A Matter of Honor
An Iconian War Story by StarSword-C and Worffan101
Dramatis Personae
Crew of IKS HoSbatlh:
- General Brokosh, flag officer in command, Klingon Sixth Fleet, and ghIntaq to the House of Chel'tok (Lethean male): Murphy Guyer
- Captain Meromi Riyal, commanding officer (Orion female): Naomi Peters
- Commander Norigom, operations officer (Nausicaan male): Beau Billingslea
- Lieutenant Ila'kshath, science officer (Gorn female): Adrienne Grady
- Sergeant Major K'Gan, son of Kortak, QaS DevwI' (Klingon male): Roger Craig Smith
House of Martok bloc:
- Sirella, daughter of Linkasa, Dowager Lady of the House of Martok (Klingon female): Shannon Cochran
- Drex, son of Martok, Lord of the House of Martok (Klingon male): Obi Ndefo
- Noggra, Lord of the House of Noggra (Klingon male): Robert DoQui
- Ba'wov, Lady of the House of Chel'tok and wife to General Brokosh (Klingon female): Yancy Butler
- Grilka, Lady of the House of Grilka (Klingon female): Mary Kay Adams
- Lieutenant Commander (ret.) Worf, son of Mogh, ghIntaq to the House of Martok and husband to Lady Grilka (Klingon awesome): Michael Dorn
Other characters:
- J'mpok, son of Ch'rog, Lord of the House of J'mpok and Chancellor of the Klingon Empire (Klingon male): Liam McIntyre
- General Ch'zog, son of Garan, Dahar Master and Lord of the House of Qualta (Klingon male): Samuel L. Jackson
- Enyala Kal'Mor, captain of Orion Syndicate carrier Li'valen (Orion female): Sarah Greene
- Eris, assistant to Enyala Kal'Mor (Orion female): Olivia Morgan
- High Admiral D'trel ir'Aehallah, commanding officer, ch'M'R Sienov Ecurain (Romulan female): Linda Hamilton
- Subcommander Daysnur, senior mindhound and chief engineer, ch'M'R Sienov Ecurain (Lethean male): Alan Tudyk
In fine apparel clothed, tae another bairn betrothed
Told one day you'd be the queen o' France
Ambition rode your fears, made you old before your years
Whispered power in your ear as you danced
But a politician's wiles need a schemer, no' a child
And you never saw the price you'd have to pay
For like a hired assassin's knife, Scotland's violence and strife
Would cut scruple frae your life, day by day
What were you first, quine or queen?
Or did your heart drown in between
The tyrant ship o' state and the cruel shore o' fate?
What were you first, queen or quine?
Wha gave you first yon bitter wine
That held your heart at ransom tae the cruel, proud and handsome
And left hope a lonely prisoner in a far north land
To some you were a knave, better left a galley slave
To some you were the saviour o' a nation
But you were never asked to tell what caught you when you fell
Between your ain private hell and salvation
And I'd respect your memory more if you had paused upon yon shore
Before you made your journey tae Geneva
For one clear line across the sand might have stayed fanatic hands
Left you better baith as man and believer
What were you first, man or priest?
Or the tool o' Revelation's beast
Primes wi' fire and thunder tae tear Scotland's soul asunder?
What were you first, priest or man?
Sae sure you'd sit on God's right hand
On the final judgement day. Did you never think tae pray
That your ain sins might find mercy in a far north land
God save us frae the lure o' the certain and the sure
For arrogance is cold religion's daughter
And God save us frae the sin that throws conscience tae the wind
Sheds blood for kith and kin like it was water
What brought you baith tae truth or dare?
What devil's bargain did you swear
That gave you leave tae barter wi' heroes, fools and martyrs?
What were you baith in Scotland's eyes
But different tongues for different lies?
Lord and Lady of Misrule
Who used a nation for their tool
Who both betrayed the future of a far north land
— "A Far North Land" by Brian McNeill
First City, Qo'noS. July, 2410.
The night was loud in Kargh's Place, a dive bar on the First City's outskirts. The speakers were blasting an atonal Octanti power ballad that the Klingons liked,"Revenge for the Homeworld", and a barfight was currently ongoing between a ten-foot female Gorn and six massive, burly Klingons with two beefy Nausicaans as backup. The Gorn was winning. Most of the rest of the patrons were similarly disruptive, either spilling their bloodwine in a state of extreme inebriation or loudly arguing bets over the bar fight.
Most, that is, except for the hooded shape in the corner, who sat nursing a mug of warnog in silence, a scaled orange hand the only thing visible. A drunk Klingon barged up against the table, trying to shove his way into the shape's booth. The shape said something. The Klingon took offense, putting his hand on his dagger. The shape nudged his robe aside, revealing a smooth disruptor pistol, a new model from the House of Martok's own development facilities. The Klingon didn't take the hint, drawing his blade.
Then the shape's head turned sharply towards him, and he stumbled, falling backwards, and collapsed through another man's chair, immediately starting another small brawl.
A nervous-looking Orion in drab clothing appeared in the doorway, and the shape showed no reaction. The Orion, a young female, skirted the brawl as she tried to keep her eyes on every corner of the room at once, sliding into the seat opposite the figure.
The hooded shape leaned forwards. "Eris?"
"Yes, sir. You're the representative of the House?"
"In a way." The hooded figure pulled the hood partway back, revealing an orange, toothy Lethean face. The Orion gasped and started backwards.
"General! I, er, wasn't expecting…"
"Cut to the chase. Your intel affects the House of Martok, which means it affects the House of Chel'tok, which means it affects my wife, which means it affects me." General Brokosh, flag officer in command of the Klingon Sixth Fleet, put his hand out flat on the table. "What's the intel? Don't give me crap about half in advance, you'll get your money."
"I don't want money, General, I want asylum. This intel is big, there's multiple major players out for my blood, and I'm certain that I'm being watched."
"Were you followed?"
"I… I don't think so?"
The Lethean hissed. "We'd better make this quick, then. Spill, and I'll get you back to Chel'tok's mansion in fifteen minutes."
"Deal," the Orion said instantly. "I'm an assistant to Matriarch Kal'Mor. Last month I overheard a conversation between her and several other… merchant leaders… of the Syndicate, talking with Melani D'ian and the Chancellor. D'ian was trying to muscle more concessions out of J'mpok; she said 'You wouldn't have gotten that seat without me, you would've been at best an even match against Martok in a fair fight.' I got a partial recording, but the audio isn't very good. I think that Kal'Mor's on to me, though, she told me that there was no need for me to come to work today…"
"You have the recording on you?" Brokosh interjected. The Orion nodded. "Good. We're headed back to my place. Do you have underwear on under that sweater?"
