Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

20

The balcony outside Governor Morqla’s office exploded.

Leaping from the chair situated near the open door, the Klingon felt heat wash across his face as the wooden deck burst into flames, ignited by the crudely improvised fuel bomb hurled from someone on the ground outside the building. No doubt whoever had thrown the primitive explosive had been hoping for it to land inside the room, but their aim obviously was lacking.

Drawing his disruptor pistol from the holster strapped along his right hip, Morqla stepped closer to the doorway, ignoring the flames licking those sections of the burning balcony nearest him. Peering down from his perch on the second floor of the stone building, he saw three native Palgrenai scampering across the open courtyard of the small town square. Their drab woven clothing blended with the bland façades of nearby structures, and the claws on their bare feet churned up the dry soil as they ran toward a smaller building. The villagers moved with surprising speed despite their bulk, though even from this distance it was easy for Morqla to tell that the oldest of the trio could still be only an adolescent.

He saw harsh crimson disruptor bolts follow after the Palgrenai, evidence that at least one of his subordinates still retained a functioning brain within his thick skull as they responded—albeit belatedly—to the pitiful attack. The energy blasts tore into the ground behind the three upstarts, then into the stone wall of the squalid structure as the villagers disappeared behind it, no doubt heading for the perceived security of the dense forest surrounding the settlement.

Yet Morqla found himself smiling. Despite the laughable tactics and net result, the youths’ audacity still was quite refreshing.

Even the whelps are joining the fight now. Perhaps thesejeghpu’wI’ have some redeeming qualities after all.

The door to his office opened, and two subordinates rushed in, disruptors drawn and searching for threats. Seeing the flames working to consume the balcony, the senior bekklooked to Morqla. “Governor? Are you injured?”

Waving the question away as he returned his weapon to its holster, Morqla replied, “Of course not.” He turned and headed for the door leading out of his office. “Extinguish that fire.”

Morqla hurried down the wide, low-ceilinged hallway and bounded down the stairs to ground level, remembering only at the last moment to duck his head and to be mindful of the shorter steps constructed for Palgrenai physiology. An open door led to the courtyard, beyond which stood a quartet of troops from his garrison. They had taken up defensive positions behind the waist-high stone wall separating the courtyard from the grounds immediately surrounding the building that Morqla had chosen to be his headquarters.

Like the two soldiers up in his office and most decidedly unlike himself, these subordinates were QuchHa’,Klingons descended from an offshoot of his native race but whose forebears had fallen victim to the strange genetic mutation that affected many of his people nearly a generation ago. QuchHa’were small and weaker and did not possess the prominent bone structure dominating the cranium.

So far as Morqla was concerned, many of these lesser Klingons also were weaker in a number of other ways, particularly in their sense of honor and the ways of the warrior. He had no idea whether this was but one of the multiple reasons why so many QuchHa’had been cast out from most sects of Klingon society, or whether in fact it was a consequence of that banishment. He did not care, either. Those who served under his command had proven themselves to be at least competent soldiers, ideally suited for the most unglamorous duty to which they had been assigned on this all-but-forgotten dust ball of a planet. Their lack of honor—real or perceived—might prove their undoing, but they had sworn to serve the empire, and that was all he required of them.

Morqla exited the building, noting as he did so that the late-afternoon humidity seemed even more oppressive than normal. Waves of heat rose from the rooftops of the nearby buildings, and dust kicked up by the comings and goings of people across the dry dirt of the courtyard lingered in the air. Taking stock of the situation, he was pleased to see that there appeared to be no other evidence of attacks on any of the other structures—particularly those housing members of his garrison.

Still, in accordance with regulations, soldiers around the town square were in the process of rounding up those Palgrenai villagers outside at the time of the attack. Occupation orders stated in terms devoid of ambiguity—orders conveyed to the Palgrenai in their own languages once translators had devised a means of communicating with the primitive people—those taken into custody would be questioned, possibly tortured, and summarily executed…if not already dead.

Some of the villagers resisted attempts to arrest them, but their squat, ungainly bodies were no match for the large, muscular physiques of his own troops. To Morqla, the Palgrenai, with their dark, oily hides, their short extremities, and the large, angular ears that drooped from the sides of their narrow, hairless heads, appeared almost reptilian, perhaps resembling what might result were a targ and a Denebian slime devil able to mate and produce offspring.

