Star Trek - War Drums Part 1

War Drums.

John Vornholt.

Chapter One.

A CACOPHONY OF bird calls abruptly stilled as three women and three men entered a heavily wooded glade carrying baskets, buckets, blankets, and a.s.sorted hand tools. All six wore simple brown outfits of coa.r.s.e hand-sewn material and heavy boots, befitting settlers in a pristine world. Their voices were subdued, as if in respect for the cathedral-like setting of towering black trees, each about a meter in diameter. The few words that could be heard distinctly were comments about the fine weather, tales about the antics of children, and the sort of small talk any group of neighbors might make.

In the center of the glade two of the women began to brush away the ankle-deep acc.u.mulation of leaves, twigs, and branches that had lain undisturbed on the forest floor since the last heavy rain. Then they carefully laid a blanket on the clearing and began to unpack their picnic baskets. Meanwhile, the other four broke into two groups-two men and a man and a woman. They carried the buckets and tools to the trees and began to inspect the st.u.r.dy trunks. Soon the peace of the forest was broken by hammering as the two teams began to pound sap-catching spigots deep into the trunks of the trees. As the women on the blanket unpacked deviled eggs and sandwiches the other four settlers hung buckets on the spigots and speculated on the quality of the sap they would be harvesting.

Suddenly the idyllic peace was rent by an unearthly screech. A naked figure came leaping out of the trees, landing in the midst of the food. It was hairy, but not hairy enough to be an ape, and there were distinct ridges on the creature's forehead.

One of the women scrambled to escape, but the other reached into the bottom of her picnic basket and pulled out a hand phaser. The creature was evidently prepared for this maneuver and attacked her viciously, knocking her down with one sweeping blow, then pummeling her until she was unconscious. Then the Klingon-that's plainly what it was-began to scoop up every picnic basket, utensil, and morsel of food in sight.

The other humans reacted with alarm, but before they could come to the woman's aid other naked Klingons swarmed out of the woods, screeching and leaping on the humans like a pack of wild dogs. The attack degenerated into a b.l.o.o.d.y battle that made Captain Picard squirm uncomfortably in his cus.h.i.+oned chair, but he never diverted his eyes from the viewscreen. He had seen Klingons behave violently before, but never like this. Klingons were warriors who relished a fight, but they relished the ritual, weaponry, and rules of battle just as much. The scrawny, unkempt Klingons in this visual log were little more than animals-snarling, feral creatures who bit and slashed rather than stood and fought.

The object of their attack was plainly the picnic baskets and supplies, because the first Klingon made off with them as quickly as possible. His comrades were evidently there to make good his escape, because as soon as he was gone they tried to disperse. Three of the humans lay on the ground, not moving, and all were badly bloodied; but one strapping human was not content to let the Klingons escape. He staggered into the woods after them, pulling out a phaser weapon and shooting indiscriminately. One of the Klingons, too small to be anything but a youth, was caught squarely in the back by the glowing beam. He spun and slumped to the ground.

Now the scene s.h.i.+fted-the first obvious edit in the visual log-and the bedraggled Klingon prisoner was led, limping and bruised, into a walled compound. Someone had tied a rag around his waist so that he wasn't completely naked anymore. The welts and bruises on his face could not have been caused by any sort of fall or phaser wound. The boy looked as if he fully expected to die, but his battered face remained proud and defiant. With that expression, thought Picard, he looked like a Klingon, not a beast in the woods.

"End visual," said a deep voice.

The screen blinked off, and the lights came up slightly in the observation lounge of the stars.h.i.+p Enterprise. The large bearded man who had fired the phaser and captured the Klingon youth stood before them. Every seat at the oval table was taken by one of Captain Picard's most trusted subordinates-First Officer Will Riker, Commander Data, Doctor Beverly Crusher, Commander Geordi La Forge, Counselor Deanna Troi, Ensign Ro Laren, Chief O'Brien-but every eye wandered in the direction of the burly security officer who sat at the far end of the table, Lieutenant Worf. The Klingon sat slumped in his seat, still glowering at the blank screen, his breath coming in guttural bursts.

One by one they turned away from Worf, all except for the man standing at the front of the room. Raul Oscaras glared hatefully at the big Klingon.

"Lieutenant Worf," he growled, "do you still deny that we are being attacked by Klingons?"