"Yes, why do you…"
"Strip. Down to the underwear. You're a prostitute who I paid good money for; if they're looking at your tits they won't be looking at your face." Comprehension dawned. The Orion started to pull the sweater off. "Careful, don't be too obvious!" Brokosh hissed.
"Sorry! I'm just a clerk, not a prosti."
"Yeah, and a good thing too or my wife'd have my head…" the Lethean muttered. He wasn't serious, though; Ba'wov knew him, and though her grandmother might kick his ass when he came in the door with an Orion in skimpy underwear on his arm, his wife would put it down to a crazy scheme immediately.
She'd seen crazier things with him even before they'd started dating fifteen years ago.
"Done," the Orion said, peeling off the last sleeve of her sweater and rolling up her pants.
"Good. Pass over the clothes, I need to look fat." Eris obeyed, and Brokosh surreptitiously stuck the clothes up his shirt as a Klingon went flying past after a truly impressive overhand throw by the Gorn. "Right, let's move. You're being paid a lot of darseks to fuck me and make me think I'm sexy when I'm not, got it?"
"Yes, General."
"Good, and don't call me that, use the name, uh"—he quickly thought up a pseudonym—"'Martouf'."
"'Martouf'?"
"Granddad's second cousin." The Lethean held out his arm, which the Orion took with a sultry leer and a titter. "Walk fast, but not too fast." She obeyed, matching his pace. Brokosh turned to the bouncer as they reached the exit. "Kurgan. Here's a tip and a little something for your kid." The burly Nausicaan looked at the hundred darsek coin and Code of Honor IV: Modern Warfare hologame chip, and nodded. "We were never here, got it."
"Sure. Who are you, anyway?" asked Kurgan, his acting skills truly impressive for a bouncer approximately the size and shape of a bear with the fangs to match.
"Thanks. Say hi to the wife for me." Brokosh turned away and raised his voice. "C'mon, babe, I'll show you how a real captain doesh it! That Feddie-bear idiot Jim Kirk'sh got nothing on me, shweetheart!"
"Oh, Captain," sighed Eris in a voice several octaves above her normal one. "I'm sure that you've seduced hundreds of women in your time…"
"Oh, babe, you wouldn't believe my record…" Brokosh slurred, aping drunkenness. He dropped his voice into a low whisper. "Just smile and laugh. I'll make like I'm whispering in your ear."
Eris nodded before catching herself, then forced out another airheaded titter. Brokosh reached out low-level with his mind, feeling a mental thumbs-up from a passing Lethean mindhound—a professional telepath rated in Undine hunting—with a squad of Klingon cops. Brokosh didn't return the favor, just in case, and kept a mental eye on the guy until the cops rounded the corner a couple blocks down. They had only a klick and a half to get to Chel'tok, three-quarters of that now, but he didn't dare get his communicator out if Eris really was being watched; that would blow the cover and all this would be for nothing, plus they'd have to hold off an ambush until his troops got here…
Wait. Something in the shadows in that alley. Brokosh half-turned his head, thrusting out mentally. Malice met him, and intent…
"Get down!" He shoved Eris bodily to the ground as disruptor fire scored a building at head height across the road. The assassin was hiding in the alley on the west side of the street. Brokosh stabbed with his mind, but the enemy's brain was slippery as hell—Orion, likely, but seriously drugged and probably with some other kind of artificial protection. Brokosh threw back his cloak, drawing the pistol, and fired two shots into the alley like lightning, pulsing outwards mentally to feel for other hostiles. "Into the store, now!" There was a traditional Klingon butcher's shop mere meters away; Eris scrambled for the door…
She screamed as a thrown knife caught her in the back, and crumpled. Brokosh swore, seeing another assassin pop up from the roof on the other side of the road, but fortunately his shooting reflexes were still good, and the greenskin crumpled off the side with a scorched hole in her chest as Brokosh, counting on on the armorweave vest under his cloak, shielded Eris with his body.
More disruptor fire snapped out, and Brokosh tested Eris with his…
Oh, Goddess. She was fading, and fast. Brokosh fired three more shots into the shadows, then grabbed Eris and hauled her bodily into the shop while the enemy got back out from the trash compactor he was using as cover.
"Eris? Stay with me." The Orion groaned in response. Brokosh pulled the blade out and sniffed it. He knew that bitter smell: a fast-acting neurotoxin, favored by Orion assassins. He looked at Eris's face; she was already going stiff, breath weakening. Her heart had probably already stopped.
"Eris, listen to me. Where's the data? Where's the recording?"
"Sealed… waterproof… chip," she managed. "Swallowed… it… safer…"
And as insurance. Smart. Brokosh put a hand to her cheek.
"That toxin kills in under a minute, kid. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do."
"Not… your… fff…" Her eyes went wide for a moment, and then the lids went slack, as did her neck, her head rolling to the side as her last breath petered out.
Brokosh closed the young Orion's eyes. "I'll get 'em back for that, kid. Don't worry."
A disruptor buzzed up inches from his head. "No, General," growled a deep voice. Brokosh felt the shooter—Orion, for sure. "You won't get the chance. Don't try your mental tricks, we're using Devore anti-telepath helmets."
"Let me guess," Brokosh growled. "You're with Matriarch Kal'Mor?"
The Orion chuckled. "I'll let you know since you're a dead man. This hit order came through Kal'Mor from D'ian herself. I don't know how you pissed her off, buddy, but it sure sucks to be—" There was a swish and a thunk.
The Orion fell backwards, his disruptor discharging into a table and sending targ steaks tumbling to the ground. A beefy Klingon woman in a bloodstained apron and disposable plastic gloves stood in the doorway to the back of the shop, snarling. "quvha' uryannganpu'.You alright? Uh, General?"
"Yeah, I am." Brokosh stood, sparing an appreciative glance for the cleaver embedded in the Orion man's head. "Nice throw. What's your name?"
"Korva, daughter of M'otar. Best steaks in Morath District."
"Huh. I think we've ordered from this place before."
"Might be. You General Brokosh, House Chel'tok's ghIntaq?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"I catered your anniversary feast. Your wife tips well."
Brokosh pulled out his own knife, kneeling over Eris. "Thanks. Don't touch that blade, it's poisoned. The police should be here in forty seconds if I know this beat." He sliced through Eris's abdomen, pulled her stomach partially out, and cut into that, pouring out the bile, then wrapped his left hand in her sweater and used it to pick up the chip. "You'll cater every feast my wife's family has for the next ten years if you tell the police the Orion did everything. We'll handle Capital Security."
"Sure, General." The Klingon woman licked her lips at the thought of all that money. "Doesn't your son have a birthday coming up?"
"Yeah, and he's the heir now, too. So it's going to be a big feast."
"Nice." The Klingon stepped out of the doorway as booted feet became audible outside. "Right out back, just follow the alley. Tell your wife that I have a shipment of top-quality Khitomer brush-fed targs coming in in two weeks."
