Loire Valley, France
Wednesday 19th January 1994
Early morning dawned over the Loire valley, cold and crisp and with a thin layer of snow coating the vineyards, turning everything into a winter wonderland that was not appreciated in the slightest by the Klingon who stood looking out the kitchen window. Krang shivered at the sight. It was stunningly beautiful, but he did not like the cold and he definitely did not like snow. Four months, he reminded himself, just four months and then he could go home. The fact that, at this time of year it would be equally cold in First City, was something he chose not to think about.
Grumpily, he turned away from the view and opening the refrigerator, helped himself to a couple of thick slices of ham. Honey roast, he remembered Marie-Claire telling him. He knew what honey was – and indeed, they had something very similar on Qo'noS. It seemed an odd thing to use with pig meat, but it did give the ham an interesting flavour.
Finishing off his impromptu breakfast, he glanced at the time on the old-fashioned clock. 05:10 hours. Good, he still had some time, maybe an hour or so before the children would waken and he would need to see to their needs before getting ready for work. Kahless, he thought, his irritation turning to wry amusement. How domesticated did that make him sound? He was a Klingon warrior, a security captain and not a nursemaid. Still, he'd done the honourable thing, taken on the responsibility and he would see it through… and with any luck, they would be going back to their mother in the very near future.
He'd need to spend most of the day in London, he decided. By now, Karg should have finished interrogating the medics and released those he considered innocent. He'd need to review the report carefully before sentencing the rest of them. Kay'vin had wanted to talk to him as well, he remembered. He had a good idea what that was about and while he appreciated the younger man's loyalty, he did not need to be warned about Karg. Nor was it Kay'vin's place to discuss such things. Sometimes his aide worried more than was healthy for a Klingon. Krang was well aware of Karg's increasing discontent. The Colonel was competent, a good deputy and an expert interrogator, but he did not understand the subtleties of governing a planet like Earth. He thought violence and intimidation would solve everything… and to a point, it did. But Krang's training with Imperial Intelligence had taught him to see the bigger picture, to take the time to listen, think things through and then act accordingly instead of the typical Defence Force methodology of rushing in, waving a bat'leth. He had very little time left on Earth now and until recently, he'd been putting a lot of time and effort into training Karg to take over the role of planetary governor… something that for obvious reasons, seemed less and less like a good idea.
Growling in irritation, Krang made his way into what had once been the dining room of the old farmhouse. It was a large room and with the furniture removed, gave him enough space to swing a mek'leth or even a bat'leth if he was careful. Coming to a halt in the centre of the room, he stood motionless, his eyes closed as he centred himself, concentrating on nothing more than his breathing. Then, opening his eyes again, he settled into the opening stance of the first and most basic mok'bara form. Going through the traditional moves, he transitioned into the second and then third forms, before beginning again, faster and with more power this time. Knees bent, he leaned forward and to one side, arms sweeping round and into the position known as the 'Wings of the Raptor', then pivoting and….
"What are you doing?"
The childish voice disrupted his concentration and he stopped, dropping his hands and turning towards the door, where he saw Toni and Fina standing looking at him, identical expressions of awe on their faces.
"It is called Mok'bara," he informed them. "A traditional Klingon martial art."
"Oh cool!" Toni said. "My uncle does Tai Chi sometimes; it looks a bit like that."
"Many worlds have similar arts," Krang conceded. He knew about the Terran Tai Chi as well as several other forms of their martial arts. "Mok'bara and the Tai Chi you mention are both meditative forms, designed to clear the mind and leave the warrior ready for battle."
"I want to be a warrior like you," the boy announced. "Can you teach us?"
Krang considered that. Teach them Mok'bara? They would not be with him long enough to learn it properly, but he could see no reason to refuse them. "Very well," he agreed. "I will give you a short lesson and in return you will eat your breakfasts and give Marie-Claire no trouble today. Now, come and stand by me and we will begin."
London Detention Centre
Wednesday 19th January 1994
Tired and angry at being disturbed… it had been barely two hours since he had finished interrogating the medical team and after authorising the release of four of the prisoners, had gone off duty… and at the same time, not quite believing this was actually happening, Colonel Karg materialised in the street outside the detention centre. Sweeping into the ravaged building, Karg looked around him, surveying the damage.
