Cass awoke with a start to the terrifying sounds of a man screaming. She jerked upright to see that Sepak was kneeling across from another man, holding the man’s face in his hands—his eyes tightly closed and an intense look of concentration upon his face. The man, however, screeched in agony as he clawed at the powerful hands that held him. And Matt Dahlgren’s daughter blanched as a trickle of blood began to stream from the man’s nose and ears, his body went limp, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed. Sepak’s eyes opened and he frowned at the corpse before him. “Pity,” he whispered. “I had thought that the secrets of the mind-meld were now mine—I was mistaken.” He drew out a hand phaser and adjusted the controls; he then fired a golden beam into the corpse, vaporizing it. And without turning around, he smiled. “She wakes,” he said as he rose from the ground and turned to face her. “I do not understand why I cannot complete the meld, child—I know all that Sepak knew.” The young woman stood from the couch and she shivered. “Obviously you do not, or you would not be having such troubles now.” Sepak darted across the room and he grabbed Cass by the throat. “Careful, child. You are valuable to me—but not that valuable,” he growled before he released her. “It is a matter of physiology . . . Vulcans are natural telepathic beings. I should be able to complete the meld—why can I not?” “Perhaps Sepak is still fighting you,” Cass spat as she rubbed the red marks his grip had left on her neck. “Child . . . there is no Sepak. There is only Ordan. Sepak was vanquished from existence when I occupied his mind.” “That is a lie,” Cass said softly. “Oh? Tell me then, child of Dahlgren, enlighten one who knows more of memory than you ever shall?” “The Vulcans can transfer their katra—their souls—upon their death. These katras live on, where their knowledge can be consulted by high-ranking Vulcan officials long after their bodies death. You possess Sepak’s body . . . but were he truly dead, his memories would have died with him. They did not; ergo, Sepak must still exist—and he is fighting you, Ordan.” “Clever girl,” Sepak/Ordan said with a narrow smile. “Yes, Sepak has retreated within himself—but he does not fight me any longer. He is too weak for that.” “Then why can you not meld with another living person? Sepak is fighting you, Ordan. He is waging a war to keep you from the minds of others. The more you try, the harder you fight against him, the more damage you cause your victims. It is not that lack the knowledge, Ordan . . . you lack Sepak’s discipline.” Sepak/Ordan frowned and then he nodded. “Perhaps you are correct, Cassandra Dahlgren. But Sepak grows weaker by the hour—and I grow stronger. And while that meld did not accomplish my goal, it has shown me that I am learning from my mistakes. I was able to glimpse his thoughts and soon I will be able to rewrite his personality as my Gift did to the Lorsham long ago.” Sepak/Ordan snorted. “The Lorsham—they failed me. They were unable to recover my artifacts from the Kraal and they failed me utterly against your Federation. They are unworthy of being my servants . . . and for that I shall withdraw from them my presence.” He walked over to communications station in the safe-house and entered a short code and pressed the transmit key. “I feared that I would have to do this one day—but it was my hope that such frail beings could overcome their deficiencies and become worthy of being my thralls. Humans will make far more effective thralls, I believe.” “What have you done, Ordan?” Cass asked as she sat back down. “What I should have years ago. I have removed a thorn in my side that has only hindered me.” ******************************************************** “Commodore!” one of the bridge officers of USS Paris cried out . . . but Helen Arouet did not need his anguished cry as she stood from the command chair aboard the Apollo-class starship. Nuclear fireballs were erupting across the surface of Hak’ta-thor, consuming each and every center of population in sequence. “My God,” she whispered. “Source of the detonations?” “Nothing got through the blockade, Commodore,” her exec whispered. “And there were no missile launches on the surface—they must have been pre-positioned for maximum destruction,” he paused and what little color in his face remained drained away. “Projections indicate that all but 0.01% of the Lorsham are now dead—the radiation from those weapons was enhanced . . . the survivors will die within hours.” “Mass suicide? An entire race committed suicide?” Helen asked in an incredulous tone. “Commodore,” another officer said, "there was a transmission along the buoy chain directed at Hak’ta-thor twenty-two minutes ago—it had codes of the Federation Council and was automatically relayed to the surface by the computer.” “Did we record that transmission?” she barked. “Affirmative, Commodore. It was audio-only, replaying now,” he answered as the speaker crackled to life. “Vorshun . . . know that this is the Voice of Ordan speaking unto you. Authentication code Seven Six Beta Gamma Four Two Sigma Tau Three Five One Nine Eight. Execute the Omega Directive.” “End of transmission, Commodore,” the crewman finished. Helen sat down heavily in her chair. Three billion Lorsham gone—wiped away from existence. An entire culture—an entire species—destroyed in the blink of an eye. “Communications. Open a Priority Channel to Star Fleet Command,” she said in a wooden voice. “Number One, you have the Conn, I will be in my ready room.”