"Thanks, I will." Brokosh ducked out the back, pulling the hood back up and breaking into a jog. With his right hand he reached for his communicator. So much for subtlety.
House of Martok townhouse, First City, Qo'noS. Six hours later.
"We should challenge this honorless dog at once!" Drex, son of Martok, was fuming. "I knew that he killed my father through treachery!"
"This is not enough evidence," Ja'rod, son of Lursa, argued. The young head of the House of Duras was an odd sight in the house of his family's historical rivals, but the ghIntaq of the House of Martok had personally invited him. And nobody, not even Lady Sirella herself, would question the ghIntaq's judgement of a man who had saved Qo'noS itself by his side. "If we go before the High Council with a poor-quality recording alone… this is too easy to fake. J'mpok will be looking to make an example of someone as well, given the rumors about his military 'prowess' after the Iconian attack on Qo'noS."
"He's right," Brokosh said, sitting back in a chair by the door. "We need more. How much more, I don't know—Eris was the only lead we had outside of this recording."
"We could exhume his body," the white-haired Noggra suggested. "Lady Sirella keeps it in stasis in protest still. Worf, you still have contacts in Starfleet; you could get it autopsied."
The greying Klingon warrior to the Lady Sirella's right nodded cautiously. "I served for many years with the current Surgeon General of Starfleet," the son of Mogh rumbled. "It would not be difficult to arrange an examination. I also suspect that Captain Bashir still owes me a favor, although I believe that he is enjoying his anniversary on Cardassia at the moment."
"The Surgeon General is simpler," Ba'wov agreed. "Dr. Crusher has more authority and credibility with the medical community than Bashir: he's been blackballed for being an Augment from three hospitals that I know of."
"Agreed," Ja'rod concurred. "Lady Sirella, I support Lady Ba'wov and ghIntaq Worf's plan."
"Same here," Brokosh grunted. "Besides, she's my wife, why wouldn't I agree with her?" He patted her leg with obvious pride. Ba'wov turned and growled at him. The Lethean just grinned, and got a blown kiss in return.
"Kids these days," muttered Noggra, though not unkindly. "I support this plan, as well. I further advise that we perform an investigation, with any contacts that we have available, into the Orion Syndicate's dealings in the days before and immediately after Martok's death."
"I have a few options there," Brokosh noted. "Us mercs are like a big, noisy family. But we should also get a top-flight mindhound; D'ian's people had some kind of telepathy-disrupting tech they bought off some guys from the Delta Quadrant. It'd need to be someone a lot better than me, an experienced Undine-hunter or a therapist who's spent years on really tough cases, to slip through stuff like that."
"Do you have access to a person like that?" Ja'rod asked.
"I can make a few calls. There's a guy I knew back in the day who's working on a Romulan ship now. Exchange officer under the Tripartite Treaty of Khitomer, so they can send him back for one quick job without it being official Republic involvement, so long as we're quiet about it. He was sharp back then and he's top-rated with Intel's mindhound corps. I just need Worf to make a call."
"Enough," said Lady Sirella. "I am decided." All eyes turned to her. "We will proceed with both investigations. I will begin to communicate with potential allies, if we are to confront J'mpok himself. Worf, Brokosh, you will deal with the autopsy and the Lethean. Ja'rod, Ba'wov, if you would assist with the Syndicate plot?"
"Of course, Lady Sirella," growled the son of Lursa. Ba'wov saluted with a nod.
"Good. And understand, whomever you contact must act with the utmost discretion. I have waited more than a decade for this opportunity, and I will not see it squandered. Am I understood?"
All of the heads nodded. "Yes, my Lady," growled the son of Mogh. "It shall be done as you command."
Conference room, IKS HoSbatlh. Two hours later.
"Eris said that she worked for Enyala Kal'Mor, a Syndicate boss under D'ian," Brokosh said, standing at the head of the table with his knuckles resting on the surface, putting a picture up on the main screen. It was a green woman's face, hard-edged and pitted with burn scars. "Kal'Mor's as dirty as sin, or at least suspected of such—racketeering, drug smuggling, a bit of slavery, the usual. There's even a Breen cartel boss who has a standing price for her head and flayed corpse, and those guys are alright with just about anything. We're going to get her, then force a confession out of her with a mindhound—that's admissible in the Council, but only if you do it the right way. I'm not that good, I never got mindhound training, so we're shipping in a guy I know who works for the Romulans—top rated mindhound with therapy, routine scanning, and sustained telepathic combat experience. After we're done plumbing her brains, she mysteriously disappears and nobody ever sees her again. Understand?"
There was a general nodding of heads. Norigom cleared his throat.
"Yeah?"
"Back with my old, uh, 'privateer company', this was back in the Nineties, anybody who screwed with the captain personally got shot out the torpedo tubes into a star," the Nausicaan supplied. "If they were lucky, they were dead first. I can handle disposal."
"Good. Meromi, I want you to lead the second assault team, I'll lead the first. We're going to hit Kal'Mor from two sides, pin her down, and extract her. In, out, gone in less than thirty minutes—she'll probably be able to get a general distress call out before we can jam coms. I want the IFF transponder disconnected and the hull repainted with generic pirate stuff. This doesn't get traced back to Chel'tok or the Sixth Fleet in any way. Am I clear?"
"Kal'Mor and I have… history," Meromi said cryptically. "Rest assured, sir, I'll get it done."
The smile she gave Brokosh sent a chill down his spine.
IKS Taj, Qo'noS orbit.
"Sorry I'm late," Brokosh said, striding into Worf's ready room and buffing one of his facial tusks with a cloth. "Got held up in traffic—some jackass was trying to smuggle red sand up his ass and they detected it in the transporter. Small-time crooks never learn."
Worf grunted in understanding. "I learned that lesson on DS9. Constable Odo and I once arrested the same man three times for smuggling the same goods in the same way in three consecutive months—once even selling the goods to the same undercover man who turned him in the first time. Are you ready?"
"Whenever you are."
The Klingon tapped a code into his desktop computer, opening up a communication channel. After a moment, a green logo of stylized, spread wings appeared, quickly replaced by a Romulan man with broad windows at his back. "Authorization code, please."
"Three. Seven. Romulus. Mars. Echo. Daphne. Ivan. Targ."
"Authorization confirmed, ghIntaq Worf. Whom do you need to speak with so urgently?"
"High Admiral D'trel. I know that she is currently either on the planet or in orbit."
"Please hold." The screen returned to the winged logo, and soft music began to play.
"Terran 1990s pop? Really?" muttered Brokosh. Worf growled sympathetically.
