Star Trek: ALL - Seven Deadly Sins (29 page)

“To what?” Kirrin was illiterate, so he couldn’t read the bulletins,
and the section chief always told them about anything important anyhow. He had remained assigned to duties that did not require him to read anything. Eventually, he planned to save enough wages to pay for an education. It wasn’t much, but at least it would increase his options.

The Klingon with the scar said, “You don’t know about Malvak?”

Shrugging, Kirrin said, “I’ve heard some mutterings about someone with that name, but I haven’t really paid attention.”

“Malvak spoke out about Krov being killed. Sorkav—that filthy
toDSaH
—” The Klingon spit on the floor at that. Kirrin didn’t blame him; nobody liked Sorkav. “—he ruled Krov’s death an accident.”

“So?”

“His throat was cut and he was stabbed in the back! How is that an ’accident’?”

The person behind Kirrin said, “I heard he was decapitated.”

“In any case, Malvak said that Gahlar killed Krov. But Gahlar’s a ridge-head, so nothing happened.”

“Typical,” said the Klingon behind him.

“So Malvak took revenge on Gahlar and killed him.
Then
Sorkav actually paid attention. After all, it
matters
when ridge-heads die.”

The man with the scar’s voice had a bitter tone that Kirrin had heard before. “It does matter more,” Kirrin said. “After all, they’re
true
Klingons. We’ve been infected with Earther filth.” He said the words with little emotion—it was what his parents had taught him from birth, that their ancestors had been poisoned by Earthers. It was why the Empire remained at war with the Federation—though there was currently a treaty—and would continue to be until the Empire finally conquered them.

Kirrin had no illusions about his life. He knew that his greatest hope was to be a marginally useful cog in the great wheel that was the Empire. As a low-born
QuchHa’,
that was the
best
he could hope for.

The scarred man spit again, this time at Kirrin’s boots. “I do not accept that. We are
Klingons
—our blood comes from the same ancestors. We follow the teachings of Kahless the same as any ridge-head.”

The line had been slowly moving forward as they spoke, and now
they were within earshot of the guards who were checking the workers. One said, “Quiet, back there!”

Scar-face turned to face the guard. “Or what, ridge-head? You’ll kill me, too, like you killed Malvak?”

Now the guard stomped toward them, painstik in hand. “I said, be
quiet
! Do
not
make me tell you a third time,
QuchHa’
!”

The Klingon then unsheathed a
d’k tahg.
Kirrin had never seen a real
d’k tahg
before. Cheap knockoffs, sure, but one like this, with the actual emblem of a noble House on it—that was something he never thought he’d live to see.

“I am Makog, son of Chrell, and I challenge you to—”

The guard reared his head back and laughed heartily before turning to face his fellow guards. “Look at this! This
petaQ
thinks he’s in the Defense Force!” Then he turned back and shoved the painstik into Makog’s belly.

Makog screamed and doubled over in pain, dropping his dagger.

Leaning in, the guard said, “Challenges are for
Klingons
—not the likes of
you.
”

Removing the painstik, the guard straightened and said, “Take him to detention. He’s obviously one of the agitators. We will interrogate him and learn who his fellow conspirators are.”

Kirrin and the others went silently through the line after they took Makog away.

Just as Kirrin was next in line to be scanned, the shuttle engines activated with a mighty roar and the platform rose toward the surface airlock. “That’s our shuttle!”

“You’ll have to catch the next one,” the guard said.

“There
is
no next one!”

Making a mock-sad face, the guard said, “Oh, too bad. It would seem that you’ll have to miss the day’s work—and the day’s wages.”

“But it’s not our fault!”

Slapping a fellow guard in the belly with the back of his hand, the guard said, “Can you believe this? He whines like the Earther he resembles. At least his comrade had some iron in him.”

Kirrin knew he could not win an argument with a guard, so he turned to head back to his barracks. If he couldn’t work, maybe he
could get some extra sleep, maybe volunteer for night-shift duty to make up for it.

From behind him, the guard cried, “Hey,
QuchHa’,
don’t go turning your back on me!”