“That is not good enough, Special Agent Faulkner,” Josiah snarled. “I am aware Matt’s family is missing—the entire law enforcement apparatus of the Federation is aware that his family is missing. I want to hear that they have been found . . . safe, secure, and alive.” “Sir, achieving that is our top priority,” the special agent from Starfleet’s Criminal Investigative Service answered. “Unfortunately, that does not change the fact that, as of this moment, we have no idea where Captain Dahlgren’s ex-wife and his daughters are. I can tell you what we know . . . I cannot and I will not speculate beyond that, Admiral Parker.” Josiah sighed and he nodded. “It’s not your fault, Daniel. I simply cannot believe that this has happened on Earth!” Daniel nodded grimly. “We have confirmed that Melody Holder, formerly Melody Dahlgren, and two of her daughters, Amanda and Sarah were present in the house, along with a Klingon who forensics has identified as Ambassador Cha’shin—the Klingon Ambassador to the Federation. Ambassador Cha’shin and Sarah Dahlgren were injured in the attack—the ambassador’s aide and bodyguard was found dead outside the residence. Four men assaulted the home—all four of them are dead; one at the hands of a hunting shotgun that was wielded by Dahlgren’s daughter Amanda. Despite having two injured, the fugi- . . .” Daniel paused at the angry expression on Josiah’s face, and he held up a placating hand, “Admiral, while SFCIS considers Dahlgren’s family to be victims, officially they have been classified as fugitives.” “By who, Special Agent?” Josiah growled softly. “The Federation Bureau of Investigation, Admiral. Warrants have been issued for the arrest of all four—and Dahlgren’s eldest daughter who is missing from New York City.” “On what charges?” “Murder and conspiracy to commit murder,” the special agent replied, bracing himself for an explosion from the man across the desk. Daniel Faulkner was not disappointed. “MURDER?!” Josiah thundered. “WHO THE HELL DO THESE PEOPLE THINK THEY ARE DEALING WITH?” “Admiral, the FBI has the same forensic information that we do—Melody Dahlgren killed one intruder, her daughter Amanda another; the Klingon killed two. Without eye witnesses and lacking their side of the story, that organization has taken their apparent flight as evidence of guilt. In fact, I have been ordered by the FBI to drop our investigation of the matter,” Daniel smiled as Josiah began to draw in air for another explosion, “I told him he could go have intercourse with a Horta. This is the family of an active duty Starfleet Captain, and it is well within the jurisdiction of the SFNCIS.” Josiah nodded and his outburst turned into a grim chuckle. “Daniel, I think it is time that I brought you into the full story here. You are one of the few people I trust with this—but you need to know, if we are going to keep Matt’s family safe and sound.” Both men turned to look towards the door as it slid open and uniformed agents of the FBI and Starfleet’s own Counter-Espionage Division entered the office. “Admiral Parker, will you stand, please?” one agent asked. “What is this?” “By order of the Federation Council, you are hereby under arrest for treason, mass murder, and espionage. Our investigation into the loss of USS Balao confirms that you sent the Klingons the command codes for that starship and for USS Republic.” “WHAT!” Josiah bellowed as he stood, and one of the FBI agents pulled out a pair of shackles. “If you resist you will be stunned. Special Agent Faulkner, you are dismissed—by order of the Council, you are to discuss this with no one, under penalty of arrest for conspiracy against the Federation. Is that understood?” “He has rights under Federation law,” Daniel snapped. “And I will contact an attorney to represent him.” “An attorney for his defense has been appointed—and you will contact NO ONE, Special Agent. Or I will have you thrown in the cell beside him. Acknowledge my order, Special Agent.” “I acknowledge your order,” Daniel growled even as he ground his teeth in frustration. “Good. Now leave—my team needs to catalogue the prisoner’s office.” Unable to offer the Chief of Starfleet Operations any assistance, Daniel nodded and he walked out of the office to see the shocked faces of the officers and NCOs who watched as their commander—Starfleet’s commander—was dragged away into custody. The FBI agent stepped out into the hallway and stood beside Daniel. “In fact, Special Agent, you are hereby relieved of duty. We have orders to investigate how deep the rot goes here in Starfleet Command—perhaps we did not get all of Admiral Leyden’s supporters after all.” “You have no authority over my office,” Daniel whispered. “I will continue my duties until the next Chief of Starfleet Operations tells me otherwise.” “He just has, Special Agent. I have been appointed by the Council to make certain that Starfleet’s house is in order. Would you care to see the authorization?” Daniel stared at the civilian, but then he shook his head. “Good. Now go home and stay there until we send for you.” “That’s it? Just go home and do nothing while the family of a Starfleet officer is missing?” “We have determined that Dahlgren’s family are fugitives fleeing justice. They will be found—that is no longer any concern of yours. And Special Agent Faulkner?” the new Chief of Starfleet Operations said. “Yes?” “Turn in your duty phaser at the door.” Daniel walked off without a reply, but his right fist was clenched so tight that the knuckles were white.