Such comparisons were not at all easy to dismiss, particularly in light of the Palgrenai propensity to slobber over anything and anyone within their reach. It was not uncommon to see villagers with dried and fresh drool coating the edges of their mouths and even their clothing. While he had not yet had the misfortune to witness a Palgrenai in the act of consuming a meal, Morqla reckoned it could not be that far removed from watching a herd of bolmaqat a feeding trough.

The less time spent envisioning that,he decided, the better. How such a species had managed to rise even to the level of civilization the Palgrenai currently enjoyed was a mystery that likely would baffle Morqla for the remainder of his days. With luck, he one day would die in glorious battle and be spared the need to ponder such inane questions.

“Report!” he shouted as he stepped further into the small yard in front of his headquarters building.

One of the soldiers—Morqla could not remember his name but saw from the rank insignia on his uniform that this QuchHa’was the highest-ranking bekkamong the quartet—snapped to attention as he replied, “A covert attack by insurgents, Your Excellency.” Pointing up toward the still smoldering balcony outside Morqla’s office, the subordinate added, “They used crude explosives, but only managed the one attack before they were driven off.”

Morqla made no effort to stifle the bellow of laughter that exploded from his gut. Seeing the expression on the soldier’s face as the subordinate attempted to maintain his bearing only made the governor cackle that much harder.

“Insurgents? Covert attack?” he asked as his laughter subsided. Stepping forward, Morqla clapped the soldier on the shoulder. “Did you not see the face of your enemy, Bekk? Three children, no doubt carrying a bottle of their father’s favorite spirits, and yet they were able to attack and escape almost undetected by the finest troops under my command.” His smile abruptly vanished. “Perhaps I should enlist them as sentries. They would almost certainly be an improvement over the current arrangement.”

To his credit, the soldier said nothing in response to the obvious threat. His only reply was to draw himself up even straighter and taller. Morqla glared at him for an additional moment, counting off the seconds until the subordinate’s limited ability to withstand such prolonged scrutiny finally failed him.

“What are your orders, Excellency?”

Stepping away from the soldier, Morqla turned his attention back to the town square, where other members of his garrison had completed gathering what he counted to be nearly three dozen Palgrenai villagers. They were in the process of shepherding them toward the building that had been designated as the unit’s detention facility.

Indicating the bedraggled cluster with a dismissive wave, he said, “Tell them to release the jeghpu’wI’. Interrogating them will be a waste of time. It was a child’s prank.”

“Excellency,” the soldier said, “with all due respect, this is not the first such insurgency we have faced since our arrival.”

Morqla turned to face the soldier, bristling at his blunt comments. “Do you consider me ignorant of this occupation’s current status, Bekk?”

Once more the subordinate straightened his posture, so much so that the governor wondered if he might snap his own spine. “Certainly not, sir.”

The troop had a point, Morqla admitted to himself. Though the Palgrenai were a primitive people, a preindustrial society closely resembling that of Qo’noS perhaps eight or nine centuries ago, since the garrison’s arrival they had engaged in an irregular yet frequent series of haphazard attacks on Klingon forces and equipment across the planet. All such acts had been carried out even while the natives conducted themselves as a passive people who had accepted their status as subjects of the empire. Most of the assaults had been only slightly more sophisticated than what Morqla had just experienced, with the Palgrenai using whatever primitive means were at their disposal to disrupt what the governor initially had expected to be a routine occupation of this world, referred to by its native inhabitants as Palgrenax.

It was not an unexpected outgrowth of being conquered, Morqla knew. There were more than a few instances of attempts by jeghpu’wI’to overthrow their conquerors on worlds throughout the empire. Some of those attempts even had been successful—for which songs had been sung as Klingon warriors celebrated the tenacity and courage of their enemies in battle—though Morqla held no suspicions that such would be the case here. The Palgrenai, though obstinate, had no hope of standing against his garrison.

Though it is entertaining to watch them try,Morqla mused, suppressing the urge to grin at the amusing thought.

“Sir,” the soldier said after a moment, “they targeted your office specifically. We must capture the petaQthat are responsible and punish them publicly, to show the jeghpu’wI’that such actions cannot be tolerated.”

