my summary:
For destroying his vessel while retreating from an unknown enemy, a young Klingon finds himself hated by his people and promoted by the highest council ... on condition that he returns to face this enemy once more.
_____________________________
The Klingon court never had very much to do with justice. It felt more like an arena, with a circular bottom where the accused was standing like a gladiator waiting for the "thumbs down" signal. There were tribunes all around the sandy pit, with angry Klingons venting their fury , swaying their fist and bellowing the most hideous insults at the young Klingon in the middle. This was the very same court where, centuries later, Captain Kirk of the starship Enterprise would be condemned to forced labor. Right now, the tribunes were swaying under the rage of the mob. The air reverberated under the booming shouts of men and women. The judge was furiously pounding his official mallet. A rain of sparks jumped off the heavy iron sphere and illuminated the lower regions of the court and the pit, but the thunderous sound was completely drown out by the warriors, screaming for revenge.
In the centre of this hurricane, a Klingon man was standing proudly erect. His arms crossed his chest, one foot slightly in front of him in a calm, but attentive posture, he watched the judge calling for silence. Though his stance was proud, this Klingon couldn't hide the bruises and scars from his recent imprisonment. His clothes were torn apart where his guards ripped away some of the medals of honor. The ragged leathery uniform showed the muscles of the emprisoned warrior, accentuating what a formidable man this prisoner was. It must have taken several strong Klingon guards to bully an ex-military of his posture. His arms and legs were muscular, and his powerful jaw worked slowly, as he looked around to take in the crowd. His eyes paused briefly on a bench to his right. Two older Klingons were staring tightly at him, their bodies unmoving, but it was their eyes that hurt the accused most. Their eyes were filled with disappointment. The prisoner breathed in slowly, his chest rising to an ominous volume, and deflating again. His attention turned away from the couple to watch the judge again, now that the thunderclap of the mallet could finally be heard. The crowd was settling slowly and reluctantly.
- "Silence, silence!" the iron sphere was wielded one last time, and the mighty booming sound bounced its way up, overpowering the last insults and mutters. Echos settled down relucantly, and the judge looked around in grim satisfaction. When the last sparks had died away, prisoner and judge were looking at each other, each one measuring the other slowly and carefully.
- "K'Raqt Vehl, of the clan Vehl, by the power investigated in me by the Highest Council, I will hear your case and court martial you according to custom and honor. Will you accept my judgment?"
Prisoner and judge were exchaning measuring glances again. The silence was stretched only milliseconds, but it was long enough for the judge to feel the undercurrent of challenge from this prisoner.
- "I accept your judgement," came the answer finally. K'Raqt had a powerful voice, he barely had to raise it to be heard by the crowds. Not that they needed to hear his answer: the first few sentences were no more than tradition. The accused shifted weight leasurely to hear the next part of the ritual.
- "Now then. K'Raqt of the clan Vehl, hear me! You stand accused ..." the judge paused momentarily, glancing his paper quickly, and then drawing breath. "Accused of neglect of duty, conduct unbecoming an officer of the Klingon empire, endangerment of the men entrusted to you, disobedience to several higher ranking officers, cowardice, desertion, and ... treason to the Klingon empire. How do you plead ?"
There is only one possible answer to the ritual question.
- "I plead ... not guilty."
That was not the traditional answer. The judge made the mistake of staring at K'Raqt in sudden surprise. By the time he had recovered, the crowd was again in a frenzy, shouting and stamping and demanding a cruel death for this traitor. The screaming would not stop, not for the judge demanding silence, not for the long volleys of thunderclaps with the mallet. Not even for the guards, who stormed into the pit with their Bat'Leh in their hands. At long last, the judge signalled for the prisoner to be taken away from the deafening noise.
Session adjourned.
_____________________________
The Highest Council resided in a room bearing many resemblances to Earth's medieval cathedrals. Massive pillars reached up and seemed to get lost in the perpetual dusk under the high ceiling. Small stripes of light only accentuated the half-dark, as did the torches scattered randomly across the cold space. In the middle of the stone floor was a wooden table, a simple rugged construction, surrounded by simple wooden stools. Only one chair showed some signs of luxury, but even this privilege for the Chairman of the Highest Council would seem Spartan, to Terran eyes.
Clustered in small groups, the members of the Council were talking to each other, barking and gesturing as they vented their opinions. None of them were seated, some had planted their foot on one of the stools while they were listening to the others. Suddenly, the massive wooden entrance doors opened ponderously, grating their way over the stone floor. In came the chairman of the Council.