"My lord…" The prison governor came out of one of the offices and hurried towards him, staggering slightly as he approached.
Karg wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stink of warnog and stale bloodwine on the man's breath. It was obvious what the petaQ had been doing before the emergency alarms had gone off. "Report!"
"My lord, we were attacked," the governor told him. "A group of Terrans… they had phasers; we never stood a chance…"
"WHAT?" Karg roared, initially assuming the man was lying to protect himself. Phasers? Not possible, not in this era of Earth's history. "Do NOT lie to me!"
"Sir, I swear it's the truth," the governor insisted. "The rebels had energy weapons and they weren't of Klingon origin."
The duty sergeant spoke up. "It's true, sir. Our soldiers were not killed by Terragnan projectile weapons or Klingon disruptors. Federation phasers have a very distinctive energy pattern. You can see for yourself."
That was true enough, Karg conceded. An icy chill that had nothing to do with the freezing cold weather swept through him. If they were not lying, the implications were staggering. Deciding that he would get more information from the soldier than he would from the obviously drunk governor, he turned his attention to the sergeant in an attempt to find out what had happened.
The story told by the sergeant, whose name turned out to be Klor, was damning and Karg's fury rose as he listened. Several prison guards had been killed in the attack and the rest were injured or unconscious. Worse, all the prisoners on levels one and two were gone. That was a devastating blow, even if some of them had been scheduled for release. Luckily, the shield generators protecting levels three and four had not failed, and the high security areas of the prison, located deep underground in converted basements, had not been breached.
The night security team were, it turned out, critically understaffed. With the curfew and street patrols in place, the governor had not considered it necessary to have more than a handful of guards on duty after midnight… and Karg had not noticed, assuming that the guards were simply out and about doing their jobs. Ten guards to cover an entire prison!
When the attack had begun – and Karg was incredulous as he learned that they had simply walked in an open door – alarms had gone off but by the time reinforcements had arrived, it was too late, the damage was done and the terrorists had fled the scene.
Sergeant Klor had been in charge of the backup team. It was he who had called in the prison governor and eventually, on realising that his superior was too drunk to be of any use, had put out an urgent call for Karg himself.
This was his responsibility to fix, Karg decided. He would not bother the security captain. It was Krang's overly lenient pampering of the Terrans that had allowed this to happen. Had he, Karg, been in command of the planet, as he should have been, things would be very different and the Terrans would not dare to rebel.
The first thing he had to deal with was the prison governor. The man was a useless drunk and could not be allowed to continue in his role. Karg's hand went to the knife at his belt, drawing it from its sheath and touching the trigger that activated the side blades.
"Your incompetence has caused the needless deaths of loyal Klingon soldiers and the escape of dangerous prisoners."
"My lord…" Fear cut through the haze of alcohol as the governor realised the danger he was in. "It was not my fault. I…"
Karg gave him no opportunity to continue. He struck quickly, his d'k'tahg cutting through fabric and skin, burying itself deep in the condemned man's guts. With one fluid motion, he sliced upwards towards the heart, opening the governor's body from bottom to top before giving the blade a vicious twist. Shock and pain filled the dying man's eyes and he let out a gurgling breath. Pulling his blade free of the body Karg stepped back and watched as the corpse slumped sideways and fell to the ground.
He was not worth howling for; the Barge of the Dead needed no warning of the arrival of a dishonoured soul. Spitting on the corpse, Karg turned away. With justice served, he had other things to deal with. "Sergeant Klor, you will take command here until further notice."
The sergeant saluted crisply. "Understood, my lord. What are your orders?"
"All remaining prisoners are to be scheduled for execution," Karg instructed coldly. "But first, bring me the resistance prisoner… the one named Jamal."
Loire Valley, France
Wednesday 19th January 1994
"…Mireille Mathieu avec sa nouvelle chanson, 'La vie en Rose'…"
Ushering the two children into the kitchen for their breakfast, Krang took little notice of the soft music playing on the radio as the housekeeper bustled around, placing croissants, butter and a jar of the red, sticky jam on the table, as well as some thick slices of ham for her employer.
