Claws 12

Ronnie
  So, OK, I'm conflicted about these guys.

On the one hand, gratifyingly quick response to pre-teen girl shrieking her head off, whole bunch of them came running to help, highly commendable, good citizens and all that. On the other hand, they are holding sharp things up against my throat, so maybe they won't make my Christmas card list this year. Like I say, I'm conflicted.

They've taken the four of us to what looks like your typical Dark Ages manor house, lots of elaborate wood carving, and what I swear are mullioned windows, and I don't even want to think about what the sanitary facilities must be like. We're being - well, not dragged, exactly, but definitely a bit more than escorted - into what looks like a throne room, complete with a throne. At least, an impressively decorated big chair, with an ill-looking elderly Klingon sitting in it.

They are clearly Klingons */*species 5008*/*, still, these people. Maybe not the warrior-culture Klingons half the galaxy knows and doesn't love, but still the same species. However, they're clearly not a warrior culture, as I can tell from the lousy way they're guarding us.

OK, so three of them have blades held pretty much right up against my jugular, remember not to nod too vigorously, Ronnie. But they haven't even taken my phaser - maybe they don't recognize it as a weapon. They haven't taken Tylha's phaser, either, and nobody seems to be keeping an eye on her at all, much less a blade.

They have taken R'j's two disruptors and Rrueo's single one. But if the */*species 10118*/* include telekinetics, like Tylha says they do, I'd be surprised if R'j wasn't one of them. As for Rrueo - well, quite. They've taken a disruptor pistol off the six foot tall genetically augmented hunting cat. I'm sure we all feel much safer for that.

Also, the blades they're holding on me are traditional Klingon mek'leths, and if there was a competition for the most elaborately useless hand weapon ever devised, the mek'leth would at least get an honourable mention. The fancy curved shape means you can't stab with it, it's too heavy in the blade to fence with it effectively, and those projecting tines and spikes will snag on everything in sight. Putting a hand grip on a bit of scrap metal does not turn it into an effective weapon. But they are spiky and shiny, so you can sell them to Klinks. Even, apparently, pacifist Klinks.

Not that these guys look particularly pacifist just now. Especially one of them, standing behind the ill-looking guy on the throne, and fingering a mek'leth in a way that suggests somebody's going to get hurt pretty soon.

Wish I knew what I'd done to upset these people. Normally, I have to work at it a bit before things get this bad.

"It is true," throne-guy says. "It is the Grau."

"Well, um," I say, "I'm certainly a Grau, but let's not jump to any conclusions yet, shall we?"

"Steadholder Sharm," R'j pipes up.

Throne-guy fixes her with a glare. "You were with - those who came before. I remember you."

"Steadholder, she spoke for us," the kid chimes in. Well, at least I didn't scare her quite speechless. "I believe she does not mean us harm."

Throne-guy looks less than convinced. "You have a good heart, Nejje," he says. "But, at the very least, this one chooses her friends unwisely. First the Klingons, and now -" he waves a hand at me.

"Look," I say, a bit more plaintively than I meant to, "can someone at least tell me what I'm meant to have done?"

Throne-guy turns to the mek'leth-fingering head case. "Fetch the book of prophecy," he orders. Oh boy. No way is this going to turn out well, I can feel it in my water.

"Steadholder, may I speak?" Tylha. She's trying to sound sensible. Actually, she probably is the most sensible person in the room, not that the competition is all that stiff. Throne-guy looks at her a bit uncertainly, but nods. "Thank you," says Tylha. "Steadholder, after the attack on your people by my associate here -" she indicates R'j "- she attempted to make contact with my people, for reasons I'm not sure she's completely explained. I represent the United Federation of Planets. We are not allies of the Klingon Empire, in fact we're currently at war with the Klingons."

"So, why are you here?" asks throne-guy. His angry-looking sidekick has sloped off, presumably fetching this book of prophecy. Damn it, that is bound to be bad news. "Do you, too, seek to use our world for military advantage?"

"That - might be a factor, I have to admit it." No, you stiffnecked blue goon, you don't, damn it. "At the very least, we would want to be sure the Klingons are unable to gain a military advantage - but, beyond that...." Tylha takes a step forward. "There's a mystery here, and the more we investigate, the stranger it gets. We're not like the Klingons - yes, we will fight in our own defence, but we are primarily explorers and scientists, not warriors. We want to know what's happening here." She glances at me. "All the more so because it seems to involve my friend here. Steadholder, I know this woman and I would vouch for her, as a fellow officer and as a friend. I don't understand why you should - react so strongly to her."

