Darko Cernovsek
Soul Of Vengeance
// Story takes place in the Star Trek universe, original timeline (before the newfangled Abramsverse crap arbitrary rewriting of the lore, which I don't recognise as canon), circa a month or two before the events of the movie Star Trek IV Undiscovered Country //
ANDORIA, NORTHERN WASTES - LANDING-MINUS-ONE-HOUR
Late 2293...
Surface temperature: -17C
"I am not interested in the names of your fathers, nor of your family's lineage. What I am interested in - is your breaking point."
General Chang's oft-repeated proclamation echoed in Warrior G'jnok's mind, as he and five of his brothers-in-arms doggedly pushed through the ever-thickening snow, following a heat-trail that the orbiting battlecruiser picked up, prior to transporting them to the surface of this miserable frozen world. The Andorian vessel in orbit, and their Starfleet escorts, were easily dispatched by a surprise attack. But not before they transported their precious cargo down to the surface. The Empire could not allow them to escape with the cargo. No matter the cost.
How any species could thrive in this chill, was beyond the young Klingon's understanding. Even clad in thick winter Qok-hide clothing, coveralls, gloves, and boots, and handpicked amongst the crew of the I.K.S Bargh as the ones most familiar with survival in cold environment... this was beyond anything any of them have ever experienced, even during training exercises in the unforgiving wastes of No-Mat and the frozen plateaus of Rura Penthe. There, the temperature was bitingly cold, yet manageable, to a point. Here... it was a frozen, deathly hellscape. For most species, including those simpering, self righteous, peace-loving Humans, hell was supposed to be a boiling inferno. For the Klingons, with their physiological aversion to cold... this planet would be the closest manifestation of it. Of Grethor.
The coldness of this place, was like a living entity, attempting to drain the life out of them with every ragged breath they took, as it threatened to freeze their lungs, if they kept their mouths open any longer then strictly needed for a shallow, quick inhale. For over an hour, their standard-issue heating units burning out half an hour ago, unable to cope with the intense chill, the six Klingons have braved this frozen purgatory, with no end, or sign of their quarry, in sight. And the snow was like a physical enemy, grabbing at their legs and feet, clutching at them like an invisible, foul spirit of Grethor, attempting to pull them to a most dishonourable of deaths. Not in battle, but dying helplessly, frozen... powerless before the might of nature.
Defeated. By themselves and their... inadequacy.
The mere thought of that, was difficult to stomach, for any Klingon's pride. Yet for all of their ruggedness - the cold was their worst foe.
In'ar stumbled, momentarily losing balance, the woman's breathing becoming downright painful to listen to. The amount of wet gurgling, and racking coughs emanating from her throat was indicative of a developing inflamation. G'jnok caught her, before she could plop face-down into the snow. Her bat'leth dropped from her numbed, frostbitten fingers, as her arms shuddered uncontrollably, indicative of inadequate circulation. With their two hearts, dense musculature, and overdeveloped circulatory system, the Klingons required far more oxygen then most species, to sustain sufficient levels of metabolic activity. Here... they were just not getting it, as normal breathing was impossible, for fear of lungs freezing over.
"Gah! Th--ttth-- this place... kkkhhhh..." - she doubled-over, caughing wetly, saliva dropping on the snow and being frozen there instantly, before she willfully straightened again, in defiance of her weakness, brutally punching at her knees to will them to move, before she picked up - with considerable difficulty - her weapon from the snow, "...is unfit... ff... for a warrior!"
"Guy'cha! Do not let your mind... succumb to your body's weakness!" - G'jnok admonished her, holding her tightly as she got her bearings again, in a firm tone, but with a definitive undetone of concern beyond typical Klingon gruffness. She nodded, giving him a fierce, crooked-toothed grin that somehow lacked - conviction, as she continued stumbling forward, her breathing slowly, but surely, turning into cut-off gasping, that she desperately tried to hide.
Truth be told... he felt it deep in his bones, and felt it, as each breath of his own, became minutely shorter... and shorter. The cold permeating, weakening him, clutching at his hearts... and looking in the eyes of the rest as they slogged forward, he saw the same... fear. Fear, and rage. Not of death, or their enemy, whom he assumed was hiding out here, biding their time to strike them at their weakest... but fear of dishonour. Rage at their impending fate, on this frozen hellhole.
Fear. An anathema.