Traq'Thor walked more or less like he looked. But then again, not entirely. It was as if, just because he looked old and people expected him to be slow and fragile, he'd adopted a slow and somewhat distracted way of walking, a gentle trot that belied the power still inside. He nodded solemnly to each member of the High Council as he passed them, and each of the councelors paused their conversations, and inclined their head in return. When Traq'Thor reached his chair, he gripped one of the arms and slowly lowered himself to be seated. The rest of the Council ceased their conversation and followed his example.
- "Bring in the prisoner!" Traq'Thor nodded to the guard at the door. The order was repeated several times down the military hierarchy, each time a little harsher and a little louder. Finally, the cry reached the end of the space, and the accused was pushed through the door.
K'Raqt quickly regained his balance, and walked to a respectable distance of the table. There was little light to go by, but as his gaze wandered over the faces of the Council, he met nothing but contempt and hateful glares. Maybe these eldern were not so blatant about their feelings as the audience in the court - "the pit," as K'Raqt has renamed it for himself -, but the hatred was there, nevertheless, and it was barely suppressed.
The ex-warrior stiffled a sigh. Honor is ... a difficult thing, he mused. Only a few weeks ago, the path of honor seemed so clear. He was to return to the empire, at all cost, and warn them about the danger at hand. When he finally reached the blood-red homeplanet of the Klingons, his relief soon turned into bafflement as he was unceremoniously thrown into prison, accused of cowardice and treason. And now he was facing the Highest Council itself, as if they had taken it as a personal offense that he had retreated from an unknown enemy, putting the empire to shame, exposing himself as a coward. He remembered considering this emprisonement as a very hypothetical possibility: that he would be called a coward for fleeing. He also remembered dismissing the insults as a small cost, in order to save the Empire. Tvorak, his best friend, had shaken his head and smiled briefly. Tvorak was probably dead, now. K'Raqt wondered which of two he would prefer, right now. It was not difficult to guess what Tvorak had preferred. But then again, Tvorak had called his best friend "the braver man". K'Raqt found solace in that, and he straightened his back to face the Council.
For destroying his vessel while retreating from an unknown enemy, a young Klingon finds himself hated by his people and promoted by the highest council ... on condition that he returns to face this enemy once more.
_____________________________
The Klingon court never had very much to do with justice. It felt more like an arena, with a circular bottom where the accused was standing like a gladiator waiting for the "thumbs down" signal. There were tribunes all around the sandy pit, with angry Klingons venting their fury , swaying their fist and bellowing the most hideous insults at the young Klingon in the middle. This was the very same court where, centuries later, Captain Kirk of the starship Enterprise would be condemned to forced labor. Right now, the tribunes were swaying under the rage of the mob. The air reverberated under the booming shouts of men and women. The judge was furiously pounding his official mallet. A rain of sparks jumped off the heavy iron sphere and illuminated the lower regions of the court and the pit, but the thunderous sound was completely drown out by the warriors, screaming for revenge.
In the centre of this hurricane, a Klingon man was standing proudly erect. His arms crossed his chest, one foot slightly in front of him in a calm, but attentive posture, he watched the judge calling for silence. Though his stance was proud, this Klingon couldn't hide the bruises and scars from his recent imprisonment. His clothes were torn apart where his guards ripped away some of the medals of honor. The ragged leathery uniform showed the muscles of the emprisoned warrior, accentuating what a formidable man this prisoner was. It must have taken several strong Klingon guards to bully an ex-military of his posture. His arms and legs were muscular, and his powerful jaw worked slowly, as he looked around to take in the crowd. His eyes paused briefly on a bench to his right. Two older Klingons were staring tightly at him, their bodies unmoving, but it was their eyes that hurt the accused most. Their eyes were filled with disappointment. The prisoner breathed in slowly, his chest rising to an ominous volume, and deflating again. His attention turned away from the couple to watch the judge again, now that the thunderclap of the mallet could finally be heard. The crowd was settling slowly and reluctantly.
- "Silence, silence!" the iron sphere was wielded one last time, and the mighty booming sound bounced its way up, overpowering the last insults and mutters. Echos settled down relucantly, and the judge looked around in grim satisfaction. When the last sparks had died away, prisoner and judge were looking at each other, each one measuring the other slowly and carefully.