“The President will see you now, Admiral Shran,” the young aide said politely to the Andorian waiting in the outer office. Hawth Shran nodded and he stood, tugging his uniform taut against his lean body. The former Chief of Starfleet Operations nodded his thanks and walked into the office where the President and his guests stood in greeting. “Admiral Shran,” the President said warmly as he crossed the room and shook the officers hand. “Mister President.” “I believe you know everyone here? Ambassador Mar of Argellius II is the ranking Councilwoman on the Starfleet Oversight Committee; Director Maurice Fontain is the head of the Federation Bureau of Investigation—and the interim Chief of Starfleet Operations.” Shran frowned. “Yes, I am familiar with both of them, Mister President, and it is precisely this matter that I requested a private discussion over.” “Please sit, Admiral,” the President said as he took his own seat, followed by the others and Shran. The Bolian sighed. Min Zife had become President in the aftermath of Admiral Leyton’s coup attempt . . . which had led to the fall of President Jaresh-Inyo’s government. And it was beginning to appear that Zife would be a one-term President as well, with Mar leading the opposition over the failures of the Federation government to adequately deal with the humanitarian and environmental impact of the Dominion War. Zife leaned back in his seat and he looked again at the man who shared skin coloration with him, and he smiled. Appointed Hwath Shran as Chief of Starfleet Operations had been his first action and the man had worked wonders in bypassing the bureaucracy and cutting through the deadwood to win the Dominion War. At which point he had stepped down, leaving Josiah Parker to win the peace. And Zife sighed again. “I believe that I know why you are here, Admiral. But in the event that I am mistaken, perhaps you can inform me.” “This matter of Admiral Parker’s arrest—and the lack of civil liberties being allowed to him in confinement—has caused great . . . unease in Starfleet. I am here to find out for myself, Mister President, exactly why he was arrested, why his rights under Federation law have been suspended, and why a civilian has been appointed to a post held previously—throughout the history of this government—by a member of Starfleet.” Fontain frowned. “Admiral Shran, the Bureau does not discuss on-going investigations and cases with anyone—your request is out of line!” But Zife held up one hand and he nodded to Mar, who had begun to reply, but then closed her mouth. “Thank you, Mister President,” she said calmly. “Director, these are not normal circumstances. And given the penetration of this government by the Founders and the circumstances that surrounded the Leyton Coup, I feel it would be more than appropriate to brief the Admiral. Indeed, it might well prevent rash action being taken by those who are accusing President Zife of rail-roading a decorated veteran with many years of honorable service.” Zife made himself nod in agreement—she was his principle opponent, diametrically opposed on many issues, so he could not afford to antagonize her when she defended him. “I quite agree. Admiral Shran has clearance for this information and I am granting him need-to-know, Director.” Fontain looked down and then he grudgingly nodded. “Admiral,” he said looking Shran directly in the eyes, “you are aware of the recent loss of USS Balao and attack on USS Republic, yes?” “I am, Director.” “The attackers against Republic had access to her command codes, Admiral,” he said as Shran grew rigid. Fontain nodded again. “And USS Eagle managed to recover some of the debris from Balao; they confirmed that the weapon signatures from that attack were Klingon in origin. The Bureau began an intensive investigation into how Republics command codes found there way into the hands of this renegade—and we discovered that those codes, as well as the command codes for Balao had been transmitted to a known Orion Syndicate operative directly from the home of Admiral Parker.” Shran released a hiss of breathe as if someone had just punched him in the belly. The President shook his head. “I would never have though Josiah would betray his fellow Starfleet officers, but the evidence is damning, Admiral. Director Fontain brought this matter to my attention twenty-four hours ago, and I was the one who ordered the immediate arrest and sequestration of Admiral Parker.” Mar chimed in. “It was deemed imperative to prevent Admiral Parker from destroying any incriminating files that might have resulted from going through normal channels. In consultation with the Federation Council, the President and the Director decided to hold Admiral Parker in isolation until the investigation into files at Starfleet Command and elsewhere has been completed—we expect that investigation to come to an end within the next week. If,” and Mar shook her head, “if Admiral Parker was part of a criminal conspiracy within Starfleet, it behooves us to act quickly to identify those other conspirators—those men and women who would murder the entire crew of two Starships, and bring them to justice. Following normal procedure would give those officers—if they exist—an opportunity to cover their trail and hide their crimes.” “The investigation has further revealed that four deceased men