Author's note: I was never completely happy with this story, and so I finally took the opportunity to tweak it and include the twist I had intended to introduce later. Here's the result: Klingon Afternoon Part 1 – The Storm Front Metralus II – New Iskander Colony, December 2372 What little remained of the colony was a shattered wreck. Partially collapsed buildings had cascaded into the streets to bury the burned out hulks of ground cars and shuttle-buses. The Klingon assault teams had made short work of the local constabulary, though the small Starfleet Marine contingent had given them a run for their latinum. Eventually, however, orbital superiority had won out. Bombardment of the surface had excised the last pockets of organized resistance. The starship Mendelssohn had warped into this chaotic situation knowing full well the odds were stacked against them. The Starfleet ship had been trapped behind the lines when the uneasy truce between the Federation and the Klingon Empire had finally collapsed. Officers and enlisted personnel now found themselves facing the vicious warriors made legendary during their grandparents' generation, rather than the Cardassians or Romulans they would have expected to engage during their careers. Captain Van Cleve and his stalwart crew had fought mightily, but the Centaur-class ship was no match for a full half dozen Imperial cruisers and twice that number of destroyers. The captain had ordered all personnel beamed to the surface to do what they could to safeguard the surviving colonists from the Klingon's vengeful fury. Van Cleve then took the helm himself and jumped the mortally wounded Mendelssohn to warp. The relativistic collision with the Klingon flagship could be seen from the surface, a bright corona of light that for a brief moment rivaled the intensity of the local star. The Starfleet teams had closed with the Klingons and died well, taking their fair share of the savage warriors with them and helping to fill Sto-vo-kor's coffers with the souls of the honored dead. However, the Mendelssohn’s security chief had elected not to join them. There was no honor to be had here, no glory, only death awaited him. His priority was helping the civilians to escape and hide in the broken remains of their once picturesque colony. He was guiding a young mother and her two terrified children into a basement bunker when they found him. They had disruptors, he had a phaser, but a fire-fight here would only endanger the family he sought to protect. He dropped his sidearm to the ground and held up his Starfleet issue combat knife in a clear challenge. They holstered their disruptors and drew their blades, one armed with a d'k tahg, the other with a wickedly curved mek'leth. They advanced and he moved to meet them. He grasped his combat knife blade first and hurled it at the mek'leth wielder, who collapsed in a gurgling mass of flailing limbs as the knife lodged deep in his throat. The other warrior's blade cut a swift arc through the air but found only empty space at the end of its journey. He had feinted to the side and allowed the less experienced young man to overextend himself. Now, he drove his knee into the warrior's midsection as he wrapped and trapped the man's knife-arm with his own. He twisted the Klingon's elbow joint past its breaking point, and it finally surrendered with a satisfying crunch as the d'k tahg slipped from the young soldier’s grasp. "Not your fault," he whispered softly to the stunned Klingon. He shushed the warrior gently as the young man began to keen piteously and thrash about with the realization that his life was about to end. The ambitious Klingon youth had dreamt of glory and deeds worthy of song when first he tasted real battle... it had never occurred to him that he could die. That fate was for other, weaker men. "You’re a predator, and you expected only sheep here,” Lar’ragos said quietly. “I'm sorry to disappoint you. At the very least you will die with honor." He released his grip on the man's arm and then lodged the Klingon's head firmly under his armpit, his arm wrapped around the leather-clad soldier's neck. He thrust his hips forward as he pulled and lifted to snap the Klingon's neck with a resounding crack. "Human!" He turned in response to the cry and found another three warriors, their honor-blades in hand, facing him amidst the rubble. He looked past them to see the cellar door closed and locked from the inside. His charges were safe. He smiled a peculiar little smile that the Klingons mistook for a rictus of fear, then looked all around with exaggerated intensity before pointing to himself and mouthing, ‘Me?’ Starfleet Lieutenant Pava Lar'ragos then stooped to take up the d'k tahg from the fallen warrior. As the other Klingons waited for battle to be joined, he cut the family crest badges from the uniforms of each of his slain opponents before fastening them to his jumpsuit. As he retrieved his issued combat knife Pava eyed the crests of the three men opposing him. "Yes," he breathed. "This is as good a way to go as any." The awful paradox here was that he was genuinely afraid. The men opposing him experienced no such doubt, registered no uncertainty as to the outcome of the coming clash. As for Lar’ragos, though, no matter how skilled he became, how many battles he faced or how many enemies he defeated, he always felt the thrill of adrenaline-fueled terror coursing through him at such moments. He reminded himself that fear was his ally; it was the thing that kept him fast, kept him focused, and kept him alive. They rushed him and he held his ground, uncoiling like a spring only as they enveloped him as a group. They had thought there was safety and surety in numbers. He corrected that misperception immediately. With dual blades in hand, he found himself in the eye of a proverbial storm of moving metal and leather. In order to survive Pava calmed his mind and surrendered himself to his base instincts. He allowed his unique perversion of his people's gifts to guide his body. Lar’ragos knew when and where their blows would land, so he made a point not to be there. He knew when and how they would be vulnerable, and so he struck those places at those moments of opportunity. Blade cleaved flesh, blood spurt in angry gouts, bones splintered, tendons rent, and the warriors were left to consider this unlikely turn of events in their last, frenzied moments. When it was over and the three Klingons lay dead or dying, Lar'ragos removed their crests and added them to his collection with hands that now trembled from his abating adrenaline. He paused to examine his surroundings and found only destruction and chaos all about him. It would be days, if not weeks, before Starfleet could muster a relief force to drive the soldiers of the empire from the battered colony. The odds that he might survive to see that day hovered somewhere between slim and none. Until he was rescued or finally brought down by the Klingons he would hunt. It had been centuries since he had last let himself completely free of the confines of civilized behavior. Unshackled from codes of conduct, rules of warfare, ethics or morality, he could be a potent threat, especially to arrogant warriors who believed the colony had been completely pacified. Once upon a time he had been prey. Now he would be forced to become the hunter. Lar’ragos pondered the irony of having come full circle as he gathered his weapons and set off. ***** The carnage Vibbins viewed through his rifle's scope was almost enough to give him pause. He was a Starfleet officer, sworn to safeguard the lives of Federation citizens and protect their property rights. But in the here and now, he and his comrades were left with little else to do but sit and observe. He and the rest of his Special Missions Team had killed a good number of Klingons since the invasion of the colony had begun, but now their survival depended upon their going unnoticed by the victorious warriors. The team had been assigned to the colony's Marine base for a scant three weeks for training purposes, and had been as unprepared as anyone else when the laughably misnamed ‘Defense’ Forces had arrived on their doorstep. Since the pitched battles of the first few hours, sensor scramblers had hidden the group from Klingon scanners. Their perch atop the remnants of the colony's now damaged long-range sensor array gave them a bird's-eye view of the smoldering remains of the colony. "And..." Vibbins assessed for the benefit of the team's leader, "...I've got another Fleeter, boss." He tamped down the urge to shake his armored head, however fractionally. Vibbins watched as the Starfleet officer with gold department coloring across his shoulders made his way clumsily up a pile of rubble that had been a hospital the previous day. A Klingon patrol stood less than thirty meters from him at the crest of the collapsed building, idly drinking bloodwine from flasks disguised as surplus disruptor power cells. "Security officer by the looks of him, too," Vibbins said, noting the phaser and disruptor pistols clutched in the man's hands, as well as the Klingon knives tucked into his belt. "Of all the people who should know better than to try and sneak around in broad freaking daylight..." "People do funny things in seemingly hopeless situations," remarked Lt. Commander Robin Estershire, the squad's commander. "Maybe he's trying to surrender." Torbak growled in response, the very notion of surrender anathema to his Capellan upbringing. "He had better be an engineer, then. Any security man who surrenders like a cowering futh'pa deserves to die in disgrace." Vibbins chuckled darkly, "He's weaving all over the place, like he's dancing or something." "Dancing?" Estershire's curiosity had finally been piqued. She up-linked the image from Vibbin's sniper scope onto the display screen in her helmet. The commander watched the man for a long moment. "He's not