The music – a love song according to his translator – was not at all to his taste, but Marie-Claire seemed to like it well enough, contentedly singing along as she worked. She was pouring glasses of fresh orange juice for the children when the music stopped abruptly, replaced by the voice of the announcer, in English this time, with a second voice translating the words into French.
"We interrupt the regular programme to bring you an urgent planetary broadcast…"
A Klingon voice took over… a harsh, heavily accented voice that Krang recognised as Karg's.
"Citizens of the Empire, during the night, terrorists attacked the London Detention Centre, killing honourable Klingon warriors and allowing some very dangerous criminals to escape.
Time seemed to freeze. Attack on the London prison? Vaguely, Krang was aware of his housekeeper, looking at him in shock as she listened to the French translation of the broadcast. Even the children had gone still and quiet, not understanding but sensing from the reactions of the adults around them that something was very wrong.
"We have been patient and lenient rulers but no more! Terrorism will not be tolerated. With immediate effect, the curfew has been extended and anyone found on the streets between 23:00 and 06:00 hours local time, will be considered to be a member of the resistance and treated accordingly. Furthermore, unless the perpetrators surrender or are handed in within twenty-four hours, we will carry out random arrests and interrogations to identify the terrorist leaders…"
"QI'yaH!" Krang was horrified. He had not authorised this. What in the name of Gre'thor was Karg playing at? And why was he only hearing about this now, over the radio? Lunging for the communicator that he'd left sitting on the kitchen table, he activated it, opening a priority channel to his security team. "Get that broadcast shut down!" he demanded, "I want it stopped RIGHT NOW!"
"My lord, we can't do that," the duty communications officer informed him. "The studio is shielded according to your policies."
"Yintagh!" Krang swore again. In general, it was a good policy, one that ensured that official broadcasts could not be interrupted by the resistance… or for that matter by Federation infiltrators. But right now, it was a problem he didn't need. "Then transport me over there… and hurry!"
"The closest we can get is just outside the studio," the officer said, "We can't…"
"Yes, I know… the shielding," Krang snapped. "Stop wasting time telling me what you can't do and just get on with it!"
"Activating transporter beam now, my lord."
Krang could already feel the faint tingling as the transporter field formed around him and moments later, when the beam released him and the fog cleared, he was… somewhere else.
Although Krang had never featured in any of the public broadcasts, preferring to remain anonymous, he had always been present during the recording sessions and he was known to the production team. Gaining access to the studio took only a moment.
Cameras, lighting rigs and other filming equipment operated by the Terran news crews under the close supervision of a squad of Klingon soldiers, surrounded a central stage. In full uniform, Karg stood on the stage, in front of a huge backdrop depicting the imperial Klingon trifoil.
"… We will no longer tolerate these unprovoked attacks. Since the terrorists want war, we will give them one and we will show no mercy. For every Klingon killed by the resistance, a minimum of three humans will be chosen at random to represent the population and they will be executed."
As Krang stood in the doorway, Karg gestured to a technician and the trifoil vanished, replaced by a view of the exterior of the London Detention Centre.
A Terran prisoner – a male, Asian in appearance – was being securely held by a pair of Klingon soldiers. Mek'leth in hand, Karg approached them. "Jamal Nazir Bazran, you have been charged and found guilty of terrorism and crimes against the Klingon Empire. The sentence is death."
At a gesture from Karg, the soldiers forced the prisoner to his knees and stepped back, giving Karg space. The colonel raised the weapon and there was a flash of early sunlight on metal as the blade swept downwards…
The cameras cut away from the scene and the trifoil appeared again. "So die all traitors. Long live the Empire!"
Firstly, thank you to RBS for your continued support and your comments. You were right about "Anyone there?" and I've gone back and altered that
The song "La Vie en Rose" was first released by Edith Piaf and was rereleased in 1993 by Mireille Matthieu. Hence it is plausible that it would be playing on a French radio station in January 1994. The song has no significance other than it happens to be playing on the radio and the housekeeper likes the song. The French language phrase at the beginning of the scene, translates as "... Mireille Mathieu with her new song..."