitive. The difficulty is handling the tonality.’

  “She brushed against my leg and I responded back to her in a gentle manner, leading her on as I have seen humans do to their women.

  “‘The trick is,’ she said, ‘you must be harsh with it.’

  “‘You understand Klingons well. Sing it again.’

  “Others close by in the bar agreed.

  “Again she sang the Klingon opera tlhIngan jIH.

  “Again we cheered her performance.

  “‘We must show our appreciation,’ I said loudly to Pok.

  “‘Really,’ she said. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ She knew what I intended. But she had pleased me. It was Klingon custom.

  “I turned to Pok. ‘Choose,’ I told him.”

  Gowron smiled at Barclay who again looked startled at the sudden turn in the story. “Do you not understand?”

  Barclay swallowed. “I-I-I do not, sir.”

  Riker felt almost sorry for Barclay this time. Gowron was asking him to fulfill a very little-known Klingon custom of showing appreciation for a performance. “Lieutenant,” Riker said, leaning toward Barclay while smiling at Gowron. “Klingons show their appreciation of good art or performance by smashing something. Then paying for it. Sort of tipping, with an act in the middle.”

  Gowron continued to stare at Barclay as he first looked at Riker, then back at the Klingon leader.

  “Choose,” Gowron said. “Action. The song was good. What would Pok choose?”

  “A bar g-g-glass,” Barclay said.

  “Bah,” Gowron said. “I must not have described fully. The song, the opera by this human woman singer was superb. A bar glass costs nothing. Breaking it would have been an insult to her.”

  “A ch-chair?” Barclay asked. Again he was sweating.

  “Better,” Gowron said. “Much better. What Pok actually chose.”

  “Pok pointed to the singer’s chair. My guard took it. Smashed it into small pieces. The crowd yelled its approval.

  “I turned to the singer. ‘It is done. We pay for what we destroy.’ I offered her a bar of latinum.

  “‘Latinum?’ She stared at the bar. Did not take it.

  “‘If it is not acceptable to you,’ I said. I moved to put the bar back into my pocket.

  “‘No. No. It is acceptable.’ She almost ripped the bar from my hand. Then she turned it over, checking its weight and value.

  “‘Not enough?’ I asked. I knew it was far more than the value of her simple chair.

  “‘More than enough,’ she said. Then she looked me in the eye. ‘Is there something more you wanted?’

  “‘Information.’

  “‘I thought Klingons took information,’ she said. ‘I was not aware that they paid for it.’

  “I stepped right up and looked into her face, sneering at her. ‘The latinum is for the chair. The information you will give for free.’ She did not back away, but I saw the flicker of fear cross her eyes. I knew I had her at that moment.

  “‘I am looking for a weapons dealer. One who could get me something. Something like this.” I pulled out the Romulan assassins probe that killed my friend.

  “She recognized it for what it was. She became nervous. She stepped away from me. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that. I only sing here.’

  “I stepped back up to her face. ‘You are not blind. You see who makes the deals. Who sets up the meetings.’

  “The singer moved another step away from me, shaking her head. I took her by
the arm, gripping her hard.

  “Behind me, the bartender shouted, ‘Stop him!’

  “I turned her around so that I could see my two guards and Pok make very short work of the two thugs. I do not think any of my men even took a blow. I know young Pok did not.

  “The crowd in the bar seemed frozen. Silence filled the place. I turned back to the singer. ‘Now,’ I said, growling in her face. ‘Whom do they come to see?’

  “Many a Klingon warrior had backed down to my threats. She was no exception. She pointed to the bartender. ‘Meska. He’s the one who arranges it all.’

  “I tossed the singer aside, being careful not to hurt her seriously. A good singer of Klingon opera must always be given appreciation. I moved to the bartender. He moved to get away, but I easily stopped him.

  “‘You have information?’ I said.

  “‘You see,’ he said. ‘This is why we don’t allow weapons in here. I should have never let you keep your knives.’

  “‘My guards did not use their knives,’ I told him. ‘I have kept my word. But as I told my young comrade, there are always weapons.’

