Claws 27

Rrueo

The old man glowers at me from his throne. "The beasts are valuable," he says, "and already you have lost two."
  
"Rrueo regrets the loss," I say, as patiently as I can manage. "You will be compensated for it - you may have Rrueo's word on that."

"If you regain contact with your ships," the younger man, Tallaun, snaps at me.

"Other vessels are no doubt on their way," I say. "And if they are not, if we are trapped on this world... then we must come to some arrangement, which will include recompense for the riding animals. You have Rrueo's word." These people were Klingons, once, surely a pledge of honour must mean something to them?

But Steadholder Sharm merely sits on his throne and continues to glower at me. "Why should we help you?" he asks, eventually. "You come here, you bring with you the Grau, and that other one - you seek to meddle in our affairs -"

"Rrueo seeks to understand the nature of your - overlord - and to reach an accommodation with it." Though I do not believe this to be possible. The sleeping giant is too alien, too powerful... but I must not admit this, not here.

"Accommodation." Tallaun's voice drips scorn. "You seek military advantage, in a war which is none of our concern. And you would trample our people into the dirt, if the overlord did not protect us -"

"You're already trampled." A new voice: Tylha Shohl's. The Andorian stands in the entrance to the hall, her scarred face grim. All heads turn to her - my own included.

"What do you mean?" Tallaun demands.

Tylha walks forward at a steady, measured pace. "This overlord of yours controls you," she says. "Every detail of your lives. We've heard how your population is regulated, we know how your technology is limited - this creature holds your entire culture in a static mould, and it's not for your benefit. This entity owns you, Steadholder. Like one of your own riding beasts."

Is this Federation diplomacy? It does not sound like it. But, whatever Tylha is planning, I agree with her words - and will add my own. "It is true," I say. "You live like cattle, and you should not. You are Klingons."

"We were," says Sharm. "Our ancestors rejected the false militarism of Klingon culture -"

"And that took courage," says Tylha. "The courage to step outside of your culture, to reject its pressures and choose your own path. I know. My own parents once made a similar choice. Your ancestors had courage, Steadholder. Do you?"

The old man glares at her, and his hands clench on the arms of his throne. For a moment, it looks as though he is about to rise - then he slumps back.

"Courage for what?" he asks, bitterly. "Do you not know that the overlord cannot be defeated? When the servitors came as claws, they wiped out Juregh's forces in seconds - they screamed, I still hear them scream, as they realized their weapons were useless, and as the claws tore their flesh, and the servitors - fed. Now your ships have been swept from the sky. What can you accomplish, against a power such as that?"

"We don't know. Yet," says Tylha.

I move to stand beside her. "But we will find out," I add. "You have Rrueo's word on that, too. If you will not provide the riding beasts, we will walk to the overlord's tower. And if the creature beats us down, we will crawl towards it. But we will not stop, short of death."

"Death is the certain outcome of any challenge to the overlord," mutters the old man.

"Is it?" asks Tylha. "Let me ask you something, Steadholder. We've seen my friend's face, drawn in your book of prophecy. We know it predicts that a change is coming. Tell me - what is on the next page?"

Sharm glares at her. "You have seen it. You know."

Tylha nods. "Nothing," she says. "Nothing but blank pages. No outcome is certain, Steadholder. Your prophecies are all ended, now, and there is nothing left but the future we make for ourselves."

Sharm stares at her for a long moment. Then he says, "You are wrong... most likely. But if this is the death you seek - we will not impede you. And if you are right... though you are not... then, perhaps, a change should come." He turns to Tallaun. "Prepare two riding beasts for them."

---

Outside, in the hot midday sun, I say to Tylha, "Very eloquent."

"He needed persuading."

"Rrueo is no Federation legalist, but Rrueo has heard some talk of a Prime Directive -"

"It doesn't apply. Not in this case." Her face is thoughtful: behind it, the watchmen pace their courses around the battlements of her mind. "Starfleet doesn't interfere in the natural development of native planetary cultures - but this is a Klingon colony, and in any case, its development isn't natural."

"Rrueo concurs. The Empire cannot use the sleeping giant. And the Federation's ideals, it seems, will not permit any dealings with it."

"I suppose we might want to... understand it. Figure out how it works, what sort of being it is. But as for dealing with it -" Tylha shakes her head.

"Rrueo suggests that our first priority is escaping from it. Though, since its reach is astronomical, that may prove a problem. Still, if Rrueo may turn to practicalities -?"

"I've set things up in the processing building." Tylha stalks off towards the old building with the chemical plant. "The unwanted compound is caught in a sort of sump," she says, "and is destroyed by incineration. The tellurium-rich ash is collected up, and I guess it's returned to the soil around the khala plants at some point. You accidentally tapped into some sort of overflow line, and I've managed to draw off about twenty litres of the stuff from that." She pulls a face. "I am not looking forward to smearing it all over me."

"Better that, than having these servitors feed off us. How is Harley Haught?"

"Recovering. We've managed to hold off any bacterial infections from the wounds to the gut, and we've carried out all the surgical repairs we can. Ideally, I'd like to have him fully checked out in King Estmere's sickbay." Her mouth becomes a tight line. "If we get to see this overlord, that's one thing I'll be asking for."

We reach the door of the building, and Tylha pushes it open. Inside, it is cooler. Tylha gestures to the concrete floor, where equipment is stacked. Bottles of black fluid, whose cloying scent already fills my nostrils - and other things.

Tylha stoops and picks something up; a length of wood, basically, with a stiff metal strip as a crosspiece. "I figure the overlord can deal with energy weapons," she says, "but a simple crossbow - coated in the compound, shooting bolts tipped with the compound -"

"A good thought. You know how to use such primitive weapons?"

"My parents didn't reject all Andorian traditions. There were wild animals on my home planet - we needed some primitive weapons for hunting and self-defence." She lifts the bow to her shoulder, sights down its length. "I made two of them. And I borrowed a couple of those Klingon meat cleavers, too."

"We will not be completely defenceless, then. Rrueo is glad of that."

Tylha hefts the weapon experimentally in her hands. "I have to admit," she says, "if we're going up against something that makes starships disappear... this doesn't entirely fill me with confidence."

Of course, she is right. But what else can we do?