After several minutes, the screen shifted again, showing a Romulan warbird bridge as a muscular Romulan woman handed a Reman a stack of PDAs. "If you can get me the plasma lance integrated into the spaceframe, I think that's a viable option going forwards for synergetic artillery formations, there's a potential tactical role there if we can get a better handle on the high-mobility warbird concept as a flank defender. Excuse me, I need to take this." She turned. "To what do I owe the—Ah! Wo'rIv quv." The Romulan saluted in the Klingon fashion. "An honor."
"The honor is mine," the old warrior replied. "To business, Rahaen'Enriov. We have need of a trustworthy telepath, and one of my colleagues has recommended one of your men."
"What sort of op?" the High Admiral asked, somewhat warily.
"A matter of honor, and the fate of the Klingon Empire," Worf replied with an intent semi-glare. The Romulan nodded hesitantly, then her PDA pinged. She looked down, tapped it… and looked back up after several moments with a smile.
"I see. I have a Lethean rated as Senior Mindhound on my crew—Daysnur usually works in Main Engineering, but he's the best telepath I know. If you want him, he'll be on a shuttle in ten minutes."
"That's him," Brokosh confirmed from behind Worf. "I know that man, he's among the top ten mindhounds I know, he's got a clean-ish record, and he's not beholden to the Chancellor's men in any way. We need him for a brain-mine and telepath-assisted interrogation—my team is already working out a trap for the target."
"Your request is accepted. The Khre'Enriov has sent me the details—thank you for that, Mister Ambassador." The Romulan tapped a message onto her PDA and continued. "I will offer my own services as an observer as well; it seems likely that the legitimacy of a Republic observer will be… useful, when it comes time for regime change."
"Thank you, High Admiral," Worf rumbled. "Your offer is generous, and appreciated."
"No need for thanks. I will contact you in two hours; If you're doing what I think you're doing, I'll need to meet with Obisek and the Khre'Enriov. The Republic has a vested interest in seeing the Klingon Empire led by a more… reliable leader. We don't like our two largest neighbors getting into border spats: it's bad for the Proconsul's blood pressure. Qapla', Worf." She saluted again and cut the channel.
"More than I was expecting," noted Brokosh. "I'll take care of Kal'Mor, are you going to handle the Surgeon General?"
"As soon as Ja'rod finishes his present business, I shall," Worf replied. "Good hunting."
"Thanks. Good luck with the doctor."
Archanis sector, Federation-Klingon disputed territory.
Enyala Kal'Mor's personal starship, a Marauder-class heavy cruiser flagged as Li'valen, dropped out of warp in interstellar space, only five kilometers from the IFF of a civilian freighter that was currently broadcasting a distress call. The Matriarch herself was on the bridge, leaning forwards in her command chair eagerly. "Shields up, power up all weapons, and put me on so I can broadcast a—wait. Where is the freighter?"
"Mistress, I don't know," the sensor officer replied. "I'm trying to correct—there's a signal beacon and a distress call but I'm not getting…. What the—"
Eight hundred kilometers behind Li'valen, a heavily modified Tor'Kaht-class Klingon battlecruiser decked out in a red-and-black paint scheme dropped out of cloak and laid a hail of disruptor fire across the Orion ship's rear flank. Kal'Mor screamed in anger as the bridge shook. "Damned freelancers! Bring us about! Launch fighters, signal for reinforcements!"
"They're jamming our coms!" the woman at the communications station cried.
Kal'Mor cursed in the old tongue. "Ready a broadside, we'll blow them apart!"
Another volley tore into the rear shields. "Matriarch, our rear shields are failing, they hit us with some kind of tachyon pulse weapon!"
"Bring us about, damn it! Helm!"
"They've got a smaller turn radius than us, I can't shake them!"
The battlecruiser closed rapidly, disruptors glowing hot for another volley. Kal'Mor swore. "Fighters! Where are my fighters?"
"Launching now, Matriarch!"
The battlecruiser stopped shooting. Why weren't they…
As the first fighters left the hangar bay, pinpoint blasts of green light burned through their shields and swatted them out of space. Another bolt struck the rim of the door, scarring the hull plating and destroying the door controls with one hit; yet another landed inside the bay and the entire ship bucked as fuel and munitions detonated, a fireball ripping through several decks. One of the crew screamed a casualty report: all the pilots and most of the flight deck crew were dead, and the ship was leaking atmo.
Kal'Mor swore again as she realized what was really going on. Those "pirates" were using textbook IKDF firing patterns. This was a trap, a trap specifically for an Orion carrier—and on her turf, it meant it was a trap for her. "Warp! Take us to warp, now, now, n—"
The disruptors fired again, and Li'valen's starboard engine block erupted into a momentary inferno. Red alert sirens blared, and Enyala Kal'Mor nearly fell out of her chair.
"They're launching boarding shuttles!" the weapons officer snarled. "I'll try to—" Another powerful blast cut him off as a spread of targeted low-yield photon warheads crashed into the weapons emplacements. The carrier reeled in space as secondary explosions split the hull plating in multiple places.
"We're dead in space," the navigator screamed. "Shields out, warp core failsafes tripped—"
Kal'Mor drew her knife with a feral snarl. "They want me so badly? They will pay in blood for their foolishness! Prepare to repel boarders! Move, move, move!"
"Breach the door."
Ila'kshath obliged, drawing back one mighty armored fist and slamming it into the weak corner of the airlock. The metal dented. Another punch, and it tore inwards. The Gorn reached through with her massive right hand, braced herself with her legs and the left, and pulled.
Disruptor fire sprayed hot metal off the back wall of the assault shuttle. Brokosh peeked out and had a momentary sight of several male thralls with guns leveled at him as he threw two photon grenades into the corridor and ducked back behind cover. The report was thunderous in the confined space; Brokosh glanced back out to see nothing left but mutilated bodies.
"Move!" Brokosh barked, disruptor already raised. "Meromi, we're in."
"Breaching on our side, General."
"Good. Keep it tight, call your shots, get it done."
"Yes, sir."
"K'gan, keep me posted on your men's progress. Qapla'!"
"Qapla', Sa' broqoS!"
They rounded a corner. Orion disruptors scored on Brokosh's shields as he, Ila'kshath, and the Klingon kid he'd brought along as backup charged in. The Lethean pulsed out with his mind, trying to secure a target, while the Gorn opted to just charge into the Orions' makeshift barricade. One of the unfortunate duo screamed as he was hauled one-handed into the air and smashed against a wall hard enough to shatter his ribcage and spine; the other took a headshot from the kid by Brokosh's side.
"Good shot, Kevtek. Keep moving."
"Sir." The Klingon kept a smart pace next to the General as they jogged up the corridor, Ila'kshath throwing the dead Orion aside.
"Two around the corner. Hold here." Brokosh pulled out a flashbang and bounced it off a wall and around the offending corner. There was a pop, a flash, and guttural cursing. Brokosh and Kevtek ducked around the corner and sprayed green fire down the corridor, ripping through the Orions' shields and armor like suet. Brokosh struck out with his mind and one collapsed, blood leaking from his nose as the Lethean overloaded his brain. Kevtek kicked the other in the chest, caving in his ribcage.