Glaring at the subordinate once more, Morqla was sorely tempted to kill him where he stood. “Is there any other information you think I’ve forgotten, Bekk? Perhaps you have guidance to offer regarding my hygiene or eating habits?”

In truth, his options in light of this most recent event were clear-cut: Acts of insurrection, no matter their size or scope, could not be tolerated. Strict discipline had to be enforced to minimize the risk and crush the desire and ability of a subjugated planet’s indigenous population—which typically outnumbered the occupying force by orders of magnitude—to attempt overthrowing their conquerors. It was a simple and often brutal strategy, one Morqla understood and for the most part always had endorsed, at least in his younger days as a lower-ranking soldier participating in several such occupations.

Now, on his first assignment as planetary governor overseeing jeghpu’wI’,things were different.

Though he had enforced imperial directives—more or less—Morqla actually had welcomed the Palgrenai’s laughable attempts to break up what had already become a dull, monotonous state of affairs. In truth, none of the attacks had proven to be anything more than annoyances. While the natives might be brave to even consider standing up to a superior force, their choice of tactics left much to be desired. Morqla guessed that might have much to do with their largely pacifistic nature. The Palgrenai were simply ill equipped to ever present anything resembling even a marginal threat.

And yet, they continue to try. There’s something to be admired about that.

“The security of the empire will not be compromised if we show a measure of leniency,” he said after a moment. “Gather the village population in the square at sunset, and we will remind them of the occupation orders. I will decide then whether to select members of the crowd for summary execution.” He had no intention of doing any such thing, of course, but it was enough to satisfy the bekkfor the time being.

“As you command, Excellency,” the soldier said. He saluted, turned on his heel to instruct his companions to return to their normal duty posts, then left to carry out Morqla’s instructions.

The governor watched him go, his eyes drawn toward the southwest where he saw a line of storm clouds gathering over the distant trees. It was the first time since his arrival on this planet that he had seen any sign of precipitation. Given what he had been told by more than one of the villagers about the dry seasons—including the current one—that could grip this hemisphere, any rainfall would be welcomed. Rain would quell the dust that seemed to permeate the air, his clothes, his skin—everything.

What a worthless pile of dirt this planet is.

So far as Morqla knew, Palgrenax offered nothing of military or political value. Mineral ores lacing its bedrock were of only marginal use for refining or energy generation, particularly of the type needed to power the empire’s fleet of warships. The planet itself was too far away from those areas of the Gonmog Sector where Federation colonies and patrol routes had been established, therefore making it impractical as a base from which to coordinate any sort of effective combat operations against Starfleet vessels.

The only thing of interest this world offered, from what he could tell, seemed to be its collection of ancient, crumbling ruins scattered across this continent. For some reason, Chancellor Sturka and the Klingon High Council were most interested in the primeval structures, though of course they had not deemed it necessary to inform a lowly planetary governor what that reason might be.

It is of no consequence,he reminded himself. I serve the empire, wherever they might send me, and for whatever reason.

Feeling the stifling heat beginning to work its way underneath his uniform in earnest, Morqla turned and headed back inside his headquarters building, but he stopped short at the sight of his aide, K’voq, waiting for him. Small by Klingon standards, the younger officer further maligned the warrior stereotype with his unnaturally lightened hair, which he wore tied at the base of his neck rather than allowing it to flow freely about his shoulders like most soldiers. Despite his appearance, Morqla knew from experience that K’voq was a fierce and loyal warrior, which included a proficiency with the bat’leththat rivaled some Dahar masters the governor had known.

“Excellency,” K’voq said as he held out a communicator, “Captain Kutal wishes to speak with you.”

Morqla released an audible sigh, which to his own ears sounded like air escaping from a compromised hull seal. While he was a creature of duty, he had no trouble admitting that there were some aspects of his current assignment for which he had little patience. Having to speak to Captain Kutal ranked at the top of that list. Responsible for the science contingent which had been transported from Qo’noS, Kutal had chosen to remain aboard his vessel, the I.K.S. Zin’za,currently in orbit over Palgrenax. Though his authority did not extend to the planet’s occupational garrison, the captain nevertheless chose to regard his dealings with Morqla as though he were addressing a subordinate or perhaps even one of the jeghpu’wI’he oversaw.

For his sake, he should hope he remains out of myd’k tahg ’s reach.