It was nearly incomprehensible. Fear, was an emotion of the inferior species. Fear of death, fear of pain, fear of strife and hardship. Fear, and lack of it, was what set the Klingons apart. They knew no fear, and because of that, they would one day conquer the galaxy! But this was different. Dying here, to the elements, before even laying eyes on their enemy, and facing them in battle, would mean an eternity of damnation in Grethor. Not just for them, but for seven generations of their family down the line. A dishonourable death - the only thing a Klingon ever truly feared.
Yet they could not go back. Their orders were clear. Hunt down the fugitives, recover the cargo - or die trying. Nor could they request relief supplies and additional portable heaters... it took all of the Bargh's power, to even find a transport corridor to beam them down through all the atmospheric interference. Until the gale force winds sweeping the upper atmosphere of the planet, calmed down a bit, there would be no chance of a beamout. They were very much on their own.
***
A nearby cave, shielded from orbital scans...
"Lock-on range confirmed. 331 meters. Six lifeforms, reading Klingon. Out in the open." - a Starfleet ensign reported, peering intently at his tricorder's screen. The Vulcan's left eyebrow shot upwards, as he lifted his gaze.
"Curious. Their lifesigns read - unstable."
One of the Andorians chuckled at that, his antennae curving slightly.
"They picked the wrong world to come down to. Andoria will be their death, before we even need to lift a finger. A fitting epitaph on the headstone of their unyielding warrior's pride."
A female human lieutenant gave him an evaluative look.
"That's cold, Yrin. Even for you." - before she smirked. "Not that they don't deserve it, though. Of course, dealing with that battlecruiser in orbit will be a different story." - her smirk vanished.
"One step at a time, I suppose..." - she added a thought.
***
LANDING-MINUS-90-MINUTES
Korgh suddenly let out a choked-off sound, instantly-frozen-over foam coming out of his mouth, before the large Klingon plopped down on his knees, looking to his comrades like a collapsing giant, swallowed by snow. The largest and fiercest of them... yet his hearts could no longer take it. G'jnok and one of the others rushed over, with fading In'ar bringing up the rear, but it was too late. All they could see in their friend's rapidly-frozen-over gaze, was the final look of the damned. A man who had accepted his fate.
"N-no..." - the man next to G'jnok muttered. As G'jnok looked at him, his gaze widened. There was an expression of utter panic, on the other Klingon's face, as that man dropped his bat'leth.
"NOOOOOO! Huy' koh-sa! HUY' KOH-SA!" - that one howled into the snowy landscape, stumbling over into the haze, as his mind snapped.
"Kerka! KERKA, WAIT! WAI--kkkhh..." - G'jnok's voice broke down, as a sudden wet cough racked him. To his chagrin, he looked at his own hand, and saw it shuddering, uncontrollably, barely able to hold his own weapon, All he could do, is gaze helplessly after his longtime comrade, as the mad Klingon vanished into the snowscape, his final howl of desperation sounding like a chilling wail from Grethor.
He could feel In'ar's touch on his shoulder. Almost afraid to look up at the woman, and see the same... madness... in her eyes, G'jnok reluctantly lifted his gaze. But her eyes, though bloodshot and pain-racked, were clear with unexpected - kindness. But behind that sudden uncharacteristic sentimentality, G'jnok could see the same - resignation. She knew that these were their final hours.
"If...kkh... if there is... honour... to be..." - she paused, coughing, "... to be... hhhkkh... found here, we will have to... find it without him. Or perhaps..." - she paused there, stumbling slightly, supporting himself against him, as she briefly touched the d'kh'tag at his belt, "...by our own hands." - significantly, cupping his half-frozen cheek in her trembling hand, briefly, before her expression hardened and she abruptly turned away, her pride taking over once more, and continued marching through the snow.
His eyes widened, ever-so-slightly, as he gazed after her momentarily. But then he nodded, almost imperceptibly. The Hegh'bat. A ritual suicide that was reserved only for those, who could no longer face their enemies as Klingons, but still wished to retain a shred of honour in their passing.
"And truly, if our enemies chose this moment to strike, would any of us yet be able to face them as Klingons? Or would we simply be lambs for their blades?" - he thought, miserably. His numbed hands could barely grip his weapon, nevermind use it.
Neither himself nor In'ar had any relatives left, who were normally required to perform the ritual suicide. Not back on the Bargh, not on Qo'onos. For months now, the young warrior had been taken by her, entertaining notions of pursuing her as his Par'mach. He even got the vague impression she was somewhat interested - she had not stabbed him after his declarations of affection - but he hadn't yet had the opportunity to explore the possibilities with her. And now... it was too late. Yet, at least they would be able to grant each other this small honour, in death.
