STAR TREK - TOS - 16 - The Final Reflection

A Man of Battle,

A Man of Peace

“Klingons always lock doors,” Krenn said. “Where were you?”

“A custom of my race, in the presence of danger ... I was underneath the bed.”

“You almost convinced me,” Krenn said. “I thought you would not fight.”

“I did not fight,” Dr. Tagore said calmly. “I simply did not allow myself to be too easily killed.”

And Krenn laughed, not because it was absurd but because he saw the reason of it.

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Contents

Prologue.5

Researcher’s Note.7

PART ONE.9

Chapter 1.10

Chapter 2.18

Chapter 3.27

PART TWO..38

Chapter 4.39

Chapter 5.48

Chapter 6.61

PART THREE.75

Chapter 7.76

Chapter 8.84

Chapter 9.93

Epilogue.103

About the e-Book.104

Prologue

Enterprise,dormantfor nearly a week now, was waking up.

Captain James Kirk had stayed aboard, while the crew took leave on Starbase 12: Dr. McCoy had

given him a stern lecture on the perils of overwork, and Engineer Scott a milder talk on the pleasures

Kirk would be missing. Even Spock had gone stationside; something to do with new materials for the

ship’s library computer.

But Kirk was all right. In fact, he felt wonderful. He had given himself a walking inspection tour of his

ship, quite alone, at whatever pace he felt like at the moment. It was not work. It had been sheer play.

Now the crew was returning, makingEnterprise ready for voyage, and that too was satisfactory. Kirk

walked the corridors, giving salutes and greetings,[8]feeling almost light-headed, as if he were present at

a new creation.

Yeoman Janice Rand came up the corridor toward Kirk, still in a civilian tunic and loose trousers,

travelling bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair was in a new, non-regulation style, upswept, quite striking

and attractive; Kirk could not remember having seen the style before—

And then he knew he had seen it, once only: on Specialist Mara, the consort of the Klingon Captain

Kang.

Kirk gave a clumsy gesture somewhere between a salute and a wave; Rand smiled and waved back.

She’s still off duty, Kirk thought, she has the right to wear her hair any way she pleases—but why on

earth ... ? It surely hadn’t been that long since the Organian Peace: Kirk wondered if it couldever be that

long.

He shook his head and walked on. A little farther down the corridor, he heard a crewman use a few

words in a foreign language. Kirk did not know the meaning, but knew from the harsh, consonantal

sound that the language must be Klingonese. He also knew that only a half-dozen of the ship’s

complement spoke Klingonese, and this was not one of them.

Kirk went up a level to Sickbay. Inside, Dr. McCoy was unpacking a carrier marked MEDICAL

SUPPLIES. Kirk’s medical training was sufficient to identify Romulan ale, Saurian brandy in the

trademark bottle, and a complete set of components for Argelian nine-layer cocktails.

“Expecting an epidemic, Bones?”

McCoy looked up. His expression was odd: slightly distant, slightly sour. “I hope to Lucius Beebe there

is—” He stopped short, shook his head.

“Who?” Kirk said.

“Nothing. Something my granddaddy used to say when he got dry.” McCoy reverently held up a bottle

of[9]Jack Daniel’s Black Label. “Bar’s still open, if you want, Jim.”

Something in the way McCoy made the offer made Kirk hesitate. Bones was always playing the

curmudgeon, but when he was really disgruntled he was not pleasant company. “Later, Bones. Too much

to do, just now.” Kirk smiled. “Promises to keep, and miles to go ...”

“Uh-huh.” McCoy put the bottle down, looking a little forlorn.

“Bones,” Kirk said quietly, “what’s wrong?”

“Hm?Oh . ’Course, you don’t know.” He reached down into the carrier, clinking bottles and cans, and

brought out a book. “Here you go. Read all about it.”

Kirk took the book. It was a bookstore edition, in hard covers, not a computer offprint.The Final

Reflection, the cover said, above a lurid painting showing a Klingon battle cruiser. He turned it over,

scanned the blurbs. “This is the one the Starfleet memos were about, isn’t it? The novel about the

Klingons.”

“Novel, yeah,” McCoy said. “About the Klingons.” His voice was just slightly less tense. “You might

like it ... there’s some good space-battle stuff.”

“I’ll get a print—”

“Take it,”McCoy said, and at once his voice cleared, as if there had never been anything wrong at all.

