Errand of Fury Book 1 Page 7

  It was then that he realized he was being followed. One of the squad had hung back even further than he did and was now pacing him by about six steps. Fuller’s first thought was disgust: his reactions were way off. He should have been aware of his company immediately.

  He had no doubt that the person was not a threat, but security service had almost no margin of error. If future events played out as he suspected they would, his skills and instincts would have to be back up to one hundred percent very quickly, no matter how he was feeling. If he wasn’t up to snuff, he would have very little time to worry about it—he knew from experience that Klingons were very unforgiving of mistakes.

  He dismissed the new recruit behind him as someone who was just curious about the person old enough to be the father of everyone else in the squad. Fuller headed for his quarters. He was mildly surprised when the ensign behind him followed him right into the turbolift. Fuller shot the young man a quick appraising glance and saw that he was one of the new recruits—impossibly young, but weren’t they all? This one had pale skin, dark hair and dark eyes. A quick mental tally told him that the young man was also a touch smaller than the other men in squad. Fuller found that he was relieved that the recruit looked nothing like Sam.

  The ensign looked away quickly, but when Fuller’s eyes concentrated on the turbolift door, his peripheral vision told him that the young man’s eyes were studying him. Then the doors opened and Fuller headed to his quarters. The layout of the Enterprise was fairly standard for a Constitution-class vessel, and Fuller had made it a point to memorize any changes that had been made to the design. As a result, he found his quarters quickly.

  His shadow followed him almost to the door, and Fuller decided it was time to put a stop to whatever was going on. Before he entered the room, he spun around and said, “Can I help you?”

  The ensign looked startled, then mildly stricken. “Um, well…”

  “Where are you headed?” Fuller asked.

  “To my quarters…These are my quarters,” the ensign said.

  Of course, this is my roommate, Fuller realized, then felt himself relax. He smiled politely. “Sorry, I thought you were following me.”

  “Well, I was, sort of…I mean, you are…are you Michael Fuller?”

  The young man had surprised him again. How had he known?

  “Yes,” he answered. “Who are you?” Fuller extended his hand.

  “Ensign David Parmet, sir,” he said, shaking Fuller’s hand enthusiastically. “Good to meet you, sir, though I can’t really believe this.”

  “Believe what, son? And please, don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”

  “That you’re here. I thought you retired. And, well, you are one of the greatest…and you’re just one of the recruits? Frankly, that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, sir, respectfully…” For a moment, thankfully, Parmet seemed to be at a loss for words.

  “Hold on, now. It looks like we’re going to be roommates, and I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions, but I need you to do one thing for me, first.”

  “Anything, I mean, of course.”

  “I need you to let go of my hand.”

  “What?”

  “My hand,” Fuller repeated.

  Parmet looked down and saw that he was still holding Fuller’s hand in a firm grip. A look of surprise and then embarrassment crossed his face, and he released his hold on Fuller.

  “Now, why don’t we step inside and…get to know one another,” Fuller said. Parmet nodded eagerly, and Fuller stepped into the quarters, which were dominated by two small beds. When he had first served on board ship, he had had trouble with the size of the Starfleet-issue beds, but years later, as a civilian, he found he could not sleep well on anything much bigger. There was also a dresser and a small desk for each of the two men. The accommodations had seemed luxurious to him as a young man, especially after serving on the Icarus-class ships, like the Endeavour.

  Fuller waved at the two beds and said, “Do you have a preference?”

  Parmet shook his head and said, “Sir, I couldn’t, you choose.”

  Fuller knew that this could take all day, so he put his bag down on the bed closest to the door.

  “Sir, I have a lot of questions for you,” Parmet said.

  “Why don’t we take a moment and unpack first?” Fuller took out his civilian clothes and placed them in the dresser. He took a few data solids and put them in the top drawer. Taking out the only personal possessions he had brought, he put them on top of the dresser. They were two photos of Sam. One had been taken on his tenth birthday during one of the few birthday parties that Fuller had been able to attend. The other photo showed Sam in his first Starfleet uniform on the day he had received his commission.

  When Fuller turned to his roommate, he saw Parmet standing by his own dresser and looking at him expectantly. Fuller saw that Parmet’s bag was empty and the small shelf above his bed full of books. A quick mental calculation told Fuller that Parmet’s books must have come very close to the mass limit allowed new officers.

  Fuller sat down on his bed, but Parmet remained standing, nearly at attention. “Why don’t you have a seat,” Fuller offered.

  Parmet complied immediately as if he’d been given an order. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll say it again, Ensign, don’t call me sir. You can call me Michael if you like, or just Fuller.”

  “Yes, sir,” Parmet said, then he immediately corrected himself. “Yes, Mister Fuller.”

  Fuller sighed inside but let it go.

  “That’s what I don’t understand: why would you come out of retirement as a regular security guard? You could easily be a section leader or better after the career you had.”

  “Starfleet regulations are very clear on the status of reenlistment after a certain period,” Fuller explained, even though Solow had, in fact, offered him the very thing Parmet expected.