- "K'Raqt Vehl, of the clan Vehl, by the power investigated in me by the Highest Council, I will hear your case and court martial you according to custom and honor. Will you accept my judgment?"
Prisoner and judge were exchaning measuring glances again. The silence was stretched only milliseconds, but it was long enough for the judge to feel the undercurrent of challenge from this prisoner.
- "I accept your judgement," came the answer finally. K'Raqt had a powerful voice, he barely had to raise it to be heard by the crowds. Not that they needed to hear his answer: the first few sentences were no more than tradition. The accused shifted weight leasurely to hear the next part of the ritual.
- "Now then. K'Raqt of the clan Vehl, hear me! You stand accused ..." the judge paused momentarily, glancing his paper quickly, and then drawing breath. "Accused of neglect of duty, conduct unbecoming an officer of the Klingon empire, endangerment of the men entrusted to you, disobedience to several higher ranking officers, cowardice, desertion, and ... treason to the Klingon empire. How do you plead ?"
There is only one possible answer to the ritual question.
- "I plead ... not guilty."
That was not the traditional answer. The judge made the mistake of staring at K'Raqt in sudden surprise. By the time he had recovered, the crowd was again in a frenzy, shouting and stamping and demanding a cruel death for this traitor. The screaming would not stop, not for the judge demanding silence, not for the long volleys of thunderclaps with the mallet. Not even for the guards, who stormed into the pit with their Bat'Leh in their hands. At long last, the judge signalled for the prisoner to be taken away from the deafening noise.
Session adjourned.
_____________________________
The Highest Council resided in a room bearing many resemblances to Earth's medieval cathedrals. Massive pillars reached up and seemed to get lost in the perpetual dusk under the high ceiling. Small stripes of light only accentuated the half-dark, as did the torches scattered randomly across the cold space. In the middle of the stone floor was a wooden table, a simple rugged construction, surrounded by simple wooden stools. Only one chair showed some signs of luxury, but even this privilege for the Chairman of the Highest Council would seem Spartan, to Terran eyes.
Clustered in small groups, the members of the Council were talking to each other, barking and gesturing as they vented their opinions. None of them were seated, some had planted their foot on one of the stools while they were listening to the others. Suddenly, the massive wooden entrance doors opened ponderously, grating their way over the stone floor. In came the chairman of the Council.
Traq'Thor walked more or less like he looked. But then again, not entirely. It was as if, just because he looked old and people expected him to be slow and fragile, he'd adopted a slow and somewhat distracted way of walking, a gentle trot that belied the power still inside. He nodded solemnly to each member of the High Council as he passed them, and each of the councelors paused their conversations, and inclined their head in return. When Traq'Thor reached his chair, he gripped one of the arms and slowly lowered himself to be seated. The rest of the Council ceased their conversation and followed his example.
- "Bring in the prisoner!" Traq'Thor nodded to the guard at the door. The order was repeated several times down the military hierarchy, each time a little harsher and a little louder. Finally, the cry reached the end of the space, and the accused was pushed through the door.
K'Raqt quickly regained his balance, and walked to a respectable distance of the table. There was little light to go by, but as his gaze wandered over the faces of the Council, he met nothing but contempt and hateful glares. Maybe these eldern were not so blatant about their feelings as the audience in the court - "the pit," as K'Raqt has renamed it for himself -, but the hatred was there, nevertheless, and it was barely suppressed.
The ex-warrior stiffled a sigh. Honor is ... a difficult thing, he mused. Only a few weeks ago, the path of honor seemed so clear. He was to return to the empire, at all cost, and warn them about the danger at hand. When he finally reached the blood-red homeplanet of the Klingons, his relief soon turned into bafflement as he was unceremoniously thrown into prison, accused of cowardice and treason. And now he was facing the Highest Council itself, as if they had taken it as a personal offense that he had retreated from an unknown enemy, putting the empire to shame, exposing himself as a coward. He remembered considering this emprisonement as a very hypothetical possibility: that he would be called a coward for fleeing. He also remembered dismissing the insults as a small cost, in order to save the Empire. Tvorak, his best friend, had shaken his head and smiled briefly. Tvorak was probably dead, now. K'Raqt wondered which of two he would prefer, right now. It was not difficult to guess what Tvorak had preferred. But then again, Tvorak had called his best friend "the braver man". K'Raqt found solace in that, and he straightened his back to face the Council.