Pain sliced through Kirrin’s lower back as he felt the hot, pointed end of the painstik strike his spine. His knees buckled, every nerve ending on fire.

It wasn’t the first time Kirrin had been on the receiving end of a painstik. In his youth, he’d gotten into trouble with the Guardsmen more than once. Since achieving adulthood, though, he hadn’t. Over the years, it hadn’t gotten any less unbearable.

Kirrin screamed with the agony that only seemed to increase. When it finally ended, he quieted, but was unable to make his body move.

“Screams like an Earther, too,” the guard said contemptuously. “Take him and put him with the so-called son of Chrell. They’re probably in it together.”

As one of the other guards bent over to pick Kirrin up, the miner noticed that Makog’s
d’k tahg
was still lying on the ground where he’d dropped it. Gathering up every ounce of willpower he could, he forced his left arm to thrust out and his left hand to close around the dagger’s hilt.

A boot slammed down onto that hand, shattering bones with a snap that echoed throughout the shuttlebay. Again, Kirrin screamed in agony.

“Nice try,
QuchHa’.
Take him.”

A low rumble spread through the workers who waited in the line. Through the haze of agony, Kirrin couldn’t make out the exact words at first. But soon, as the guards hauled him down the corridor, he could make out the words of the chant:

“malvaq bortaS! malvaq bortaS! malvaq bortaS!”

“Silence!” the guard cried, but his words could barely be heard. Kirrin heard the chant grow into shouts, heard the stomping of feet as the people charged, heard the screams of pain as the guards used their painstiks, then more screams of pain as the guards were overwhelmed.

The ones carrying Kirrin dropped him unceremoniously to the
ground. All Kirrin could see from his prone position was people screaming and running and shouting,
“malvaq bortaS!”
and simply pure chaos.

He also saw rocks flying through the air.

“No . . .” he croaked. He didn’t want this. He had talked back to a guard and then turned his back on him, so of course he was being punished. If he hadn’t been so riled up by Makog’s nonsense, not to mention missing a day of work, he wouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t worth starting a riot over.

Then he heard a crack that was considerably louder than that of his bones breaking—then he heard nothing, as his ears popped with a sudden change of pressure.

Kirrin’s last thoughts were the realization that the dome had cracked.

Kobyk slugged down his
warnog,
no longer caring how bad it tasted.

Sorkav had increased security, but that only seemed to make matters worse. Checkpoints at shuttlebays led to workers being unable to report because they were missing the shuttles. Other workers were imprisoned for minor infractions that used to require only a quick stab of a painstik.

And the riots continued. With the greatest reluctance, and amid much complaining, Kobyk gave in to Sorkav’s demands—at least a bit—and allowed him to issue disruptors to the highest-ranking security members and to carry one himself. He was able to get a good price for a dozen Defense Force surplus hand disruptors.

But the riots did not stop. Workers ceased production, or at least slowed it down, graffiti of
malvaq bortaS
was scrawled everywhere, and violence grew. Worse, because of the riots, the imprisonments, and the missed shuttles, production was at an all-time low.

Kobyk had been hoping to contain it, but then the atmospheric dome at one of the shuttlebays cracked during a riot, killing a dozen guards, a hundred workers, and a score of maintenance staff. True, the latter were mostly
jeghpu’wI’,
but they still needed to be replaced.

Worse, it happened shortly after a convoy ship had arrived to pick up a shipment bound for the shipyards on Mempa II. The ship’s captain filed a report about the riot to his superiors.

Later that day, Kobyk received the inevitable call from General Korrd.

Swallowing an entire mug of
warnog
to steel himself for the ordeal, Kobyk activated the viewer to reveal the corpulent form of the general.

“Explain yourself, Supervisor Kobyk.”
Korrd’s voice sounded like a Sporak driving over broken glass. His crest bisected his forehead perfectly, almost as if it were pointing at his intense eyes.

“The
QuchHa’
have always been a problem, General,” Kobyk lied. In fact, they’d been fine until this nonsense with Malvak. “You know what they’re like.”