  “But you, you…”

  “The same regulations must apply to everyone, or they mean nothing.”

  Parmet nodded as if he were memorizing a lesson.

  “Now I have a question for you. How do you know who I am, or anything about my career?” Fuller asked.

  Parmet wore a confused expression on his face and said, “You’re Michael Fuller. You were at the Battle of Donatu V aboard the U.S.S. Endeavour and the rescue operation on Lynwood IV. The tactics you used against the Klingon boarders on the Endeavour and your attack on an enemy holding hostages in a fortified position in the Lynwood system are still taught at the Academy. And that’s just for starters. There’s your work in the Rigelian incident of—”

  Parmet looked ready to go on at some length. Fuller silenced him with a raised hand. “Okay, but no names of individual security officers appear in the Academy curriculum in those cases.”

  “True, but I did some additional research. I read all of the logs and firsthand reports,” Parmet said.

  That gave Fuller a chill. He had been approached only once before by a young officer who had studied his past missions in that detail and had done the additional research to find out the names of the lower-ranking officers involved. That young man was the captain of a starship now. This starship.

  “Well, whatever you’ve read about me, you need to remember that there were a lot of other officers in all of the missions you studied,” Fuller said.

  “Of course, but you were…I mean, you are a hero.”

  That word took Fuller by surprise. For a moment Parmet was silent, the look of earnestness on his face giving Fuller a pang.

  “No, I’m not. No matter what you’ve read, I was just another person doing his job.”

  “With all due respect, sir, that’s not quite true. You were a lot more than that.”

  “It is true, son. I’ve known a lot of heroes in the service, and the real heroes all share one thing.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “They’re all dead. They died in the line, and their names cover a very large wall in the lobby at Starfl
eet Command.”

  Parmet was silent for a moment as he absorbed that. Fuller saw that the young man in front of him had a lot to learn. Fuller had known many young officers like this one, and too many of them hadn’t lived long enough to get those lessons. Fuller was once again glad that he had not accepted Solow’s offer of a section chief position. He didn’t want to be responsible for any more young men and women who would have their education so brutally cut short.

  “I was sorry to hear about your son, sir,” Parmet said.

  “My son? How do you know about Sam?”

  “I’ve sort of followed your career. I knew you had a son in the service and heard that he was lost. I’m sorry.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Sir, it would be an honor if you would have lunch with me.”

  Fuller nodded. “You have some more questions for me?”

  Parmet smiled. “Yes, sir.” Sir. There it was again. Fuller let it go. This was going to take some time, he knew. As he got up, he caught the look on Parmet’s face. It was admiration bordering on awe. It was a look that he had seen before. He had not deserved it then either.

  As it turned out, Ensign Parmet did look a bit like Sam, after all.

  Chapter Five

  I.K.S. D’K TAHG

  IN ORBIT OF QO’NOS

  2267

  “SHIP MOORED and secure, Captain,” First Officer Faal said.

  Captain Koloth nodded and said, “The crew can exit to the base.”

  “Senior officers, inform your warriors,” Faal said.

  Karel leaned down to the bridge weapons console and gave the order for the first group of his warriors to depart. The rest would follow, according to the schedule that Karel had made. He was still getting used to his new position as a bridge officer. He found that much of his time was given over to tasks like making schedules and monitoring everything from equipment to fights among his subordinates.

  He wondered what his father would think of him now. Karel’s father had served aboard a Klingon warship, but had died honorably in battle before he had risen higher than a junior officer. As such, he had probably never even set foot on the bridge of the vessel he served. Karel had seen the records of his father’s career. He had showed promise, and—had he lived—Karel thought he might have earned a command of his own eventually. Karel had seen that with command came opportunities for battle and great deeds in the service of the empire.

  However, there were also mundane administrative tasks. To his surprise, Karel found that he was good at them, better than that bloodless fool who had been bridge weapons officer before him. Karel had always believed there was honor in any service to the empire, even if that service didn’t mean fighting in a battle and instead meant, say, deciding at what time and in which order the warriors under him were able to sleep or eat or take shore leave.

  Still, he took no pleasure in these tasks he performed well. He took no pleasure even in the battle he had seen in the last few weeks. Since he had taken his brother’s life in the fight with the Earthers he had begun to question whether there was honor in serving the empire now. As it stood, the empire was no longer the one forged by Kahless the Unforgettable with his own blood and strength—Kahless, who had once battled his own brother for twelve days and twelve nights because his brother had lied and brought shame upon his family. Now the High Council stripped Klingons of their identity, made them look like Earthers, changing them down to their very blood.

  These Klingons had been told lies about the Earthers—no, humans, he reminded himself. The infiltrators had been called betleH ’etlh, the Blade of the Bat’leth, but they were intended to be skulking assassins who would hit the humans from behind, dishonoring Kahless’s teachings and themselves because they would never show their true faces in battle.

  The High Council sought to use these infiltrators to weaken the humans and their Federation so it would fall to the empire. However, the humans were not the cowardly, dishonorable foe most Klingons had been led to believe. And even if they had been, there would have been no honor in a victory won by stabbing an opponent in the back. If an enemy could not be beaten face-to-face, blood for blood, then there was no real victory.