dancing, Vibs. That's stealth you dummy." "Wha?" Vibbins inquired articulately from the prone position. "He's moving so he doesn’t make any noise," she clarified. "It looks silly as hell, but it's effective. They used to teach that in the Teams back before our sound suppression gear became so common." Estershire continued to watch the man's advance. "And he's not surrendering. He's stalking them." "Really?" Now Torbak linked in as well, though the other three members of the team maintained watches on their various fields of observation. The man moved to a position just below where the Klingons were congregating. He holstered his phaser and drew some manner of small gun-like device from within his uniform jumpsuit. He appeared to adjust the weapon's setting, and then moved a hand to his mouth as if calling out. The man then scuttled quickly behind a large piece of broken masonry, crouching behind it for concealment. Vibbin's audio pickups were able to discern a plaintive call for help, but one made intentionally to sound further away than the man's present position. The Klingons reacted immediately. They dropped their flasks as they hefted their disruptor rifles and slid clumsily down the unstable slope of debris. Inebriated as well as lulled into a false sense of security by their seemingly easy victory over the colony, most of the Klingons merely poked at their combat tricorders with their heads down and neglected to maintain situational awareness. The man popped up from behind the shattered stonework, but his weapon appeared to malfunction. There was no beam, only a strange puff of what appeared to be gas. Before Vibbins could comment on this sad state of affairs, the entire cluster of warriors vanished in a cloud of dust. "What the hell was that?" the sniper wondered aloud. "Flechette gun," Torbak replied, his voice buoyed by the sight. "Set to wide dispersal." The dust cleared to reveal all six of the Klingons laying still. The man scampered down to where they had fallen, limbs akimbo in the choking masonry dust. At first, Vibbins thought the man was checking them for signs of life, but as he adjusted the resolution on his scope, it became apparent that he was removing their badges of familial allegiance and pinning them to his uniform. "Trophies," Estershire observed with a mix of wonder and revulsion. "He's taking kill trophies." Then the man looked up, staring straight ahead as if gazing directly into Vibbin's scope. His mouth began to move, and the long-range audio receiver crackled with the words, "So, are you kids just going to sit up there and watch the show, or are you going to come down here and get your hands dirty?" "Shit," Vibbins breathed. "How the hell... ? " Estershire used her command override to increase the resolution on Vibbin's scope even further. As she studied the features of the Starfleet lieutenant she emitted a portentous sigh. The sudden realization of whose presence now plagued her team set like a weight in her stomach. "Pava Lar'ragos." She said it like a curse. "The guy from Tzenketh?" Vibbins wondered. "None other," she confirmed darkly. "So much for laying low until help arrives. This crazy son-of-a-bitch is going to drag us right into the middle of the storm." As if he could hear her, Lar'ragos broke into a broad smile that promised many unpleasant things to come. *****
Klingon Afternoon - Redux - Pt 2 Part 2 – At the Master’s Knee As the binders bit into his wrists Lar'ragos stifled a painful grunt, refusing to give the Klingons the satisfaction of seeing him in discomfort. He had meant to die fighting the Klingons. However, the warriors of Qo'noS had other ideas, and they had ended his stubborn resistance with a photon grenade primed for stun. Now, he and the other remaining survivor from the Starfleet Special Missions Team were prisoners, bound and trussed and awaiting interrogation by their captors. "What was the point of all this exactly?" The question came from Lt. Commander Estershire, who sat similarly restrained on the floor some meters away. What little remained of her specialized combat armor had been hacked, burned, and blasted away, leaving behind only the partially shredded undergarment to clothe the special missions team leader. Lar'ragos glanced over at her from where he knelt with his wrist binders shackled to leg restraints. The El Aurian's expression was tinged with disbelief. "You can't really be asking me that." "I just did, Lieutenant," she confirmed as her voice took on a hard edge. "All we've accomplished in the past week was getting the rest of my team killed while taking out an insignificant number of Klingons. The empire is still fully entrenched here, and if anything, our actions will only have made them more angry and crueler to the surviving civilians." "Well, let's see, sir. For starters, we've proved to the Klingons that the Federation has teeth. They understand a desperate last stand against an intractable enemy... hell, they heap honors