"Clear! Move up!"
Ila'kshath moved ahead as Brokosh motioned, and Lethean and Klingon falling into step on her flanks. "All clear down this hall, we need to take the lift and get down a deck without getting killed," Brokosh said. "Next deck's gonna be rough."
"Fall back! Fall—glck!" A muscular Orion man fell with a knife in the back of his neck. A massive Nausicaan in heavy metallic armor yanked the weapon out as he passed, wiped it on his undershirt, and passed it back to the petite armored Orion woman trotting by his side.
"Here, Green."
"Thanks, Ugly." Meromi Riyal slid the weapon back into its sheath. "Check him?"
Norigom shook his head. "No need."
"Alright. Flashbang on the corner."
"You got it, boss." The Nausicaan tossed a grenade down the corridor, and he, the Orion, and the Ferasan merc behind them averted their eyes. The grenade popped, and the trio turned back, weapons raised. No shouts of alarm. Norigom's mandibles flexed. "Dumbasses don't have guard posts set up right. Unless they're hiding behind supports."
Meromi shook her head. "That wouldn't fit standard Syndicate procedures. They either didn't have time, or… No, more likely the other boarding parties intercepted some of the scum before they could get to positions."
"We should be so lucky," the Nausicaan muttered. "Hey, grunt, get up there and clear the way for the lady, just in case. Today's her special day."
"Yes, boss," the merc confirmed. Meromi shook her head.
"Special day, Ugly? I don't feel special."
Norigom's mandibles flexed into a gruesome Nausicaan smile. "Ain't every day you get to prong someone who pronged you. Back with the clans, that's not just a good day, it's a day to get blasted and enjoy it like you just got triplets or you took a really big haul." He shrugged. "'Course, the Syndicate probably does things different, being pretty-talkin' fancy kull an' all that."
"You ugly bastards get drunk when you get payback, huh?" Meromi considered the idea for a moment. "Then what?"
Norigom shrugged. "Hit someone. Punch their teeth out, maybe. On a good day, you can start another fight just after you ice the last kull you fought with." He sighed at fond memories as he slapped a breacher charge on a door and primed the explosive. "Some days I miss hangin' out with the clans. Good booze, good fightin'."
"I don't know if I'm up for that. Probably figure out what's next as I go along. But I can definitely get into the fucking people up part," she added, snapping a fresh power cell into her disruptor rifle.
Norigom grinned as he passed Meromi the detonator. "That's the spirit. This ain't just a good day, Greenie, it's a day to kick back and have fun."
The door erupted, and the orange fireball's light pierced Meromi's faceplate, reflecting off of gleaming white teeth like a miniature sun.
"You got the grenade launcher ready?"
"Aye, General," Ila'kshath hissed. "Concussion charges loaded."
"Good. Move in three. Two. One." Brokosh blew the door with a demo charge, and the trio charged. Disruptor fire scored their shields, but the Gorn hit the ground with her knees, throwing up a shower of sparks, and pulled the grenade launcher's trigger as she emerged from the smoke. Singed Orion bodies went flying, and more green-skinned gangsters cursed and screamed. Brokosh pulled off two potshots, then ducked behind an overturned table as Ila'kshath flipped out her tricorder and set three more Orions on fire.
The General struck out with his mind, but the Orions felt clouded, hard to target. Probably the Devore tech the assassin had talked about. "Set for stun, verify your targets, do NOT kill Kal'Mor!" Brokosh shouted. Kevtek slapped a barrier field generator onto the floor and powered it up, giving the Gorn cover as she reloaded and gave her shields a chance to recharge. "Ila'kshath, you good?"
"A little singed, General. Armor's going to need a little patching up."
Brokosh grunted. "As long as you're in one piece." He peeked out from cover. The bridge was huge, more palace reception hall than functional working space, with the Captain's chair more of a throne than anything, ornate and decorative. Five Orions, including a robed female matriarch, were forted up behind a makeshift barricade near the front of the bridge. Hmm. He'd like to have more men to…
Another breaching charge blew the other door clear off of its hinges. The Lethean grinned. "Perfect timing, Captain."
"You started the party without me," the Orion replied accusingly.
"Sue me, I'm not a gorram gentleman." He activated his suit's external speakers. "Give it up, Kal'Mor! You're outnumbered, your forces are almost done, and we've disabled your self-destruct! You don't have a chance!"
"Die in a fire, you backstabbing pig!" Kal'Mor screamed back. "The Empire's supposed to protect our operations, not sabotage them!"
"Yeah, well, that was before your assistant caught you, D'ian, and J'mpok conspiring to murder Chancellor Martok," Brokosh shot back. "Your assassins blew it! We have the recording and we're going to spread it across the entire Empire!"
"You Lethean slime! I'll have your head on my prow and your children as my slaves! I'll take your entire family and—"
Norigom sprinted out onto the bridge and threw a grenade in an arcing curveball behind Kal'Mor's men's barricade as Meromi leaned out of cover and sprayed a hail of green fire across the Orion position.
Brokosh was already moving, Kevtek and Ila'kshath right behind. Kevtek tossed a sticky mine underhand, sticking it to the wall above Kal'Mor's head as the Orion ducked with a shout. The mine pulsed outwards with an electric crackle, and the Orion matriarch's gun sparked and died. Kal'Mor snarled and pulled out an ornate dagger, the blade flashing towards Brokosh…
Ila'kshath hit Kal'Mor like a juggernaut. The knife went flying; Kal'Mor was slammed against the wall, eyes going wide as she gasped in pain, then the Gorn lifted her in the air with one hand on the front of her robes. "Target secured, General."
"Good work." Brokosh saw one of the groaning Orions by his feet moving for a dropped gun, and shot him in the head. "Clean up and let's get out of here. K'Gan, find and free any slaves still aboard, then we blow this thing to atoms and leave."
"You worthless scum," Kal'Mor snarled. "I'll kill you all! I'll make you into my handbag, you stinking lizard! I'll—"
The Gorn pulled her close and pinned the matriarch to her body, clapping one massive paw over Kal'Mor's mouth. "You mammals are always so noisy."
Brig, IKS HoSbatlh.
Matriarch Enyala Kal'Mor yelped in pain as the armored Nausicaan and oversized Gorn slammed her into a hard metal chair and cuffed her. "How dare you! I am a Matriarch of the House of Kal'Mor! Unhand me at once, or I'll have your entire families shipped off as sex slaves to the greasiest old Klingon nobles I can find!"
"No, you won't," snapped a cold, incongruously girlish voice. A petite Orion in heavy powered armor, a new model from the House of Martok's private design bureau, based on Federation MACO armor but with Klingon styling, walked into the interrogation room. "You're not walking out of here at all, actually."