“I’d better get my office in order. I’m about to get four hundred cases of station leave.”

“All right, Bones. Hold that drink for me.”

“Sure, Jim.”

Kirk went on down the corridor, looking at the book, half conscious that others were saluting him or

dodging out of his way. He tried to remember the texts of the Starfleet memos about the novel: their

substance seemed to have been the routine disclaimers about any book not Fully Approved by the Public

[10]InformationOffice, maybe a little more strongly worded than usual.

Space battles, Bones had said. According to the cover copy, the story was set not long after first

contact with the Klingons, just before Kirk himself had been born; back before dilithium, when the best

shipwrights in Starfleet thought Warp 4.8 was the absolute limit. Before phasers. BeforeEnterprise had

gone on the drawing boards. That should be interesting, Kirk thought, even if those days seemed as far

away as Captain Hornblower’s sails and cannon.

But then, Kirk had always liked Horatio Hornblower.

A name caught his eye: Dr. Emanuel Tagore. A political scientist, Kirk recalled. He had died about a

year ago, aged 120 or so; Spock had mentioned it. Spock. ...

Kirk got into the next turbolift.

Spock was already back in duty uniform, though he had not even unpacked. His small travelling case

was on the bed, still sealed; against the wall of the cabin were two large carriers labeled COMPUTER

DATA—KEEP FROM ALL RADIATION.

“Captain. I am sorry I have not reported to the Bridge. I was ...”

“Spock. ... Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Captain, though I have not been gone in any real sense.” Spock looked down slightly, saw

the book in Kirk’s hand. “I see you have ... already obtained a copy of that work.”

“Yes. Bones gave it to me.”

The eyebrow went up like a flag. “Indeed. I find that ... well. Perhaps not surprising.”

“I wanted to ask you about it.”

“It is a work of fiction, Captain. That is, I believe, all that needs to be said.”

It’s some kind of strange new hangover, Kirk[11]thought, one leave and my whole crew goes crazy. “I

was going to ask about Emanuel Tagore. Did you know him?”

“He was an acquaintance of my father’s. When I was a student at the Makropyrios, we had ...

discussions, though I was never enrolled in his classes.”

That said more than perhaps Spock had intended; there were over two million students at the

Federation’s finest university, too many for anyone to casually “have discussions” outside the classroom.

Kirk said, “So then you did know him.”

“I believe that was what I said, Captain.”

Kirk almost shook his head. “Analysis, Spock,” he said, trying to sound as if he were joking.

“Enhancement, please.”

“Yes, Captain, I did know Dr. Emanuel Tagore. I admired him, as did my father the Ambassador,

although in many ways Dr. Tagore was a most illogical man. But I knew him as a Human, not a character

in a novel.”

“I haven’t read the book yet.”

“Yes, I had just realized there was not time for you to have done so. Is that all you require from me at

this time, Captain?” The tone was no cooler than any Vulcan might use. But this was not just any Vulcan.

“Yes, Spock,” Kirk said, too puzzled to be really hurt. “See you on the Bridge.” He looked at Spock,

vaguely hoping the Science officer would recover as Dr. McCoy had.

But Spock did not. “Of course, Captain.” Kirk went out.

The corridor was empty, silent except for the distant chiming of an annunciator. Kirk looked at the book

again, at the Klingon ship.The Final Reflection . Reflection of what? he thought. He could remember

times when he had seen himself reflected in books ... in Mark Twain, in the Hornblower stories.

Sometimes the[12]image was startling. But they were, after all, only stories.

Which was, sort of, what Spock had said.

Kirk went to his own quarters, changed from fatigues into duty uniform, put the book on the bedside

table.

FirstEnterprise, he thought. Then McCoy’s drink. Then we’ll see what it has to say.

Researcher’s Note

“Be a storyteller, an embellisher, a liar; they’ll call you that and worse anyway. It hardly matters. The

Tao which can be perceived is not the true Tao.”

—Dr. Emanuel Tagore, to the author

It has been sixty-five years since USSSentry met IKVDevisor in the UFP’s first known contact with the

Klingon Empire. The final events of the story which follows took place some forty years ago. Some time

back we celebrated ten years ofPax Organia (of which more in a moment). There are many who are

convinced that “the Klingon Phase of Federation history is over.” I first heard that phrase used in a

lecture at the Makropyrios. No one even smiled.