and accolades on people who keep fighting through such hardship. In their eyes, strong Federation resistance would work to discourage further conflict with them in the future." "In the future?" she blurted incredulously. "I don't give a damn about how they see us in the future... they're at war with us right now!" "This conflict is just to blood their latest generation of warriors and leaders, the same people who got their first taste of real combat invading Cardassia last year," Lar'ragos noted laconically. "Believe me, if they were serious about conquering the Federation, they wouldn't be occupying colonies on the periphery. Earth, Vulcan, Tellar, and Andoria would be burning right now, courtesy of cloaked fleets of warships. As for this little fracas, their advance will eventually stall as our defenses stiffen. Then we’ll end up with some kind of kind of stalemate. Regardless, you should always fight the present war with one eye out for the next one. Hell, we should be thanking them for this." "What is that supposed to mean?" she spluttered angrily. "Just like the Borg did a decade ago, the Klingons are pushing us out of our comfort zone, shattering our complacency. It's not them we should be worried about, but who comes after. Perhaps it will be the Borg again, or the Romulans, or maybe that new Dominion threat from the Gamma Quadrant that Starfleet Tactical is so on about lately." "You're insane," Estershire fumed. Lar'ragos ignored the observation, and instead returned to answering her initial inquiry. "Secondly, I've saved your soul. If you and your team had spent the next two weeks laying low while the Klingons pillaged, hunted, and otherwise abused the civilians, you'd never forgive yourself." She rolled her eyes, though the gesture was lost on the lieutenant. "Oh, so you know me well enough now to predict how I'm going to feel about this mess years from now?" "Personal experience," he replied in a subdued tone. "Take it from someone who knows. Losing your team while doing the right thing is infinitely better than listening to the voices of dying civilians in your head as they call out to you for help night after night for the rest of your life." "Who the hell are you to lecture me, Lieutenant? I made a judgment call based on available facts that my team could no longer make an appreciable difference here. Starfleet would be better served if we lived to fight another day when and where the odds are more in our favor." "Of course," he spat derisively. "Heavens forbid that I should expect you to do your duty." "I'm was doing my duty!" Estershire snarled back. "I'm a goddamn Starfleet officer!" He practically screamed, "You're a soldier!" "I'm more than that," she came back after she had regained some composure. "Much more." "That's where you're wrong," Lar'ragos answered sadly. "You are whatever the situation requires you to be. On a First Contact mission you are an explorer. On a diplomatic mission you're a peacekeeper. And when a Federation colony is invaded by a horde of slavering war beasts, you're supposed to be a soldier. You took an oath to defend the Federation, and I don't recall there being any provisos about only doing so when it's safe or convenient for you." She contemplated that statement in silence until a door nearby crashed open and the thud of heavy footfalls presaged the arrival of a trio of Klingons. One of them began speaking in his guttural native tongue, but both Starfleet officers' compins had been removed. "Sorry turtle-head, I don't speak barbarian and I appear to have left my petaQ-to-Standard dictionary at home," Lar'ragos sneered defiantly. As he looked up at the new arrivals his eyes widened fractionally in recognition for the briefest moment. Lar’ragos quickly smothered the expression under a veil of feigned indifference. Rather than the physical blows he had expected his remark to produce, the Klingons erupted in laughter. The leader among them patted Lar'ragos on the head as one might do a small child. "I admire your spirit, little man, if not your obviously limited knowledge of Klingon curses," he observed wryly. "You speak excellent Standard," Estershire said unnecessarily. "And you have a keen grasp of the obvious, Commander," the Klingon replied jovially. "As much as I've enjoyed listening to the two of you bicker, I have just received orders regarding your fate." "Which is?" Estershire prodded. "It appears our delightful little foray into your territory has been called to a close. As a result, I have been ordered to evacuate this charming little hamlet, or what remains of it, and return forthwith to the nearest Klingon military outpost where my men and I can begin drinking to excess and celebrating our hard won victory over the Federation Starfleet." "You're packing up and calling it a day... and it's a victory?" Lar'ragos chuckled. "Sounds like someone met heavier resistance than they counted on." "Argh," the Klingon uttered in deadpan, "your dishonorable