"What?" snarled the Matriarch in confusion. "If this is an interrogation, you're doing a terrible job of it—"
"Not your normal interrogation." The armored Orion tapped her communicator. "All clear. Hormone suppressants are working, I'll keep an eye and my nose on her."
The door hissed open again, and two Letheans, one orange in a cable-knit sweater and one dark brown in a Romulan uniform, stepped in. "Kill the cameras," ordered the orange one.
"Already done," the armored Orion replied.
"Good. Senior Mindhound, you're up."
"You got it." The dark Lethean advanced, and Enyala Kal'Mor cursed, struggling in a futile attempt to break out. "Don't struggle, lady, it'll hurt less if you don't struggle."
"How dare you… no! No, stay away from me! Keep that beast away from…"
The dark Lethean grabbed her face and shut his eyes. Enyala Kal'Mor's eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp, limbs spasming. The Gorn and the orange Lethean looked around in slight discomfort. The armored Orion gazed at the richly-garbed matriarch with predatory satisfaction. The Nausicaan just clamped a hand on Kal'Mor's shoulder and nodded at the armored Orion.
After about ten minutes, the mindhound withdrew, eyes blinking rapidly. Kal'Mor slumped, groaning, a trickle of blood oozing from her nose. The dark Lethean rubbed his temples; the other one stepped forwards.
"Well?"
"I got confirmation on the conspiracy and the assassins, so I targeted her inhibitions, the brain-mouth filter basically. You have at most thirty minutes until she starts to be able to lie properly again, twenty if she's really well-trained which I think she is. She's got good barriers, not Undine good but well-trained. Makes sense, for a crime lord. Anyway, D'ian conspired with J'mpok to open a new slave market. He wanted to kick some Federation ass, chickenhawk crap; D'ian was in it for the money and because the treaty made her the unquestioned ruler of the Syndicate. Kal'Mor's definitely one of her closest lackeys. Plus a shitload of dirt. Slavery, racketeering, drugs, the works, sometimes all at once. I didn't even know you could do some of that shit, and I spent a year at a shipyard checkpoint doing immigration inspections." The dark-scaled Lethean rubbed his temple, breathing heavily.
"It's a good thing nobody's going to miss her, then," the orange Lethean replied. "Thanks a lot."
"No problem. No fee for this, Admiral's orders."
"Understood. If you need a snack, the mess hall's open." Brokosh knew from experience that protracted mental struggles could take it out of a telepath, even a seasoned mindhound trained to hunt Undine.
"Thanks. I'll take advantage of that." He left.
The remaining Lethean nodded to the Gorn. "Start recording, make sure to foul up my voice and lose anything identifying us." He crouched before the Matriarch's chair. "Telepath-assisted interrogation, telepath rated Senior Mindhound with IKI Psionic Ops, subject is Enyala Kal'Mor, Matriarch of Kal'Mor Syndicate and suspected traitor to the Klingon Empire. Telepath performed Procedure 110-M as instructed and has left the room. So, Kal'Mor. Did Melani D'ian help J'mpok kill Martok through treachery?"
It wasn't an interrogation so much as hearing angry unfiltered spew from Kal'Mor's mouth, but Brokosh got enough for a convincing case. Kal'Mor started to regain full control of her nerve-shocked brain after about twenty minutes, as predicted, and after twenty-two minutes Brokosh nodded to the Gorn.
"We're done here. It's been nice talking with you, Matriarch."
"You're dead," snarled Kal'Mor. "You're a dead man, you hear me?! I'm going to geld you and sell your son to a pedophile! I think I'll keep your wife for myself, she'll make a nice—"
"Oh, I already heard all that about five minutes in," Brokosh interrupted. "You were pretty angry and your brain-mouth filter was scrambled, remember?" He stood. "Dispose of her."
"General," the other Orion said as the burly Nausicaan behind the chair clamped an armored hand over Kal'Mor's screams of protest, "allow me to do the honors?"
"Help yourself, just don't make a mess." He turned on his heel and strode out.
The small Orion turned and drew her pistol. "Hi, I'm Meromi Riyal, daughter of Kelem A'tir and Rani Riyal. You murdered my parents and gave me to the House of Daamaq as a sex slave." She fired and Kal'Mor slumped in her chair. "Consider us even, bitch."
"Feels good?" asked Norigom, hauling the body up and tossing it over his shoulder like a sack of meat.
"Tastes like stir-fried racht, Ugly," Meromi replied, teeth bared into a not-grin. "One more name off my list."
Martok Estate, Ketha Lowlands, Qo'noS.
"We have everything we need, yes?" D'trel asked. "Corroboration, forensics, anything else?"
"Grilka and I have called for a special session of the High Council," Ba'wov said. "All that remains is for Worf to kill him." Worf whirled in surprise. "What?"
"I had thought we planned to seek J'mpok's impeachment and judicial execution, not a challenge," the mighty warrior growled. "Wait, HoD rIyal, you killed the witness before she could be cross-examined." Worf's eyes narrowed as he digested this. "You meant to trap me."
"We have to end this quickly, Worf," Sirella snapped. "A prolonged court battle would distract from the war."
Worf gave a mirthless bark of laughter. "Don't patronize me, Sirella, you only want revenge for Martok and M'ven."
"She has a point, though," the Romulan noted. "A court battle would give legitimacy, but J'mpok's popularity with the nobles is lower than a sailback's belly and his strategy's already cost the Empire massive numbers of ships and soldiers. Our analysts don't even think that you can continue in the current political state at this rate—the vassal species are making up too much of your military power now." She ticked each point off of her fingers. "With the Iconians capable of striking everywhere, there's no time for spending three months in deliberations while the Orion hellspawn try to assassinate your faction's leaders. I don't like the risk, and both I and my government really don't like doing this quick and dirty, but… there is little time."
"And so it has to be me?" Worf snarled.
"Worf, you thick-skulled petaQ," Ba'wov said without venom, "you're the only candidate among us. Grilka and I are women and I'm married to an alien, Ra'qr and G'sten are in dishonor"—she gestured at the acting heads of Konjah and Torg, who nodded agreement—"Drex tried already and lost, and Noggra's too old to beat him—no offense."
"None taken," replied Noggra with a dismissive wave.
"What about Ja'rod ?" Worf asked, gesturing at the red-robed general.
"I am of the House of Duras, brother Worf," the younger man said quietly. "Despite my many victories for the Empire you know as well as I do what that means. And I am stained twice over by the sins of my adoptive father. Worf, you are the only one among us who can both defeat J'mpok and has reputation enough to bring the High Council to heel afterward."
"I do not want it!" Worf protested, turning to the window, his face lit by the setting sun. "I never wanted it!"