[16]So perhaps I may be excused a certain puzzlement at the curtains of silence that descended during

the research for this work. UFP “Klingon authorities” were unavailable for extended periods, coinciding

with my calls and visits. Official records of the “Dissolution Babel” are incomplete, containing little more

than the “we kissed and made up” account found in children’s books. Important persons have died or

dropped from sight—neither rare events, but highly concentrated in this area. While my life was not

threatened, my researcher’s credentials and my computer’s memory cores were. Only one person was

willing to speak freely, and that one both warned me that his memory was fallible and gave me the advice

quoted above. He was too modest about his memory. But his counsels were always wise.

Thus what follows is a novelist’s reconstruction of events, rather than a history, let alone anexposé.(It

would be embarrassing to admit the size of the fee I lost fromInsider Illustrated for not rewriting to their

specifications. Sample specification:More details on Klingon torture please.) My defenses are fictional

license and absence of malice; perhaps if the Van Diemen Papers were not under DOUBLET REGAL

classification (two steps higher than the Nova Weapons research files) my tale would be different.

I note in passing that I do not intend to disappear from public view in the immediate future.

An old Italian proverb runstraduttore, traditore: the translator is a traitor. And it is nowhere more true

than when translating between races from different stars; still, I have tried to speak as little treason as

possible. For clarity’s sake, certainklingonaase technical terms have been translated as their Federation

Standard equivalents: thuswarp drive, transporter, disrupter, instead of the more literal[17]anticurve

rider, particledisplacer,vibratory destructor(most literally: the “shake-it-till-it-falls-apart-tool”). After

usual practice, directly equivalent ranks and titles such as “Captain” or “Lieutenant” are given as such,

while specifically Klingon titles are translated directly (Specialist, Force Leader) or by convention

(Thought Admiral, Examiner).

The translation ofkuve asservitor may raise eyebrows, especially among my Vulcan readers, but it is a

growing belief among experts on theKomerex Klingon (or at least it was) that the usual translation as

“slave” is not only inaccurate but inflammatory, much as the phrases “Centaurian lover” and “filthy

Ghibelline” of Earth’s past.

Anticipating another Vulcan response: I am not a geneticist, and I have documentation that the practice

oftharavul still exists.

This book would not have been possible without the interest (and frequent forbearance) of two persons.

Dr. Emanuel Tagore’s notes were indispensable, but no more so than Dr. Tagore himself; the brief time I

could spend with him was an education in culture and language, and not only Klingon culture and

language. And it was Mimi Panitch, my editor, who first decided that the Federation was ready for this

story, and then stayed on Earth while I bummed the warp routes to track it down.

Finally, the work is about more than what (may have) happened four decades ago, in the last Babel

Conference to be held on Earth’s surface. Inevitably I come back to Dr. Tagore: “The Organian Peace is

a peace of the biggest guns: it neither requires nor creates any understanding among the parties. In the

absence of that understanding, the most that can be said about the Organian Treaty is that it works.

[18]“For the present.”

Those were his last words to me before his death last year.

I still wonder what he had seen, that we have not.

—JMF/SD 8303.24

Tempt not the stars, young man; thou canst not play

With the severity of fate. ... In thy aspect I note

A consequence of danger.

—fromThe Broken Heart

PART ONE

The Clouded Levels

If there are gods, they do not help, and justice belongs to the strong: but know that all things done before

the naked stars are remembered.

—Klingon proverb

Chapter 1

Tactics

The children of the Empire were arming for the Game.

Vrenn was a Lancer. He tested the adhesion of his thick-soled boots, adjusted a strap and found them

excellent. He flexed his shoulders within their padding—the armor was slightly stiff with newness; he

would have to allow for that.

Vrenn’s Lance still hung on its charge rack. He leaned into the wall cabinet, read full charge on the

indicator, and carefully lifted the weapon out. The Lance was a cylinder of metal and crystal, as thick as

his palm was wide. He rested its blank metal, Null end on the floor, and the glass Active tip just reached

his shoulder. Then he hefted it, spun it, ran his fingers over the controls in the checkout sequence,

watching flashes and listening to answering clicks. The crystal tip glowed blue with neutral charge.

It was a fine Lance, absolutely new like his armor.[26]Vrenn had never before had anything that was

new. He wondered what would happen to these things, after they had won the game ... if there would be

prizes to the victors. He took a deep breath of the prep room’s air, which was warm and deliriously

moist; he lifted his Lance to shoulder-ready and turned around.