"She is the Grau," the Steadholder says. "It is written in the book of prophecy - ah, Tallaun returns." With the book in one hand and his mek'leth in the other. He'll have someone's eye out with that thing if he's not careful. "Let me show you."

He stands up, slowly, and takes the book from his surly underling. It's an old-fashioned book, not a datapad or something; looks like it's bound in leather. It's not very big. He opens it, flicks through a couple of pages, and then says, "There." He holds it up, the page facing us.

The full-page illustration is obviously hand-drawn, and pretty crude. But the face, pale, narrow and gaunt... the spiky dark hair... the single eye on the right side, the Borg eyepiece on the left... it's all too plainly me. Not what you'd call flattering, but clearly recognizable.

"I will read the prophecy," says the Steadholder. "The Grau will come in the last days, with fire at her command and the cold voice in her mind. She will look twice into the abyss and break it on her third attempt, will lose herself to the men of steel only to regain herself... and at her touch the gates of Gre'thor shall be opened, and everything shall change."

Everyone is looking at me, now. I swallow hard, hard enough that I can feel the edges of those blades by my throat.

"All right," I say, "it looks like me, and some of that - that prophecy - sounds like it might have something to do with me. But I'm not here to open Gre'thor, why would I want to do anything like that? I'm not here to harm anyone...."

"Steadholder," the kid pipes up now, "I was scared when I saw her... but she does not talk like a demon...." Well, thanks for that, at least.

"Little one," says the Steadholder, "harm may come whether it is intended or not."

"If this book of prophecy is accurate," R'j says, "then you must face the possibility that whatever it foretells is inevitable."

"Oh, I don't believe that," I say. "I've never given any credit to the notion that we're all pawns in the hands of inevitable fate. You make your own destiny in this world."

*/*possible inaccuracy---
presence of physical/temporal anomalies indicates possibility of predestination paradox---
conceivable that timeline is not susceptible to alteration---*/*

Thanks for that, Two of Twelve, that was a big lot of no help.

"Does this book of prophecy predict anything else?" Tylha asks. "Did it, for instance, predict the arrival of Juregh's forces?"

The Steadholder flips back a couple of pages in the book. "Warriors of the old time will come," he intones, "and they shall bring fire and anger, but the claws of the overlord shall be raised against them and they shall fall." It looks like there's another illustration, too, but he doesn't show it to us.

"This brings us to... a matter which concerns us," says R'j. "How was Dahar Master Juregh's force overwhelmed and destroyed? What are these 'claws of the overlord'?"

The Steadholder looks at her suspiciously. Can't blame him for that. The general impression I get is that neither R'j nor I is exactly flavour of the month around here.

Unexpectedly, it is the angry guy who answers. "The overlord came to our people more than five generations ago," he says, "and brought the khala plants, and peace and prosperity, and in return asked only that his servitors pass unmolested. They come in the night, and if all is peaceful, they come as the hands of the overlord and all is well. But, when your Dahar Master brought his anger and his toys -" he waves one of R'j's disruptors in his hand, and I hope the safety's on "- then the servitors came as claws. And none can withstand the claws."

"But what are they?" asks Tylha. "A native lifeform? Artificial servitors? What?"

"They are the hands of the overlord and we do not question them," says the Steadholder. "And we are wise not to - as your leader found out, to his cost." He resumes his seat on the throne. His expression is... weary, and troubled.

"Perhaps our fate cannot be avoided," he says, and he seems to be speaking half to himself. "But we must do what we can... but we must hold by the laws of our people." He raises his head. "You." He points at me. "And you." His finger turns towards R'j. "We cannot allow your presence. You have committed no wrongs, so we may not slay you or imprison you. But you must leave. I order your departure from my Steadholding, and any other Steadholder will do the same, at best... you are best advised to leave this world. As for your associates...."

He stands up, walks over to Tylha, and looks up at her. She is taller than him. "If you truly come to learn," he says, "then you may have guest-right and the use of our guesting house. It will accommodate a number of your people." He glances at Rrueo. "This one, too, may have the guest-right. I warn you both, do not interfere with the hands of the overlord. Remain indoors at night, always."

"Thank you, Steadholder Sharm," says Tylha, gravely.

"Rrueo also thanks you," says Rrueo. "May we speak with your overlord?"

The Steadholder shakes his head. "It would be unwise," he says. "It might be unavoidable... but it would be unwise." He gestures at the guys holding their mek'leths at my throat. "Release her."

The blades come down. A little reluctantly, I think, but they come down. "Thank you," I say. "All right, I'm departing." I touch my combadge. "Grau to Falcon. One to beam up."