Glancing at the other two, whose expressions ranged between resigned, terrified, and despondent, as their own breathing was now outright gasping - all he could do was keep marching. To whatever end.
***
LANDING-MINUS-TWO HOURS
The dusty, snowy whiteness stretched for eternity. Through his one remaining functional eye - the other had been frozen-shut, destroyed - G'jnok could just glimpse the vague shapes of a mountain range in the distance. He was weaponless, his bat'leth dropped somewhere behind, in the snow, him not even noticing, as his hands had lost most of the feeling in them. His faint, ragged breath was like a whisper of death, hissingly leaving his cracked-over, half-frozen lips.
"...the worst is death. And death, will have his day."
Chang was wrong, the young warrior decided. Death was not the worst. Dishonour was worse. It was now, or never. Glancing over to the side, at In'ar, the only one still standing, he didn't have the breath left to speak. He caught her gaze, and only nodded, slowly. The woman looked like a frozen corpse. Her once-fiercely-bronzed, scarred skin pale almost as the snow around them, face covered in reddish frostbitten, cracked pustules, shuddering uncontrollably, her own breathing now little more then tortured gasps, her tongue - gone. Frostbitten, before she had to rip it out of her own mouth, to keep from choking on it.
Yet her two still-functional eyes retained the same determination, as she pointed shakily at his d'kh'tag, then her own, her other numb hand reaching over, to grip him by the collar of his thick-yet-useless Qok-hide jacket. Then she nodded, in return.
Facing each-other, the two dropped in unison to their knees. Through sheer force of will, G'jnok willed one of his hands to close it's fingers around the hilt of his dagger, as he pulled it out. The woman used both of her hands, to do the same with hers. She almost dropped it... but managed to bring it to his throat, as he brought his, to hers.
The moment stretched, as their gazes never left each-other's. Then with twin howls of defiance, at the freezing death around them, the two Klingons hugged one another tightly, their dagger-hands pressing inward, at each other's throats. Purplish-red blood flowed, frozen almost instantly as soon as it left their bodies, as they collapsed to the snowy ground. G'jnok's last living thought was - that he and In'ar had both found their breaking points.
But it didn't break them. They remained Klingon, to the end.
THE END
ANDORIA, NORTHERN WASTES - LANDING-MINUS-ONE-HOUR
Late 2293...
Surface temperature: -17C
"I am not interested in the names of your fathers, nor of your family's lineage. What I am interested in - is your breaking point."
General Chang's oft-repeated proclamation echoed in Warrior G'jnok's mind, as he and five of his brothers-in-arms doggedly pushed through the ever-thickening snow, following a heat-trail that the orbiting battlecruiser picked up, prior to transporting them to the surface of this miserable frozen world. The Andorian vessel in orbit, and their Starfleet escorts, were easily dispatched by a surprise attack. But not before they transported their precious cargo down to the surface. The Empire could not allow them to escape with the cargo. No matter the cost.
How any species could thrive in this chill, was beyond the young Klingon's understanding. Even clad in thick winter Qok-hide clothing, coveralls, gloves, and boots, and handpicked amongst the crew of the I.K.S Bargh as the ones most familiar with survival in cold environment... this was beyond anything any of them have ever experienced, even during training exercises in the unforgiving wastes of No-Mat and the frozen plateaus of Rura Penthe. There, the temperature was bitingly cold, yet manageable, to a point. Here... it was a frozen, deathly hellscape. For most species, including those simpering, self righteous, peace-loving Humans, hell was supposed to be a boiling inferno. For the Klingons, with their physiological aversion to cold... this planet would be the closest manifestation of it. Of Grethor.
The coldness of this place, was like a living entity, attempting to drain the life out of them with every ragged breath they took, as it threatened to freeze their lungs, if they kept their mouths open any longer then strictly needed for a shallow, quick inhale. For over an hour, their standard-issue heating units burning out half an hour ago, unable to cope with the intense chill, the six Klingons have braved this frozen purgatory, with no end, or sign of their quarry, in sight. And the snow was like a physical enemy, grabbing at their legs and feet, clutching at them like an invisible, foul spirit of Grethor, attempting to pull them to a most dishonourable of deaths. Not in battle, but dying helplessly, frozen... powerless before the might of nature.
Defeated. By themselves and their... inadequacy.