Across the room, Dezhe and Rokis were helping each other into Flier rigs, shiny metal harnesses and

glossy boots with spurs. Rokis tightened her left hand inside the control gauntlet, and rose very rapidly,

almost banging her green helmet on the dim ceiling. Dezhe snorted, grabbed one of Rokis’s spurs and

pretended to pull her back down.

“G’dayanew stuff.” That was Ragga, who was struggling his immense bulk into the even greater bulk of

a Blockader’s studded hide armor. “Not ag’dayt crease in it, can’tkhest’n move.” He did a few

squats-and-stretches, looked a little more satisfied, but not much.

“Who said you could move anyway?” Gelly said. Ragga swiped at her; she danced out of the way

without the slightest difficulty. “You’d better not move. You might fall down, and I don’t think the rest of

us together could get you up again.”

Ragga showed his teeth and arched his arms, roared like a stormwalker. Gelly skittered away, laughing.

Ragga was laughing too, a sound not much different from his roar.

Gelly sealed up the front of her uniform, a coverall of shiny green mesh, with gloves and boots of finely

jointed metal on her slender hands and feet. She was the best Swift of their House: the House Proctors

said she might be the best Swift of all the Houses.

Others said other things, about her slimness, her smooth forehead, the lightness of her bones and flesh.

Vrenn felt a little sorry for her: when they were younger, he had called her “Ugly, ugly!” with the others.

But she couldn’t help being ugly, and if it was[27]true that some of her genes were Vulcan or

Romulan—or even Human!—that was not her fault either. He did not think she was part-Human, though.

Vrenn had killed a Human in the Year Games, when he was six, his first intelligent kill, and Humans were

slow, not swift.

There had been the one who called Gellykuveleta: servitor’s half-child. Zharn had killed that one, and

done it well. They had all killed, Zharn and Vrenn and Ragga many different races, but Zharn was the

best.

But they were all the best, Vrenn thought. Their positions had not been randomly chosen, nor they

themselves: of the three hundred residents of House Twenty-Four, they were the nine best atklin zha

kinta, the game with live pieces.

Now Zharn was sitting against the wall of the prep room, in full Fencer’s armor: smooth green plates and

helmet, slender metal staff across his knees. He was humming “Undefeated,” a favorite song of House

Gensa. Segon, a lightly armored Vanguard, was near him, keeping time with his bootheel. A little farther

away, Graade and Voloh, the other Vanguards, held hands and kept harmony.

Zharn began to sing aloud, and in a moment they were all singing.

And though the cold brittles the flesh,

The chain of duty cannot be broken,

For the chain is forged in the heart’s own fire

Which cold cannot extinguish ...

The door opened. In the long corridor beyond, lit greenly by small lamps on the walls, was their Senior

Proctor, old Khidri tai-Gensa. Khidri was nearly forty years old, very wrinkled; he had been a full

Commander in the Navy until vacuum crippled his lungs. Next to him was a Naval officer, in black tunic

and gold dress sash and Commander’s insignia, with medals for ships taken.

[28]Zharn was instantly on his feet. “Green Team, present!”

The players snapped to attention at once, wrists crossed in salute, weapons at ready-arms.

Khidri gave them a slight smile and one short nod. “This is a high day for the HouseGensa,” he said.

“We are chosen to play at the command of Thought Admiral Kethas epetai-Khemara.”

Vrenn felt his chest tighten, but he did not move. None of the Team did. A planner for the entire Navy!

he thought, and knew then that he was right: they were the very best ... and others knew it.

Khidri said, “The Thought Admiral is of course a Grand Master ofklin zha ... this day we must be

worthy of a Grand Master’s play.” In the last was the smallest hint of a threat, or perhaps a warning.

Next to Khidri, the Navy officer stood impassive and rather grim.

“Zharn Gensa, is your Green Team ready?”

“Armed and prepared, Proctor Khidri.”

“Then bring them,” Khidri said, and as he turned around Vrenn thought he saw the Proctor’s smile

widen. Then Vrenn looked at Zharn. The Fencer was nine, a year older than the rest of them, and

seemed the pure image of leadership.

“House Twenty-Four Green Team,” Zharn said, “onward to the victory!”

Theklin zha players filed out of the room, marching in step down the green corridor, singing.

STAR TREK - TOS - 16 - The Final Reflection

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