coward's tongue incites me to violence and..." the man yawned widely. "I'm sorry, what was I saying again? Oh yes, nice try, well played though." He waved a hand dismissively in the air. "Make the easily manipulated Klingon with the fragile honor-conscious ego angry so he will become blinded by rage. How very clever of you." The warrior turned to address Estershire. "Commander, you are to be congratulated on your resourcefulness and fortitude in extreme circumstances. You and your team fought well and honorably. If you made one unwise decision in this situation, it was allowing him to sway your judgment." The man gestured toward Lar'ragos. "Can I have a tissue?" Lar'ragos replied with mock emotional injury. "Oh, and give me back all my crests from those sorry excuses for soldiers I killed." "This one... he is no warrior, despite his ferocity and skill on the battlefield. He is a killer, but little more than that. No honor guides his hand." "Tell me about it," Estershire sighed. The Klingon gestured to his two comrades, who moved to undo Estershire's restraints and then escorted her out of the room. "See that her injuries are tended to and find her some appropriate garments," he instructed as they departed. Lar'ragos gazed up at the Klingon. "A captain now, eh? How far you've come." "And you," the man replied, "have not changed a bit. You haven’t aged a day since we last crossed paths. I see you’re still the merciless maniac run amok. I cannot believe that Starfleet would have allowed you to join their ranks." "What they don't know won't hurt them. But you... it hurt quite a lot of you this past week." "Yes, you've culled the herd nicely. The warriors that fended you off or escaped your rampage will be stronger for the experience. Pity you had to drag your comrades into this to sate your own blood lust." Lar'ragos hissed, "They were hiding. It's unconscionable." "They were right to hide. They were grossly outnumbered and outmatched. Running headlong into suicidal odds may be your raison d’être, but not everyone in a Starfleet uniform is as reckless as you.” "Says you," Lar'ragos huffed. "I'll assume you're in charge of this obscenity?" "Not originally, but your gallant captain's sacrifice rather decapitated our chain-of-command. I stepped in to fill the vacuum as I am, always, the loyal sword in my master's hand," the Klingon remarked with conviction. "You taught me that, remember? Duty first. I’m simply shocked you’ve deigned to wear a uniform, anyone’s uniform. Didn’t you once boast to me that you served at the behest of no man, that after the crimes of your youth you refused to kneel before any king or government? You had such a wonderful time always playing the part of the rogue, the outcast, the malcontent." Lar'ragos inclined his head to concede the point. "You weren't complaining. When I took you under my wing, you were a disgrace to your house. The pitiable half-breed, the weak, flawed, feeling soul in a race of savage warriors. Looking at you now, weak isn't one of the words I'd use to describe you." The warrior nodded. "That is true, and I owe you much. You taught me to use my gifts to my advantage, instructed me on how to listen, and in so doing how to bend my enemies to my will." "Or," Lar'ragos prompted. "Or failing that, how to kill them almost effortlessly." Lar'ragos smiled his troubled little smile. "You're welcome." The Klingon returned the smile, though his was tinged with genuine sadness. "Despite the skills you imbued in me, I have also made a point to have taken a wife, raised children, and made friends closer than family. In this way, I have exceeded my master, who can boast none of these things." "Overrated," Lar'ragos snapped all too quickly. "You forget I can read you as easily as you can read me, Pava. You hunger for that life, but some part of you won't allow yourself such luxuries." Lar'ragos' face darkened. "We done here?" "Certainly." The Klingon activated his wrist communicator and spoke into it, recalling his two soldiers. He then turned his attention back to Lar'ragos. "My men will be back momentarily to release your restraints and escort you to an aid station. I trust you'll exercise your best manners with them, seeing as hostilities have formally ceased?" "You're not sticking around?" Pava queried crossly. "With you unchained? I'm as skilled with a sword as I am with my words, but I have no death wish." The Klingon squatted down on his haunches to meet Lar'ragos' gaze with eyes that mirrored the El Aurian's own, both in color and intensity. "You're still the most dangerous man I've ever known, Father.” And with that, the warrior stood and left Lar'ragos as he had always been. Alone.
I wanted to say that the most surprising thing about this story is coming across a smart and articulate Klingon. Well, not quite. Clearly this warrior isn't all Klingon. A terrific new twist to this story which begs for yet another Pava story, exploring this revelation further.