"And that makes you the finest candidate possible!" Noggra argued. "For too long the Empire has been without a leader with integrity and the wisdom to know when to talk and when to fight! Martok tried but the office changed him: his heavy hand to J'mpok started us on this road and now we pay for it!"
"Watch your tongue, old man!" Drex interrupted. "My father—"
"Shut it, kid," Brokosh said tiredly. "Worf, the Empire will die. If Imperial soldiers keep acting like the ones I saw at Qo'noS and Dinasia, we will all fucking die, you got me? We can't hold the Iconians as it is for Goddess' sake! Damn it, man, you did it once before, you can do it again!"
Worf lowered his gaze and sighed. "The Empire is so divided that what you ask could lead to a civil war we cannot afford. Now I know how Martok felt before Gowron: I do not wish to raise a hand to the chancellor in time of war."
"Even to save the Empire, husband of mine?" Grilka said. "Your friends in the Federation? Yourself? Our son? Our daughter?" Worf whirled in surprise and she nodded. "I'm two months along, I found out this morning."
Worf stood there silently for a long moment, then finally raised his head. "Ja'rod, my brother, will you stand beside me in the Council as cha'DIch?"
Brokosh sagged in relief as Ja'rod nodded proudly. "It would be my honor."
Klingon High Council Chambers.
A bailiff banged the haft of his forcepike on the granite floor. "This special session of the High Council of the Klingon Empire shall come to or-der!" a rather rotund, balding herald bellowed, his voice echoing across the cavernous hall. "Hail to His Excellency, J'mpok, son of Ch'rog, Lord of the House of J'mpok, Chancellor of the High Council! Scourge of the Gorn! Ruler of the Hromi Cluster!"
"I thought we lost the invasion of the Hromi Cluster," Brokosh muttered to Ba'wov, who elbowed him.
"Thank you, Brakor," the chancellor said to his herald, who bowed and stepped off the dais. "This session has been called by Lady Ba'wov of the House of Chel'tok and Lady Grilka of the House of Grilka. You may… speak your mind."
The two women stood and strode into the center of the room. "Honored Councillors," Ba'wov began, "we bring to your attention a matter critical to the honor and the survival of the Empire."
"Our Empire stands at a tipping point in a galaxy that now changes faster than the seasons," Grilka continued, "and we must decide here and now whether we will face these chances as Klingons, with true batlh, or be destroyed by war from without… and treachery from within." She paused just long enough to let murmurs start in the crowd. "I call forth Worf, son of Mogh, ghIntaq to Drex, son of Martok and Lord of the House of Martok, to speak on our behalf."
Worf and Ja'rod walked out onto the floor and locked eyes with the chancellor. "J'mpok, son of Ch'rog!" Worf roared without preamble. "Before these witnesses I accuse you of the murder of Martok, son of Urthog, and of collusion with Melani D'ian of the Orion Syndicate to seize the chancellorship! You have dishonored the Empire and yourself!"
J'mpok's mouth opened and closed several times but no sound came out. The Syndicate's representative looked from J'mpok to Worf and back again, then leapt from his seat and rushed for the great doors. Meromi's foot snapped out and the overweight man tripped, flying headlong into the closed doors and crumpling dazedly to the ground, blood dripping from a split scalp. "I've wanted to do that for years," the small woman commented as Drex hauled the green man up with a daqtagh held to his throat.
The commotion seemed to have snapped J'mpok out of his stupor. "This is ridiculous!"
"Then why did Representative Baras run?" queried Councillor B'Oraq of the House of Ozhpri. An interesting corner for the first doubts to come from, Worf noted to himself: B'Oraq had been in J'mpok's corner from the first hour of his reign.
Beside him, Ja'rod spoke over the murmuring that had begun in the Council and the gallery. "We submit into evidence a recorded statement from Matriarch Enyala Kal'Mor retrieved under telepath-assisted interrogation, and a forensic pathology report from the Surgeon General of Starfleet, Admiral Beverly Crusher-Picard. This will show both traces of the pheromones of an Orion matron, and more importantly that the lethal head wound could only have been delivered from behind, not from the front as J'mpok and B'Vat claimed at the time. All other wounds to the front were delivered post-mortem to disguise this dishonorable attack unworthy of a Klingon warrior."
J'mpok's face went from an astonished gape to a derisive smirk. "Bah! That is your evidence? Analysis of a skeleton seventeen years later, by a Federation scientist?" He roared with laughter. "I deny all! And I hereby command you, and your issue—" he shot a look at Grilka and their son K'Dhan "—be discommendated once again, Worf, son of Mogh! And let it be permanent this time!"
"The House of Maang rejects discommendation!" Councillor Ton shouted, and J'mpok's head whipped to the right as more voices began to call for rejection. "All know the honor of Worf, his devotion to the Empire even as an officer of Starfleet! He would not knowingly make a false accusation of this magnitude!"
"Or is there another explanation?" Councillor-General Ch'zog added, his ceremonial robe weighed down with a lifetime of honors. "For all also know of the prowess of Worf, he who slew Duras and Gowron!" The gallery cheered in agreement. "He who twice survived Dominion captivity, and fought twenty Jem'Hadar alone and unarmed for the honor of the Empire! He whose courage was so great that a Jem'Hadar First surrendered rather than face him! He who dared board the Narada to take Nero's head!"
"He failed to take Nero's head!" Da'qir, son of B'Vat protested.
"Nevertheless, he fought with all of his strength, and was only stopped by the monstrosity of Nero's ship, for Nero feared Worf too much to face him in honorable battle! When even the most powerful of foes fears the son of Mogh for his skill in battle—Is that not the heart of a warrior?!" By now the gallery was cheering; even Brokosh and Norigom had joined in. "Could it be that Chancellor J'mpok fears Worf?" Ch'zog continued. "Fears that he cannot win!"
"As chancellor, and as a warrior, I will have your head for that, old man!" J'mpok snarled.
Ch'zog's response was a booming belly laugh. "Bah-hahaha! You are no warrior! You can say that to me when you have personally faced the the Jem'Hadar, the Kinshaya, the Gorn, the Romulans, the Breen, Starfleet! And not in a duel, in real battle!" The piebald dahar master, the last of Kang, Kor, and Koloth's generation, spat on the ground and the chancellor surged to his feet. "And you can say that to me when you have met Worf's challenge with your steel!" he added. "For if he fails to take your head I will happily do it for him: I have waited to do so for two decades!"
At this point the argument was barely audible over the crowd in the hall chanting, "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"
"You're trapped, J'mpok!" Grilka shouted. "You cannot discommendate all of us!"
J'mpok bellowed at the top of his lungs, "SILENCE!" He threw off his cloak and furiously yanked a yan, a two-handed longsword, from its scabbard by his throne. "I need no cha'DIch! For your insults I will slay you where you stand, Worf!"