  “Holding the bartender with one hand, I picked up the glass of Necti. I held it in front of the bartender’s wide eyes. ‘How often do you serve Necti, bartender? Have you ever tried it?’

  “I moved to feed the bartender a sip of Necti. He locked his mouth shut. Wouldn’t drink. I was not surprised.

  “‘No?’ I said, pulling the glass away from his face. ‘Then tell me what I want to know.’

  “He did not answer, so I tried again to give him just a sip. He did not let me.

  “‘Who brings the probes into this sector?’

  “The bartender shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t.’

  “I did not believe him. I held the glass above his face and splashed a little of the drink in his eyes.

  “He screamed. Then he called out, ‘My eyes! I can’t see. My eyes!’

  “I lifted him into the air. ‘Tell me now, bartender, before I pour the whole bottle on you.’

  “‘Shipments of weapons come through here all the time,’ he said quickly. I lowered him back to the floor. His hands worked at his eyes.

  “‘More,’ I said.

  “He shook his head. ‘I don’t ask what they carry.’

  “‘This shipment would have come from the Soltaris System.’

  “The bartender tried to twist out of my grasp, but I held on and poured the rest of the glass on him.

  “Again he screamed.

  “‘What ship?’

  “Trying to rub the liquid off his face, he said, “The Toofa. A Pakled vessel.’

  “I was disgusted. I hated Pakleds. They were stupid beasts. “‘When?’

  “‘Sixteen hours,’ he said. ‘It left here sixteen hours ago headed back to Soltaris.’

  “I continued to hold the bartender by the shirt. ‘T’Rok!’ I called out to my guard. ‘We return to the ship. Pok! The Necti.’

  “Pok did as I ordered and handed me the half-empty bottle of Necti.

  “The bartender kept saying, ‘No. No. No.’ Over and over. I held the bottle up for a moment, then tipped it up and drank the rest of it.

  “I let the bartender go and threw the bottle against the back wall. ‘No sense in wasting it, eh?’

  “I stepped to a position in front of Pok and my two guards. With a nod to the singer, I said, ‘Now.’ And we returned to the ship. But now we had a lead.

  Riker watched as Gowron rolled his empty glass across the table, then shouted “Ferengi! Wine!”

  He looked at Barclay with a cold smile. “The Ferengi does not know how to keep his customers happy. Maybe I should give him a taste of Necti? What do you think, Barclay?”

  At the shocked look in Barclay’s eyes, Gowron sat back and laughed.

  Chapter Eleven

  NIBO HOQ GLANCED in both directions down the seemingly empty corridor, then moved quickly along the row of doors. His thin frame and flowing green robe were in stark contrast to the dull, heavy feeling of the corridor. This area was part of the station’s guest quarters and seemed to be empty. And he moved without a sound.

  He’d booked a room for three nights in a similar section of the station, giving the excuse to those in Ops that his ship needed slight repairs before he could go on. Since he was a Saurian merchant who had been on the station numbers of times before, he was not questioned, even with the Klingon/Federation meetings going on.

  He glanced around. His room was not in this area of the station, but if stopped, he would claim he had simply gotten lost while looking for his own room. This area of the station did look almost the same as the area of his room. So far he had only seen two guards and they had not stopped him.

  Hoq kept moving, searching for the door with the special mark. He had something to deliver. Nibo Hoq dealt in much more than just the goods that filled his cargo hold. His most profitable item had always been information and he was very good at getting it. And getting paid highly for selling it.

  A faint gray mark caught his eye. Nothing more than a scratch with a hooked end near the upper corner of the door. Yet he knew instantly it was the signal he was looking for.

  Glancing in both directions, he moved three doors farther down the hall from the mark, then knocked lightly. He was very careful to stay away from the call button on the door.

  He could hear a rustle faintly behind the door, then the door was pushed open by hand, by a large Klingon warrior. It did not automatically open, otherwise movement would have shown up in the station’s security monitors.

