Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [59]
However, it seemed eminently appropriate at the moment.
Majjas turned the shards over and over in his hands.
“A clue, eh? I can tell you this-they’re made of michara, an alloy most often used in heating elements, since it conducts thermal energy so well. But for a time, it was also used in the making of explosive devices.”
Picard nodded. Now they were getting somewhere.
“For a time?” he prodded. “But no longer?”
“That is correct,” said the old man
“The practice stopped when cheaper alloys were introduced, which could be applied to the same purpose.”
Worf s eyes narrowed. “Then not every armory would provide our enemies with access to such a device.”
“True,” Majjas confirmed. “In fact, to my knowledge, there is only one. It is on Terjas Mor, not far from the city of Donar’ruq.”
Worf smiled as warmly as the captain had ever seen him smile. “The House of Mogh is once more in your debt, my friend. If there were some way to repay you for your assistance …
Their host shrugged. “You could take me with you,” he suggested.
A silence fell … until Majjas began to laugh out loud in his beard. His daughters looked at one another with relief-the same sort of relief Picard himself was feeling.
“You may relax,” the old Klingon assured them. “I don’t expect you to drag a blind man along. But if circumstances were different, it would be good to strike a blow again for the Empire.” He sighed. “I tell you, I would have enjoyed that to the bottom of my heart.”
“How long will you be staying here on B’aaj?” asked Majjas’s wife, the epitome of Klingon gentility-though she must have already known the answer.
“I regret,” Worf told her, “that we cannot remain here as you r guests. Our mission is too urgent for us to delay.”
“Except to finish your wine,” the old man stipulated.
“Of course,” Kahless replied. “It would be dishonorable to do otherwise.” And with that, he drained his goblet.
Worf cleared his throat, causing Majjas to turn in his direction. “There is one other thing.”
“And that is?” the old man inquired.
“I ask that you-and your family-refrain from mentioning you even glimpsed us. After all,” said Mogh’s elder son, “one never knows whom one can trust at times like these. And as far as our enemies are concerned, we are dead.”
“Dead?” repeated Majjas. He laughed some more.
“Some would say that is even worse than being blind.”
Kahless stood and put his goblet down on a table made for such a purpose. “I am afraid,” he said, “it is time to take our leave of you now. And if my companions are too polite to hurry out of your hall, I will bear the blame on my own shoulders.”
But he hadn’t offended their host, Picard observed. Far from it. Majjas’s grin was so wide, it looked painful.
“Don’t worry,” the old man told them. “I am not offended, Emperor. Rather, I am honored. Have a safe trip, my friends. It is a dark and dangerous road you have chosen.”
“That it is,” Kahless agreed. And without further conversation, he led the way out of Majjas’s houseleaving Picard and the others no choice but to follow.
The Heroic Age For two days, Kahless drove his starahk mercilessly, pausing only for the animal to munch on grass and groundnuts, and to water itself. Its rider, on the other hand, neither ate nor slept.
His mind had long ago settled into the rhythm of the beast’s progress, avoiding anything so painful as a thought. Day turned into night, night became day, and he barely noticed.
But all the while, Morath was right behind him. He stopped when Kahless stopped and went on when Kahless went on. He didn’t attempt to overtake him, or to speak with him again, only to haunt him from a distance.
At one point, just as twilight was throwing its cloak over the world, Kahless came to a fast-rushing stream.
Seeing no way to go around it, he urged his starahk to enter the water. But the beast wouldn’t move.
It dropped to its haunches, then fell over on its side, exhausted. And in the process, Kahless fell to the ground as well.
He looked back. Morath was sitting