Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [30]
For a long moment, Worf looked Kahless square in the eyes. Then he turned to Picard. “I think we ought to go to the homeworld,” he said at last.
The captain was still leery of the prospect. However, he had placed his trust in his security officer.
“All right,” he concluded. “We’ll go.”
Kahless smiled. “You won’t regret it,” he said.
Tapping his wristband, he activated his link to whatever vehicle awaited him. It was the same kind of wristband Picard himself had used to maintain control of Enterprise shuttles.
At the same time, the captain tapped his communicator and notified the Pescalians they wouldn’t be going back with them. At least, not yet.
“Three to beam up,” the clone bellowed.
A moment later, Picard and the others found themselves on the bridge of a modest cruiser. As with all Klingon vessels, the place was small, stark, and lacking in amenities. Quarters were cramped and lights were dim.
The bridge had three seats; Kahless took the one in the rear, leaving his companions the forward positions if they wanted them.
“Break orbit,” the clone commanded, speaking directly to the ship’s computer. “Set course for Qo’noSo, heading three four six point one. Ahead warp factor six. Engage.”
The captain felt the drag of inertia as the ship banked and leaped forward into warp. Even for a small and relatively unsophisticated vessel, its damper system left something to be desired.
Then again, Kahless probably preferred it that way.
The rougher, the better, Picard mused.
“The journey will take a couple of days,” the clone informed them. “When you tire, you’ll find bunks in the aft cabin.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder for emphasis. “Back there.”
Picard nodded. “Thank you.”
He recalled the last time he was on a Klingon vessel. He had been on a mission to investigate Ambassador Spock’s activities on Romulus. From what he remembered, his cabin had been sparsely furnished and eminently uncomfortable. He resigned himself to the likelihood that on a cruiser this size, the accomodations would be even worse.
Worf looked around. “Nice ship,” he observed.
Kahless grunted. “Gowron gave it to me, though I don’t think he expected I’d use it much. And truthfully, I haven’t.”
Again, Picard found his eyes drawn to the amulet on the clone’s chest. He was starting to think he’d seen such a thing before in his studies of Klingon culture, though he wasn’t sure where.
“You like my amulet?” asked Kahless.
The captain was embarassed. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
“You need not apologize,” said the clone. “It is called a jinaq.
Picard nodded. He remembered now. Klingon men used to wear them when they were betrothed to someone.
Did that mean Kahless intended to marry?
“I have no lover,” the clone informed him, as if he’d read the captain’s mind. “Not anymore, at least-not for fifteen hundred years or more. But I wear it still, out of respect for her.”
“I see,” said Picard.
He made a mental note to ask Worf about the applicable myth later on. It sounded interesting-and if it would shed more light on Kahless for him, it was well worth the time.
The Heroic Ageless sat back heavily in his sturdy wooden chair, his head spinning like a child’s top. The food and the bloodwine had been more than plentiful. And in all fairness, Vathraq wasn’t the worst storyteller he’d ever heard, although he came close.
But the warchief was restless under his host’s vaulted roof. So, as the revelers” eyes grew bloodshot on both sides of the overladen table, and their speech thickened, and the hall filled with smoky phantoms born of the cooking fires, the guest of honor left the feast.
No one seemed to notice as he made his way out of the great hall, or as he crossed the anteroom and exited the keep. And if anyone did notice, they didn’t care enough to say anything.
The evening air was cold and bracing after the warmth of Vathraq’s feast-like a splash of melt from a mountain spring, clearing his head and tightening the skin across his face. Breathing