  Hoq nodded and slipped into the dark room while the Klingon pushed the door closed. Only a single candle burned in the center of the spartan room. A thin mat had been laid out on the floor in one corner. No other signs of life, even though Hoq suspected the Klingon had been in the room for most of four days.

  “You have information?” the Klingon said, moving over and standing across the candle from Hoq. His hard features and ridge lines in his face cast dark shadows on his forehead.

  “I have what you and your friends seek,” Nibo Hoq said. “Do you have my price?”

  The Klingon snorted, then reached into his vest and pulled out a packet. He tossed it at Hoq, who caught it easily. Hoq unwrapped it, checking the amount. It was what he had asked from Lursa. More than enough to make the trip profitable.

  He put the package inside his cape and looked the Klingon directly in the eye. “Gowron beams back to his ship immediately after the meetings break up, in late afternoon. Then he comes back and drinks in Quark’s until fairly late, telling stories. He is there now, as we speak.”

  The Klingon laughed. “He always believed stories were important. I see he has not changed.”

  Hoq nodded, but said nothing.

  “Go on,” the Klingon said.

  “He is officially a Federation guest,” Hoq said. “He is guarded well, by both his men and the Federation. When the station’s shields drop, after the meetings, he is the first to beam to his ship.”

  The Klingon glowered at Hoq for a short time in the flickering candlelight, then suddenly smiled. “I understand.”

  Hoq bowed and moved back toward the door. “I did not expect to have to explain my information. Now, I am needed at my ship.” He indicated the door and that the Klingon should open it for him.

  The Klingon moved to a position in front of the door, then turned to Hoq. “How do I know you will not sell your information about me.”

  Hoq laughed. “One buyer per trip. It is a rule that I find helps keep me out of trouble. And keeps my buyers returning for my services.”

  The Klingon nodded and turned back to face the door, as if he were about to open it. Instead he pulled out his knife, and with a quick turn, buried it into Hog’s stomach.

  Nibo Hoq felt the suddenness of the thrust and the sudden loss of air from his lungs.

  He tried to pull away, but the Klingon held him close until Hoq could feel the strength in his l
egs draining with his blood down his front.

  He fought, but against the strength of the Klingon it did no good.

  Finally he stopped struggling.

  He knew he was going to die.

  He looked into the cold black eyes of the Klingon. “You did not need to do this.”

  The Klingon yanked the knife out and let Hoq fall to the floor. “Information is a two-edged blade,” the Klingon said, standing over him. “I have no desire to be cut.”

  “You had my word,” Nibo Hoq said, the sentence bubbling in his throat as blood filled his lungs.

  “Your word,” the Klingon said.

  The last thing Nibo Hoq ever heard was the Klingon laughing.

  Gowron waited until all his audience’s drinks were refilled. Riker was startled to find that this evening he had finished one full glass of blood wine. Gowron had insisted that Quark bring him another, and secretly, Riker was glad he did. Dax touched his hand and indicated the empty glass with a smile. She was half laughing at him. He enjoyed that.

  Riker leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Gowron’s stories make me thirsty.”

  She laughed out loud but said nothing, because Gowron was about to start. But to Riker her laugh promised good moments together ahead. He just hoped the situation would allow them the moments. They were both Starfleet officers. Time had a way of disappearing for them.

  Gowron finished a long drink of blood wine, sighed heavily, and then with only a quick glance at the sweating Lieutenant Barclay, started back into his story.

  “I assumed it would not take our ship long to overtake the Pakled ship. They are slow slugs at best. I was right.

  “‘Picking up a vessel within scanning range,’ my communications officer, ChaqI, said, only three hours after we had left the bar.

  “‘The Pakled ship?’ I asked, spinning in my command chair so that I could address ChaqI directly.

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘Cloak the ship.’

  “‘Cloaking the ship,’ ChaqI said.

  “The lights dimmed. We were cloaked.

  “‘The cargo hold is empty,’ ChaqI said. ‘Ten humanoids, all Pakled.’

  “‘Let me see this Pakled ship,’ I ordered. I turned back to the main screen. The ship appeared on the screen.