Worf sat up, his teeth clenched. "No, I do not. It is also evident that you have beaten your captive, in blatant disregard of Starfleet regulations."

"In the year that we have been on Selva," countered Oscaras, "we have been attacked by this roving gang of Klingons forty-two times. We have suffered eleven dead and sixty-nine wounded. Our children cannot leave the compound and play in the beautiful forest that covers our planet-for fear of being killed. Our scientists cannot study the wildlife of Selva, and our healers cannot look for herbs. When we came to Selva we didn't have a single phaser weapon. Now the replicator is working overtime to make them, and only armed parties dare to venture forth. And you think we should coddle these savages?"

Before Worf could respond the captain held up a hand to defuse the situation. "It won't do any good to quarrel among ourselves," he declared. "Mister Oscaras-"

"President Oscaras," the man corrected him.

"President Oscaras," Picard continued, "we sympathize with your plight. New Reykjavik is a Federation colony, and Starfleet sent us here to resolve this problem. Whatever you may think of Klingons at the moment, I can a.s.sure you those are not typical Klingons. I have spent considerable time among Klingons, and I've never seen them act like that. They're warriors, yes, but they have strict codes of behavior and a great deal of pride. They do not behave like wild animals."

His jaw clenched, Oscaras gazed out the observation window at the stunning expanse of stars. "I wish you could hear their drums," he murmured. "They play them for hours on end, all night, while our children cry and no one sleeps. We've tried to hunt them down, but they're part of the forest. They sleep in the trees or burrow in the ground. Despite what you say, Captain, they are animals, and you must help us hunt them down."

"I don't understand this," said Riker, leaning forward impatiently. "The Federation only sponsors colonies on uninhabited planets. Were the Klingons there when you arrived, or did they come later?"

The big man scowled. "We scouted Selva for three years, along with other planets. There was no evidence of sentient beings, past or present. You can check the studies. But now that we realize how the Klingons blend into the forest-and how they live like animals-we know they were hiding from us.

"For the first few months," he continued, "there were no outward signs, just a few things missing every now and then. There are nonsentient animals on the planet, and we a.s.sumed chucks or sloths took the food. Then they became bolder, and the attacks started. Always. .h.i.t-and-run. They never tried to make contact or anything. They just started attacking and stealing what they wanted."

Picard nodded grimly, "Then our first order of business is to find out where they came from." He turned to Worf. "Lieutenant, I suggest you contact the Klingon High Command and find out how there came to be Klingons on Selva."

Worf stirred, as if awakening from a private reverie. "Yes, sir," he said, standing. "With your permission, I will undertake that investigation immediately."

"Make it so," replied Picard.

Worf, with obvious relief, left the observation lounge. No sooner had the door shut behind him then Raul Oscaras leaned across the conference table.

"Captain Picard," he said, "if I may speak frankly, I don't believe your Klingon can be trusted in this matter."

Tight-lipped, Jean-Luc Picard glared at his guest. "First of all, President Oscaras, he is not my Klingon. He's Starfleet's Klingon and a valuable member of this crew. I can a.s.sure you he's no happier about these developments than you are. Secondly, if we establish the fact that the Klingons arrived on Selva before the settlers, then you have violated the Prime Directive by establis.h.i.+ng an open settlement on an inhabited planet."

"We didn't know!" protested Oscaras.

Data c.o.c.ked his head and observed, "Ignorance is no excuse for the violation of law."

"G.o.d help me!" moaned Oscaras. "Out of all the s.h.i.+ps in the fleet, why did they send you?" His angry gaze moved from Data to Ensign Ro, who self-consciously touched the bony ridge between her eyes. "Half the crew isn't human!"

"No," replied Ensign Ro, "but we make do."

Will Riker smiled slightly before his expression turned serious. "President Oscaras," he warned, "I wouldn't continue with this line of thought. Every day the Federation encompa.s.ses more species who aren't human, some who aren't even humanoid. Your settlement may be one hundred percent human, but your planet obviously isn't."

The burly man sighed and lowered his head. "I apologize," he muttered. "When you've been the victim of guerrilla warfare for months on end you get a little ... irrational. You've got to help us find some sort of solution."

Captain Picard nodded and got up from the table. "We will," he promised. "Right now it's night on your part of the planet, and you probably want to return to your people. Let us conduct our research, and a party will beam down in the morning."