Sighing in resignation, Morqla took the communicator from K’voq, clearing his throat before speaking into the unit’s pickup grid. “This is Governor Morqla. What do you want, Captain?”

“ I await the latest status report from the survey team,”Kutal replied without preamble. “ They are late, as they are every day.”

“They are scientists,” Morqla said. So far as he was concerned, that was more than enough information to explain the matter. “I’ve never bothered to learn how they view time management, or even if they care about it at all.”

Kutal’s coarse laughter echoed from the communicator. “ At least we agree on that much. However, I’m required to submit my own update to the High Council, and I cannot do so until I hear from those insolent bookworms.”

“What do you want of me?” Morqla asked. “I have no authority over their activities, nor any knowledge of why they’re here in the first place.”

“ They billet in the village you use as your headquarters, do they not?”the captain barked. “ I was hoping you might exercise some hands-on means of motivating them to tear themselves away from those piles of rocks and carry out their other duties. The chancellor is most interested in their latest findings.”

Given the disdain with which the chancellor normally viewed scientists and others who did not directly support the empire’s military agenda, the governor suspected that the decision to devote time and resources to an archaeological expedition, like many of the council’s recent choices, was made due to the empire’s desire to match or counter the Federation’s expansion into this region of space.

Perhaps one of those undercover operatives the chancellor has sprinkled throughout the Federation has finally offered something of value.

Despite his low and unglamorous role within the empire, Morqla was not ignorant of the covert program that Sturka had initiated. Thanks to the trust of friends situated within the more prominent echelons, he knew that Sturka had begun placing covert agents at all levels of the enemy’s political and military ranks. From high-ranking officials to lowly enlisted Starfleet personnel, Klingons surgically altered to appear as human or members of other species now permeated the Federation, collecting information in the hope that it might allow the planning and execution of an overwhelming offensive designed to assert Klingon dominance throughout this quadrant of the galaxy once and for all. Morqla had no idea if such a massive campaign was anywhere near becoming a reality, but he suspected the chancellor’s scheme must be paying some dividends for him to continue supporting it even after all these years.

Even so, had one of those agents unearthed some morsel of information regarding the Gonmog Sector?

From what Morqla had read of the reports already presented by the scientists dispatched to Palgrenax, it was estimated that the ruins, which exhibited architecture not at all consistent with anything the planet’s current population might have developed, were supremely ancient. Further, it appeared that many of the materials used to build the structures were not native to this planet. According to other reports submitted more recently by the leader of the science cadre, Dr. Terath, a vast storehouse had been established to amass artifacts and examples of ancient technology found cached at numerous underground locations scattered across the planet. Based on the scientist’s preliminary indications, the millennia-old technology—and its builders, whoever they might have been—were possessors of tremendous power.

One such repository was located deep beneath the village where Morqla had chosen to headquarter his garrison, though the governor himself had not taken the time to explore the ancient structure for himself. Such things had never held much interest for him, though Terath’s latest reports had given him cause to reconsider that position. Given how uneventful his duties had been of late, he figured such exploration might prove to be an entertaining diversion, if nothing else.

Did Sturka believe these millennia-old ruins to be the key to some kind of mysterious, ultimate weapon which might be brought to bear against the enemies of the empire? It sounded like something Morqla might read in the pages of poorly written fiction, barely serviceable as a children’s story; most definitely not something to which Chancellor Sturka would pay any mind, let alone commit time and resources.

Still, if there are alien artifacts bearing some strange, powerful quality, then I would appear to be in a good position to benefit from such a discovery.

“I know there has been some minor success understanding the ancient technology found here,” Morqla said. “They’ve managed to channel power to some manner of control console, but they don’t know what it does or how it acts in concert with other mechanisms they’ve found.” He shrugged, though only K’voq, standing silently nearby, could see the gesture. “Even I have to admit to a degree of fascination.”

“ That is your weakness,”Kutal replied, “ not mine. The chancellor requires updates and progress. Either you can instill that motivation to those petulant glob flies, or I will.”

“I will see to it, Captain.” With that, Morqla severed the connection before tossing the communicator to K’voq. “That petaQwould not make a boil on a flatulent targ’s rump.” As he turned to head back into his office, he cast one final observation to his aide. “Find Dr. Terath and bring her to me. It seems more and more people are becoming interested in our little out-of-the-way planet.”