The mere thought of that, was difficult to stomach, for any Klingon's pride. Yet for all of their ruggedness - the cold was their worst foe.
In'ar stumbled, momentarily losing balance, the woman's breathing becoming downright painful to listen to. The amount of wet gurgling, and racking coughs emanating from her throat was indicative of a developing inflamation. G'jnok caught her, before she could plop face-down into the snow. Her bat'leth dropped from her numbed, frostbitten fingers, as her arms shuddered uncontrollably, indicative of inadequate circulation. With their two hearts, dense musculature, and overdeveloped circulatory system, the Klingons required far more oxygen then most species, to sustain sufficient levels of metabolic activity. Here... they were just not getting it, as normal breathing was impossible, for fear of lungs freezing over.
"Gah! Th--ttth-- this place... kkkhhhh..." - she doubled-over, caughing wetly, saliva dropping on the snow and being frozen there instantly, before she willfully straightened again, in defiance of her weakness, brutally punching at her knees to will them to move, before she picked up - with considerable difficulty - her weapon from the snow, "...is unfit... ff... for a warrior!"
"Guy'cha! Do not let your mind... succumb to your body's weakness!" - G'jnok admonished her, holding her tightly as she got her bearings again, in a firm tone, but with a definitive undetone of concern beyond typical Klingon gruffness. She nodded, giving him a fierce, crooked-toothed grin that somehow lacked - conviction, as she continued stumbling forward, her breathing slowly, but surely, turning into cut-off gasping, that she desperately tried to hide.
Truth be told... he felt it deep in his bones, and felt it, as each breath of his own, became minutely shorter... and shorter. The cold permeating, weakening him, clutching at his hearts... and looking in the eyes of the rest as they slogged forward, he saw the same... fear. Fear, and rage. Not of death, or their enemy, whom he assumed was hiding out here, biding their time to strike them at their weakest... but fear of dishonour. Rage at their impending fate, on this frozen hellhole.
Fear. An anathema.
It was nearly incomprehensible. Fear, was an emotion of the inferior species. Fear of death, fear of pain, fear of strife and hardship. Fear, and lack of it, was what set the Klingons apart. They knew no fear, and because of that, they would one day conquer the galaxy! But this was different. Dying here, to the elements, before even laying eyes on their enemy, and facing them in battle, would mean an eternity of damnation in Grethor. Not just for them, but for seven generations of their family down the line. A dishonourable death - the only thing a Klingon ever truly feared.
Yet they could not go back. Their orders were clear. Hunt down the fugitives, recover the cargo - or die trying. Nor could they request relief supplies and additional portable heaters... it took all of the Bargh's power, to even find a transport corridor to beam them down through all the atmospheric interference. Until the gale force winds sweeping the upper atmosphere of the planet, calmed down a bit, there would be no chance of a beamout. They were very much on their own.
***
A nearby cave, shielded from orbital scans...
"Lock-on range confirmed. 331 meters. Six lifeforms, reading Klingon. Out in the open." - a Starfleet ensign reported, peering intently at his tricorder's screen. The Vulcan's left eyebrow shot upwards, as he lifted his gaze.
"Curious. Their lifesigns read - unstable."
One of the Andorians chuckled at that, his antennae curving slightly.
"They picked the wrong world to come down to. Andoria will be their death, before we even need to lift a finger. A fitting epitaph on the headstone of their unyielding warrior's pride."
A female human lieutenant gave him an evaluative look.
"That's cold, Yrin. Even for you." - before she smirked. "Not that they don't deserve it, though. Of course, dealing with that battlecruiser in orbit will be a different story." - her smirk vanished.
"One step at a time, I suppose..." - she added a thought.
***
LANDING-MINUS-90-MINUTES
Korgh suddenly let out a choked-off sound, instantly-frozen-over foam coming out of his mouth, before the large Klingon plopped down on his knees, looking to his comrades like a collapsing giant, swallowed by snow. The largest and fiercest of them... yet his hearts could no longer take it. G'jnok and one of the others rushed over, with fading In'ar bringing up the rear, but it was too late. All they could see in their friend's rapidly-frozen-over gaze, was the final look of the damned. A man who had accepted his fate.
"N-no..." - the man next to G'jnok muttered. As G'jnok looked at him, his gaze widened. There was an expression of utter panic, on the other Klingon's face, as that man dropped his bat'leth.