Worf reached out his hand and Brokosh's big Gorn friend, Ila'kshath, handed him Mogh's bat'leth. The worn leather grip of his father's sword was warm in his hand. "You will try."
J'mpok roared with rage and charged. Worf strode to meet him, his mighty arms holding his bat'leth with impeccable form in a guard position. The Chancellor opened with a powerful overhand chop, seeking to cut Worf in two. Worf caught the yan on his bat'leth's blade with a reverberating crash of steel on steel and forced it sideways, sending J'mpok stumbling off-balance. Worf sent a probing slice after his foe, but J'mpok recovered quickly and blocked, then chopped for Worf's side. Worf countered and disengaged, J'mpok pressing forwards with a snarl of rage.
J'mpok sent his own probing stab at Worf's gut, and Worf blocked just in time, swatting the other warrior's blade aside as he sidestepped. J'mpok pulled back, and the warriors began to circle. The chant was a constant beat in the background now, but to the men before the throne there was only the foe.
"I will have your head," snarled J'mpok. "I have taken our Empire from a cowardly lap-dog of the Federation to greatness!"
"You started an unnecessary war against the Federation and cost our armies many warriors with your foolish charges against the Iconians," Worf shot back. "Or have you forgotten how they left you for dead in the skies of Qo'noS?"
J'mpok snarled and struck, Worf parrying swiftly as the yan sought his shoulder. Worf flicked his bat'leth's lower tine out, seeking J'mpok's solar plexus, but the other warrior was fast, pulling back and whipping his blade around lightning-fast for Worf's other arm. Worf took a swift step back, but felt his sleeve rip. Bright Klingon blood wet J'mpok's blade as the crowd roared.
J'mpok pressed forward again, but although he had drawn first blood, Worf's cut was merely a flesh wound. The disemboweling slice was parried, and Worf, big and strong enough to counter J'mpok's speed, shoved his opponent back. J'mpok recovered quickly, parrying Worf's next slice as the son of Mogh moved in.
"I always knew that you wanted the seat," J'mpok hissed. "Federation-touched traitor, you've subverted Ja'rod, allowed jeghpu'wI' to serve alongside true Klingons—you strike at the root of all that it means to be Klingon!"
"And you are the man outside the city of Quin'lat, shouting into the wind and demanding that it respect him," snarled Worf. "You think to throw aside our allies, throw aside good soldiers, and throw ourselves into the faces of the Iconians like targs before a hunt, just as they wish!" He struck, and J'mpok parried, but Worf pushed forwards, the smaller Klingon straining as Worf's bloodstained shoulder flexed.
J'mpok pulled back with a snarl, a twist of his blade, and a rapid step, but Worf pursued, parrying J'mpok's gut stab high past his head and levering his blade across J'mpok's shoulder. Worf felt the sting of the edge across his temple, then the more solid jar as his steel bit deep, met bone. J'mpok yelled in pain and rage, stumbling back, this time not correcting as fast. Worf's bat'leth came around again; the yan rose to meet it, but the arm shook as Worf's blade hit this time, where before it had stood firm.
Worf allowed J'mpok a moment to breathe, the Chancellor cursing at the pain in his shoulder. "You fight well, J'mpoq Qang," Worf rumbled, respect in his voice as he wiped the oozing blood from his own wound. "A pity that your heart does not match your skill."
"I will show you heart," J'mpok snarled. "I will show you your own heart, mounted on my sword!" He lunged, yan seeking Worf's chest. Worf stepped aside and parried again; J'mpok corrected, but Worf's foot lashed out. J'mpok's knee was swept out from under him, and he stumbled to the ground; a passing slash from the bat'leth opened a gash in his side. J'mpok grunted, rolled, bringing up his sword, but Worf's whirling blade caught it between the tines and rammed it into his chest, with the outer point of the bat'leth close behind. J'mpok gasped, eyes going wide as a gout of blood sprayed out.
"Only… in battle… am I truly… Klingon…" he wheezed, and then his eyes went dark as his head drooped to the side.
"On that, we are agreed." Worf planted a boot in J'mpok's chest and yanked his father's blade free, then knelt and closed his enemy's sightless eyes. As he straightened and a gray-green Nausicaan moved up with a medpac, Ch'zog came up behind him with J'mpok's discarded cloak.
"Hail Worf," Ba'wov shouted. "Leader of the Empire! Worf! Worf! Worf!"
"WORF! WORF! WORF!" the audience agreed.
"You will accept it this time, will you not?" Ch'zog murmured in his ear.
"It has been impressed upon me that I have no choice in the matter," he replied ruefully as the Nausicaan began wiping the gash on his temple with antiseptic. No dermal regenerator was allowed for that wound, but it wasn't deep.
"Then wipe your enemy's blood from your blade and take your throne, son of Mogh." The old man handed him a rag, then turned and bellowed to the gallery, "Quiet! As head of the House of Qualta, I propose that the dishonor of the House of Mogh be lifted, that Chancellor Worf be named as its head! Do I have a second?"
"Aye!" Ton and Ja'rod replied a split-second before Ba'wov and Grilka could. Most of the councillors present quickly followed suit, though Worf noted Da'qir and J'mpok's younger son J'Chek remaining sullenly silent, glaring daggers at him.
"Thank you, Ch'zog," he said gratefully. "Brothers! Sisters!" he called as he began to ascend the steps toward the throne. "The Empire will continue its commitment to the deadliest struggle of the age. The Iconians claim to be gods." He paused for effect, then grinned. "Well, we slew our gods!" The hall echoed with laughter which quickly mutated into cheers.
"But the Empire has a cancer in its midst. We cannot claim to be honorable if we deny fine warriors the right to claim their destinies, nor can we allow a strike against the Empire to go unanswered." He glared at the Orion representative Drex was still holding. "For Melani D'ian's complicity in the murder of Chancellor Martok, I declare the Treaty of Ter'jas Mor null and void! I decree that the Orion Syndicate be dissolved, its ships seized by the Imperial Klingon Defense Forces, and its capital Ter'jas Mor annexed!" The crowd roared in return. "I further decree that any Orion or slave unconnected to the events of fifteen years ago, with the courage to fight and the willingness to swear fealty to the Empire and obey its laws, shall be granted amnesty! And I call for the permanent and irrevocable abolition of the slave trade! For too long has this disease taken root in our Empire, wasting valuable warriors on revolts and letting the enemies of the Empire operate beneath our gaze. It ends today!"
The hall was stunned into silence.
Then the tiny emerald-skinned woman in Klingon armor standing behind Brokosh stepped forward into the open. Meromi Riyal, Captain of IKS HoSbatlh, screamed at the top of her lungs, "Hail Worf! Leader of the Empire!"
THE END
The Iconian War concludes in Never Surrender, coming soon.