Oscaras bowed, "Thank you, Captain."

"Chief O'Brien is our transporter operator. He'll make sure you get home all right."

"Right this way," said O'Brien, motioning to the door.

"One thing," asked Deanna Troi, "is the captured Klingon available to talk with?"

"Yes," replied Oscaras. "But he won't talk. We've tried both the universal translator and sign language."

"Perhaps we'll have better luck," the Betazoid remarked.

After O'Brien had led their angry visitor out of the lounge the captain turned to his a.s.sembled crew. "I would welcome suggestions," he said.

Data replied, "I would like to a.s.sist Lieutenant Worf, if I may."

"Absolutely," said Picard. "Check Starfleet records, too, in case there was a distress signal or other sign of missing Klingons in this sector."

Geordi volunteered, "I'm going to run a complete scan of that planet. Maybe there are other things they don't know about."

"Ensign Ro will a.s.sist you," said the captain. He shook his head troubledly. "Beverly, what were your impressions of that ... incident?"

The red-haired doctor frowned, "One thing bothers me. To get that video log, they must've set up an observation post outside the compound. Then to show up in that exact place with a picnic lunch? Did you see how thin and undernourished those Klingons are? It was almost like they were inviting an attack."

"They knew we were coming," said Deanna Troi. "They wanted to have proof. I sense that President Oscaras is an extremely clever man. He may have used these attacks to solidify his control over the colony."

"Yes," said Picard. "And they took their time notifying Starfleet. Number One, you and I will go on the away team. Who else?"

Riker glanced around the room and answered, "Counselor Troi, Doctor Crusher, and Data. Normally I would say Worf, but-"

"But," agreed Picard, "until we find out how many others think like President Oscaras, we had better spare Lieutenant Worf. Ensign Ro, I would like you to accompany us."

The slim Bajoran nodded curtly. "Thank you, sir."

"Very well," said Picard, "the away team will a.s.semble in ten hours in transporter room three."

"Get some sleep, everybody," said Doctor Crusher. "We may need our wits down there."

Worf grunted impatiently, not hiding his irritation with the archivist who had put him on pause, as signified by the jagged Klingon insignia on the viewscreen of his weapons console. He had to admit Klingons were not the best or most conscientious record keepers, and those who chose that unpopular profession often became arrogant beyond belief. This gangly librarian was so surly he could put the meanest Klingon a.s.sa.s.sin to shame.

The screen blipped on, and the archivist slid back into his seat and said snidely, "The information you want is cla.s.sified. We cannot release this information to the Federation. You must apply through security channels or receive authorization from the council."

"I only want information on a few refugees," Worf muttered. "It was ten years ago, when there was a series of Romulan attacks on the Kapor'At colonies."

"All of those colonies were deserted, and the Kapor'At abandoned," the archivist interjected.

"Yes, I know," groaned Worf, trying to suppress his anger. "That information is in the Federation histories. But what happened to the refugees from those attacks? Could they have gone to the Plyrana system? It's directly between Kapor'At and the home planets."

With boredom the clerk intoned, "There was a negotiated settlement with the Romulans, and one of the agreements was that the records be cla.s.sified."

Worf growled, "But everyone knows about it! It's in the Federation histories. There must have been some accounting of the refugees and the missing."

"There is," agreed the clerk, "but it's cla.s.sified."

As Worf was about to detonate with anger Data stepped to his side and c.o.c.ked his head at the screen. "Good day," said Data.

"Who are you?" asked the Klingon archivist.

"Lieutenant Commander Data," answered the android. "Are you aware that article 749.3 of the Klingon/Federation Alliance states that the Klingon Empire and the Federation will freely exchange any and all information pertaining to the rescue and safety of stranded refugees? We are attempting to rescue Klingons made homeless by armed hostility with the Romulans, and this supersedes any security designation."

"Are you sure about that?" the Klingon asked doubtfully.

"You claim to be an archivist," said Data, "look it up."

"The information you want is ten years old," muttered the Klingon. "How can you be trying to rescue them now?"

"How can you be trying to prevent them from being rescued?" asked Data.

The clerk scowled. "Open your data channel-I am transmitting the records now. I would appreciate your keeping it confidential." The screen went blank.