  Karel’s younger brother Kell had been one of the Klingons sent to live as a human. They had stripped Kell of everything that made him Klingon, everything except his honor. That he had kept, and he had fought with honorable humans against the Klingons of Karel’s own vessel.

  Kell had fought bravely until Karel’s own hand had dealt him a mortal blow. Karel had only had a moment with his brother before Kell succumbed to his wounds. In that moment, Kell had handed him a recording that contained his story, which he had made because at the end Kell had known that his mission was false and would lead inevitably to his death.

  And then Kell had died, by his brother’s own hand. Shame still burned in Karel’s veins. Do I even have blood anymore, or do my veins carry nothing but the shame? Yes, he realized after a moment’s thought. There was something else there, something that burned.

  It was a rage against those bloodless Klingons who had sent his brother down the honorless path.

  Reflexively, Karel reached for his father’s d’k tahg. Now the recording Kell had made him sat on top of the blade’s hilt so that the knife would remind him of both his father and his brother, two Klingons who had been better than he, who had died on paths of honor.

  “Bridge officers are dismissed,” Faal said. There were grunts of ascent as the bridge began to clear out. With the I.K.S. D’k Tahg moored to the station, the ship was secure. The Klingons on the bridge knew they had precious little time to enjoy home.

  Karel gave a quick glance at the main viewer and saw Qo’noS hanging beneath them. He had dreamed of returning home covered in the glory of battles fought and victories won in the name of the House of Gorkon. They were mostly childish fantasies, but he had indulged them. Now, the birthplace of Kahless and the empire seemed to judge him, not welcome him. Yet, that judgment was nothing, he knew, compared to what would come in a few short hours.

  Still, he did not delay to meet his fate. Shamed though he was, he was still his father’s son and he would face his destiny. Karel got up and headed for the door to the bridge. A moment after he left, he heard footsteps behind him. Their sound told him it was Faal.

  “You,” Faal said, and Karel turned around. “You are a bridge officer now, you can take the transporter down to the surface.” Most of the crew would have to wait for transports from the station. The transporter meant more time home, a bonus. Still, Karel shook his head reflexively.

  “I can take a transport,” he said. The additional time on the surface would do him no good.

  “You are a bridge officer, you will take the transporter,” Faal said, a threat in his voice. It would serve no purpose to refuse the second-in-command’s offer.

  “Yes, sir.” Karel did not know Faal well, but the Klingon seemed a capable first officer. He did his job reasonably well, even if he did not excel. Though he was not a great leader like Koloth, neither did he try to keep the Klingons beneath him at each other’s throats to keep them from challenging his position.

  With a grunt, Faal took a turn toward his quarters. Karel headed straight to the transporter room. He had everything he needed with him, once again touching his father’s d’k tahg. There was a line of Klingons waiting outside the transporter room. Two of them turned around when he approached, and Karel recognized them as two of Faal’s personal guards.

  There was something odd about that. Reflexively, Karel put his hand on his father’s d’k tahg, but before he could draw it out, the two Klingons rushed him and pushed him into a transporter systems control room. As Karel found himself reeling backward into the dark room, he realized what had bothered him about the situation: the two low-ranked guards were mere bekks, who would not have been permitted to use the transporter. They belonged on the station, waiting for a transport vessel down to the surface.

  The room he
was pushed back into was both small and dark, which was no accident, he realized. Whoever had planned this knew that Karel was experienced in the Mok’bara, the ancient fighting art. The Mok’bara could be a deadly weapon in the right Klingon’s hands, but it required room to maneuver, to strike.

  Karel knew he had less than seconds to live unless he did something remarkable. However, all he could do as he fell back into a control panel was raise his right hand and thrust it toward his attackers. Karel was already off balance, and the blow was far from full-force.

  However, it made deadly contact.

  He heard one of the Klingons cry out, and he felt a wet spray on his hand. It was then Karel realized that the hand he had raised to strike out with was the hand he had used a moment before the attack to grasp his father’s d’k tahg.

  His head and shoulders were screaming in pain from the force of his collision with the control panel. The pain gave him clarity of thought, and the realization that his father’s knife had just saved him from instant death brought him joy. As he gave a battle cry, he rushed forward, shoving the injured attacker out of his way as he swung at the place where he sensed the other attacker was standing.

  Though his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, there was still too little light to see. Nevertheless, he launched another attack, thrusting forward with his d’k tahg. The attacker was no fool, however, and, though Karel had surprised him by striking his partner, he was already launching an attack of his own.

  Karel’s ears told him that the other assassin had moved at almost the same instant as he had himself. Which one of them would strike a serious blow was more a matter of chance than anything else. Karel felt his knife meet resistance, then shoot off to one side. The momentum of his movement carried him forward, and he felt a sharp pain high in his chest.

  He knew immediately that he had been struck, seriously if not mortally, and he had landed perhaps a glancing blow on his opponent. Karel struck the wall near the door and realized that this fight would be over in seconds if he did not do something immediately.