"NOOOOOO! Huy' koh-sa! HUY' KOH-SA!" - that one howled into the snowy landscape, stumbling over into the haze, as his mind snapped.
"Kerka! KERKA, WAIT! WAI--kkkhh..." - G'jnok's voice broke down, as a sudden wet cough racked him. To his chagrin, he looked at his own hand, and saw it shuddering, uncontrollably, barely able to hold his own weapon, All he could do, is gaze helplessly after his longtime comrade, as the mad Klingon vanished into the snowscape, his final howl of desperation sounding like a chilling wail from Grethor.
He could feel In'ar's touch on his shoulder. Almost afraid to look up at the woman, and see the same... madness... in her eyes, G'jnok reluctantly lifted his gaze. But her eyes, though bloodshot and pain-racked, were clear with unexpected - kindness. But behind that sudden uncharacteristic sentimentality, G'jnok could see the same - resignation. She knew that these were their final hours.
"If...kkh... if there is... honour... to be..." - she paused, coughing, "... to be... hhhkkh... found here, we will have to... find it without him. Or perhaps..." - she paused there, stumbling slightly, supporting himself against him, as she briefly touched the d'kh'tag at his belt, "...by our own hands." - significantly, cupping his half-frozen cheek in her trembling hand, briefly, before her expression hardened and she abruptly turned away, her pride taking over once more, and continued marching through the snow.
His eyes widened, ever-so-slightly, as he gazed after her momentarily. But then he nodded, almost imperceptibly. The Hegh'bat. A ritual suicide that was reserved only for those, who could no longer face their enemies as Klingons, but still wished to retain a shred of honour in their passing.
"And truly, if our enemies chose this moment to strike, would any of us yet be able to face them as Klingons? Or would we simply be lambs for their blades?" - he thought, miserably. His numbed hands could barely grip his weapon, nevermind use it.
Neither himself nor In'ar had any relatives left, who were normally required to perform the ritual suicide. Not back on the Bargh, not on Qo'onos. For months now, the young warrior had been taken by her, entertaining notions of pursuing her as his Par'mach. He even got the vague impression she was somewhat interested - she had not stabbed him after his declarations of affection - but he hadn't yet had the opportunity to explore the possibilities with her. And now... it was too late. Yet, at least they would be able to grant each other this small honour, in death.
Glancing at the other two, whose expressions ranged between resigned, terrified, and despondent, as their own breathing was now outright gasping - all he could do was keep marching. To whatever end.
***
LANDING-MINUS-TWO HOURS
The dusty, snowy whiteness stretched for eternity. Through his one remaining functional eye - the other had been frozen-shut, destroyed - G'jnok could just glimpse the vague shapes of a mountain range in the distance. He was weaponless, his bat'leth dropped somewhere behind, in the snow, him not even noticing, as his hands had lost most of the feeling in them. His faint, ragged breath was like a whisper of death, hissingly leaving his cracked-over, half-frozen lips.
"...the worst is death. And death, will have his day."
Chang was wrong, the young warrior decided. Death was not the worst. Dishonour was worse. It was now, or never. Glancing over to the side, at In'ar, the only one still standing, he didn't have the breath left to speak. He caught her gaze, and only nodded, slowly. The woman looked like a frozen corpse. Her once-fiercely-bronzed, scarred skin pale almost as the snow around them, face covered in reddish frostbitten, cracked pustules, shuddering uncontrollably, her own breathing now little more then tortured gasps, her tongue - gone. Frostbitten, before she had to rip it out of her own mouth, to keep from choking on it.
Yet her two still-functional eyes retained the same determination, as she pointed shakily at his d'kh'tag, then her own, her other numb hand reaching over, to grip him by the collar of his thick-yet-useless Qok-hide jacket. Then she nodded, in return.
Facing each-other, the two dropped in unison to their knees. Through sheer force of will, G'jnok willed one of his hands to close it's fingers around the hilt of his dagger, as he pulled it out. The woman used both of her hands, to do the same with hers. She almost dropped it... but managed to bring it to his throat, as he brought his, to hers.
The moment stretched, as their gazes never left each-other's. Then with twin howls of defiance, at the freezing death around them, the two Klingons hugged one another tightly, their dagger-hands pressing inward, at each other's throats. Purplish-red blood flowed, frozen almost instantly as soon as it left their bodies, as they collapsed to the snowy ground. G'jnok's last living thought was - that he and In'ar had both found their breaking points.
But it didn't break them. They remained Klingon, to the end.
THE END