I enjoyed this updated version of "Klingon Afternoon!" Of course, I pretty much enjoy any story with Pava as the protagonist (antagonist?). There are hidden depths to Pava. It's fascinating to see a Klingon peel back some of the layers - unexpected but very well done. As for Pava, the line, "I think thou dost protest too much" comes to mind." That leaves the question: Is Pava a mercenary? a stone-cold killer? or simply a dedicated soldier who will give his all for the mission. I think the answer is complicated - I doubt Pava knows the answer. Wonderful story!
Pava is all of the above and none of the above. With all he's done in his life, he needs a lot to balance his karma, should it even be possible.
Indeed. Being half El Aurian would have its advantages, most especially when coupled with Klingon physical prowess. Like that line from Blade, "All of our strengths, none of our weaknesses." Thanks for the comments!
He has a bad habit of digging his karmic debt-hole even deeper as he's trying to climb out of it... some people just have a problem with direction like that.
Wow! The ending was killer. A great character study of Pava. I really enjoyed his debate with Esterhire. They both made excellent points, which made it so engaging. It was good to see Pava cut loose, but just as nice that Esterhire took issue with his actions. I kept scratching my head, trying to figure out who the Klingon was. I was wondering if it was one of the smooth panes from TOS, but none of them fit. I'm glad about the revelation. It just adds more layers to Pava. You'll have to do a follow up to this.
Wait, what? That was some twist you added. I don't know why I'm surprised. A man who's lived as long as Pava? I guess that aspect of his backstory should be almost expected ... but I didn't! And I'm intrigued by this new character. The way you slowly drew out that revelation ... wow, that was cool! I liked this story the first time around, but this new and improved version was awesome.
First time round on this one for me but wasn't surprised at the depth and quality! It's what I've come to expect from Gib! Thanks for sharing Sam!
I remember the first version-and your twisted ending added so much depth to Pava in one sentence...I can understand the need to re-write/post this. As the others have said, this begs another tale of how Junior came to be...
Oh, yes, this will require an examination of how this situation came to be. In addition, where is Pava's fascinating offspring in the present timeline? So. Many. Possibilities. Thanks for the review!
Just read this and... It. Is. Awesome! Pava is badass, which we already knew, but he comes across as even more so in this story. You did a great job of creating an interesting debate there between the two characters of Pava and Esthershire, with some real food for thought. And then we come to that reveal. Loved it. To bits! I hope you go somewhere with this character, as you have hinted at in some of the other comments. I would love to see more of this dynamic. All in all? Well fracking done!
I couldn't have said it better myself. When you said you'd revised it I couldn't imagine how you could have made this little gem better. Now I know. Wonderful twist, with the promise of more twisted tales in the future ... past. I like to hear that! I can't wait to see what you come up with next.
From Ad Astra: Well I know you have just floored everyone with that revelation at the end. I knew from the original there was an untold story and that the Klingon in question just begged for expansion. You say that you planned on revealing it down the line - To me the reveal is perfect in this story though. The dynamic between the two is great. The Klingon has indeed learned from his master and father but has learned a whole lot more too. This itself has to gall Pava. The Klingon son was very adept at reading Pava and not allowing himself to be riled. The fact that he also uses Pava's interpretation of 'listening' is also frightening. In fact that aspect of it the first round and again here is the most chilling and brilliantly written. Pava using his listening skills to despatch his enemies making him a brutal and savage killer though an efficient and tough one too. Add in the taking of kill trophies and Pava relishing in allowing himself to be let off the leash, to go hunting. Something very palpable and dangerous about how that is all conveyed. So many points to raise really but as always, as brutal and sadistic as Pava always comes across he always comes across as extremely complex, possibly conflicted, and it makes for a far more compelling and frightening character.
Much obliged for the review, mirandafave. In this story we see Lar'ragos at his best (and worst) as he allows himself free reign to indulge his darker nature. However, he's unprepared to be laid bare in front of someone who can read him as easily as he can just about everyone else. I think Lar'ragos has discovered the experience has a much different flavor when it's being used against him.