Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [78]
Of self-reliance. Of freedom. And ultimately, of victory.
“I need a metalsmith,” Kahless said out loud.
Morath looked at him. “Right now?” he said.
“Right now,” the rebel confirmed. “And so he will have something to work with, I will need twenty swords plucked from the hands of the enemy’s corpses. And of course, whatever he needs to make a smithy.”
His friend grunted. “Did you hear about this in your dream as well?”
Kahless nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
As it happened, there were several metalsmiths among the rebel forces. The best one was Toragh, a man with short, gnarly legs, a torso like a tree trunk, and biceps each the size of a grown man’s head.
“You want what?” asked Toragh, after Morath and Porus had brought him to Kahless’s tent.
A second time, the rebel chieftain showed the metalsmith what he wanted, carving the same shape into the soft dirt. “Like so,” he said. “With a grip here in the center, and an arc here, and cutting edges all around.”
The metalsmith looked at him as if he were crazy. “I have been at this for twenty years, and I have never heard of anything like this. How did you come up with it?”
“Do not ask,” Morath advised him.
“Where I got the idea is not important,” Kahless added. “What is important, metalsmith, is whether or not you can make it for me.”
Toragh stroked his chin as he considered the design in the dirt. Finally, he nodded. “I can make it, all right. But it will not be easy. A weapon like this one will require a steady hand at the bellows, or the balance will be offand balance is everything.”
“I will work the bellows myself if I have to,” Kahless replied. “Rest assured, you will have everything you need.”
Toragh eyed him. “And you’re certain this will help us to tear down the tyrant?” He seemed skeptical.
Kahless laughed. “As certain as the bile in Molor’s belly.”
The Modern Age Propelled by only a fraction of its impulse power, Kurn’s craft drifted ever closer to the subspace relay station that hung in space dead ahead. Picard had seen plenty of such stations before, but never one operated by the Klingon Defense Force.
The difference was pronounced, to say the least.
Though the station’s sole function was to transmit data from one place to another, its architecture was so severe as to look almost ominous. The captain wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be better armed than some starships.
It wasn’t long before they got a response from the station. A lean, long-faced Klingon with a thin mustache appeared on the monitor screen set into Kurn’s console.
His garb suggested that he was in command of the facility.
“Who are you and what do you want?” the Klingon grated. His eyes, one dark brown and the other a sea green, demanded an answer.
In any other culture, Picard knew, this would have been a sign of disrespect, perhaps even a challenge. However, Klingons did not waste time with amenities. They simply said what was on their minds.
Still, Kurn put on a show of anger. As he had explained minutes earlier, the best way to deal with a bureaucrat was to seem even more annoyed than he was.
“I am Kurn, son of Mogh,” he grated. “Governor of Ogat and member of the High Council.”
The station commander’s eyes narrowed. “I have heard of Kurn. But for all I know, you could be a slug on the bottom of Kurn’s boot.”
Worf’s brother made a sound deep in his throat. “Then look for yourself. Bring up my file image and compare it to what you see.”
The station commander wasn’t about to take anyone at his word. Barking an order to an offscreen lackey, he glared at Kurn-as if trying to decide what to do with him if he wasn’t the council member.
A few moments later, the same lackey whispered in the station commander’s ear. A look of confusion passed over the Klingon’s face, like the shadow of a cloud on a sunny day.
“You do indeed appear to be Kurn,” he said finally.
“But according to our information, Kurn is supposed to be dead.”
Fortunately,