Worf hurriedly punched in the command to receive a subs.p.a.ce transmission, noted verification, then settled back on his heels. He glanced at Data and nodded. "Thank you. You knew exactly what to say to him."

"I understand the way bureaucrats think," said the android. "Like myself, they are most comfortable with set rules and regulations."

"Unlike you," replied Worf, "they don't want to think for themselves."

"Thank you," said Data, "I will take that as a compliment. What do you expect to find?"

"I've reviewed the visual log twice, stopping it at several points, and I estimate the oldest of those Klingons to be about fifteen in terran years. I saw no adults. The way they behave, as the captain tried to explain, is atypical."

"Unless they were raised without the benefit of Klingon heritage," added Data, "to channel their aggressive tendencies."

"Exactly," agreed Worf. "When there's a war it's customary for Klingons to send the youngest children away while everyone else remains to fight. To the death, if need be. Therefore, I began by looking for hostilities involving Klingon colonies in a time period of about ten years ago. The Kapor'At solar system was settled by Klingons, even though the Romulans claim it, as they do everything. Conflict was inevitable, and the Romulans initiated a series of raids that eventually led to the Klingons abandoning the solar system. Federation records mention the conflict and the settlement, but there are no details about escape vessels and refugees. Kapor'At lies only forty-two light-years from here, and it is possible that an escape vessel might have reached Selva."

Data nodded and glanced at Worf's console. "The transmission is complete," he observed. "Would you like me to review the records? I could do it in five percent of the time it would take you."

"Very well," agreed Worf. "I shall try to sleep before the away team goes tomorrow."

Data turned to a console behind Worf and punched up the freshly received information. "You are not going on the away team," he remarked.

"I'm not?" asked Worf with surprise.

"The captain wanted to determine the depth of anti-Klingon sentiment before subjecting you to it," said Data, scrolling through dense screens of information nearly as fast as the computer could display them.

"Perhaps I should thank him," muttered Worf. He glanced around the bridge but saw only replacement crew members, all of whom were concentrating on maintaining the orbit around Selva. "Once humans have made up their minds to hate Klingons, there isn't much that can be done."

"The reverse is true as well," answered the android. "Despite seventy years of peace, conditioned antipathy is a strong emotion. Here, I believe I have isolated the information you seek."

Data stepped back and allowed Worf to peer at his screen. "At the height of the attacks," the Klingon read aloud, "the Der'Nath colony put forty-eight young children on a freighter bound for Kling. But they never reached it. No wreckage was ever recovered, and the freighter was presumed destroyed by the Romulans."

"I believe your theory is correct," said Data. "If the freighter was only crippled by the Romulans, it might have reached this solar system."

"It was chunDab cla.s.s," added Worf, "which means it could have entered the atmosphere of Selva. The children ranged in age from infants to six, which matches the ages of the Klingons in that visual. The pilot would have looked for the first available land, which means it is logical they landed near the coastline."

"If they were proven to be the survivors of the freighter," asked Data, "what would be official Klingon policy in this matter?"

Worf frowned. "That's difficult to say. The way this entire incident has been hushed up and the records cla.s.sified, I would guess that the council must be ashamed of the way they capitulated to the Romulans. Perhaps the Romulans bought them off or made some sort of secret deal for Kapor'At. As you know, Romulans and certain Klingon factions have been known to bargain in secret, and this occurred during a very unstable time for the empire."

Data concluded, "You are saying they may not wish to have the survivors found and everyone reminded of what happened at Kapor'At."

Worf nodded thoughtfully. "I think we should wake the captain."

Captain Picard sat on the side of his bed with a beige robe wrapped around his wiry body. He listened intently as information, theories, and conclusions about the mysterious Klingon youths were related to him by Worf and Data. He strode to the computer console in his quarters and read the formerly cla.s.sified records himself.

"We can operate under the a.s.sumption that these are the missing children," he agreed, "but unless we find the wreckage of that freighter or we identify the children through their medical records, it's just a theory."

"Captain," said Worf, "it's imperative that we talk to their captive. He is the key."

"Oscaras doesn't know it yet," said Picard, "but we're going to try to have the boy released in our custody. For his own safety, if nothing else."

"I know I'm not a member of tomorrow's away team," remarked Worf, "but sooner or later someone will have to go down to that planet and locate those youths. I am the logical choice."