“No, Supervisor—I do not. You are hardly the first mine to report occasional problems with the
QuchHa’,
but you are the only one to suffer such appalling production and personnel losses. The Organians may have prevented us from finishing our war with the Federation, but that does not mean we can afford to cut back on our shipbuilding efforts.”
Korrd leaned forward.
“Ships need dilithium, Supervisor. You received this assignment because you promised high production at lesser cost. That is
not
what I see here.”

“This is only a temporary setback, General. My security chief has employed new security measures, and once they take effect—”

“Annh!”
Korrd grunted with a wave of his hand.
“This requires more than such as you and your fool of a brother can provide.”

Kobyk winced. “The Defense Force?”

“Yes. Three ships will be sent to deal with your
QuchHa’
problem, expedite the repair of your dome, and supplement your security forces. These will be
QuchHa’
ships as well.”

“General, with respect—I would prefer a ship of
true
Klingons.”

“What you prefer is of no interest to me. Let the
QuchHa’
deal with their own kind. And then we will reevaluate the command structure of your mine. Out.”

The screen went blank.

Kobyk dry-sipped his mug before remembering that he’d finished the
warnog,
so he threw the mug across the room. It clattered against the wall and rolled along the floor.

“Fat old fool,” he muttered. The general hadn’t provided a timetable, didn’t say which ships were coming, and threatened his position even if these
QuchHa’
were able to bring things to order.

He had forgotten that the Empire let
QuchHa’
into the Defense
Force. For that matter, he had forgotten that there were
QuchHa’
of noble blood. The Earther disease that afflicted several Klingon worlds a century ago did not discriminate between high-born and commoners.

Still, surrounded by the rabble as he was, it was easy to forget that some of the noblest Houses had
QuchHa’
among them.

They would be the ones in command of the three ships that Korrd was sending, and they would likely know how to put their fellows in their place.

Since his days as a youth, Kor had always admired the heroes of the Empire. His father, Rynar, had often taken him to the Hall of Warriors on Ty’Gokor. Because they were of noble blood, they had been allowed in the primary entrance, though Rynar had always been sure to travel in his Defense Force uniform while wearing the sash of office that proved he was of the nobility despite being
QuchHa’.

There, young Kor would look up at the statues that showed the great warriors of history: Korma, Kopf, Sturka, Krim, Tygrak, Sompek, Reclaw, M’Rek, and, of course, the great Kahless himself.

Young Kor swore that he would one day have a statue dedicated to himself. Rynar had laughed indulgently.

Another Klingon, a
HemQuch,
had also laughed, but his was a chortle of derision. “What are you teaching that boy, old man?” he had asked Rynar.

Before his father could reply, young Kor bleated, “What do you mean?”

The
HemQuch
pointed at the statues. “Look around you, child. Do you see any weak-heads amidst the statuary?”

“Then I shall be the first!” Kor had said the words with the confidence of youth.

Again, the
HemQuch
had laughed, but then Kor’s father spoke, having seen the emblem upon the man’s
d’k tahg.
“Do you doubt, scion
of the House of Yorgh, that a boy from the House of Mur’Eq could become a hero of the Empire?”

At that, the
HemQuch
had snarled and walked away.

Kor had grinned like a fool for the rest of the day, for the House of Yorgh was a minor House of little consequence. Kor was descended from the imperial bloodlines of Emperor Mur’Eq. Rynar’s father, also named Kor, had formally changed the House name to that of Mur’Eq after the Earther plague had poisoned all those of the House of Kor and removed their crests.

Kor’s grandfather would never let anyone forget that theirs was a noble family, regardless of what they looked like. And Kor, who was named for him, knew that one day he would indeed become the first
QuchHa’
to be enshrined on Ty’Gokor.

So when First Officer Kahlor contacted him in his cabin to inform him that General Korrd wished to speak to him, Kor sat up straight, set down his
breshtanti
ale, and activated the viewer eagerly.

“To what do I owe this honor, General?”

Korrd outlined the problems at Beta Thoridar.
“You will meet with the
Devisor
and the
Voh’tahk,
Captain. Get that mine under control by whatever means you and Captains Kang and Koloth see fit.”