found at the residence of Captain Dahlgren’s family, who may have been involved in an attack upon that family, were also connected to the same Orion that Parker had contact with,” Fontain reported, and he shook his head sadly. “I hope—I pray—that this is just a case of one man being overwhelmed by mental illness and his passions. Our investigation has turned up that despite appearances to the contrary, Admiral Parker has been . . . jealous of Matthew Dahlgren for quite some time. His own encrypted personal logs indicate that he gave Captain Dahlgren command of Republic hoping that he would fail to rehabilitate that ship, so that he might then comfort Dahlgren’s ex-wife and win her love. He must have had these delusions for years, but no one saw the signs.” Shran sat there in stunned disbelief. “You have evidence of all of this?” The President nodded. “We do. The Director has shown it to me and . . .,” he paused and gave Fontain a long look, “will make it available for your examination.” Fontain bristled, but at last he nodded. “I would have thought my right arm more likely to betray me than Josiah Parker betray his oath,” Shran whispered. “As did I, Admiral,” Zife said sadly. “As did I.” “Admiral,” Mar said softly. “Director Fontain is the interim Chief of Starfleet Operations—he is not going to be appointed as the permanent Chief. Indeed, he is only there to make certain that evidence has not been disposed of at Starfleet Command. I believe that the President is planning on asking you to resume that post to restore confidence to Starfleet.” Zife nodded sharply. “I am, Admiral Shran. Perhaps it will ease that unease you mentioned when you can reveal to your officers and men that you have seen the evidence against Admiral Parker, and that we are not acting rashly here.” “I had expected to return to Andoria, to take command of the Fourth Fleet, Mister President,” Shran answered after a moment. “But I will accept your offer and resume my post as Chief of Starfleet Operations for the good of the Fleet.” “Thank you, Hwath,” Zife whispered as he stood, followed by everyone else. “Director Fontain will have the files delivered to your office—by courier. You cannot make copies of them, and you can only examine them in the presence of the courier, who will return them to the Bureau after you have seen enough.” Zife walked around the desk and he shook the Andorian’s hand once more. “Let this be the final tragedy of the War we have fought, Admiral Shran. And together, let us restore Starfleet and the Federation to her former glory.” “Thank you for taking the time to explain this me, Mister President. Director, Ambassador.” Shran said and then he turned on his heel and exited the office. As the door closed behind him, he swallowed heavily and he shook his head. No, Josiah Parker would never have done anything like this, he thought. Others yes, that he would believe, but not Josiah. He gathered himself as the President’s aide looked at him in concern, and then he nodded to her and left behind the politicians. Something is rotten in San Francisco, he thought as he entered the turbolift that would take him to ground level. He started to tap his comm badge, but then he forced down his hand. No. Not here. And not through official channels. But rest assured, Josiah, I will find out who is framing you—and why. The turbolift came to a halt, the doors slid open, and Shran walked free of the building with his head held high and with a purpose in his stride.
I am experiencing some really major computer issues, so updates will be catch as catch can for the immediate future. I am on a borrowed laptop at the moment as mine has completely quit functioning. MA
Chapter Five “Retract that tissue, Doctor Halloway,” the hologram ordered as he slowly rotated the flesh of the wounded symbiote. “Yes, right there—see the bruising upon the outer surface of the symbiote? That is where the Trill is injured.” “How the devil did you see that?” Woolsey looked up at the masked surgeon from Blackhawk and he smiled wryly. “I am a hologram, Doctor Halloway—my eyes are, in fact, every medical sensor onboard this vessel, in addition to the normal human range of vision. The slight discoloration was immediately obvious once we were able to examine the symbiote itself,” he bent back over the unconscious Trill and held out one hand. “Protoplaser,” he ordered, and Lara instantly slid the instrument into his hands. “Protoplaser?” the Starfleet surgeon asked with a sudden start. “You intend to do internal surgery on a Trill symbiote?” “Careful, Doctor Halloway; let us not subject the symbiote or the host to more damage than we must. The trick here is that the symbiote is very sensitive to any rupture of its body; while able to repair damage that the host has suffered, it is very susceptible to injury itself, and it not affected by many of our conventional treatments. This symbiote is suffering from internal injuries, and we must repair that damage, so that Commander Malik recovers.” Halloway shook his head. “Doctor, I cannot concur—standard procedure is to treat the symptoms of the symbiote, but not to open it for internal surgery; the success rate on such procedures is extremely low.” “Normally, I would agree with you . . . but the symbiote is still hemorrhaging with no signs of slowing. The damage must be repaired . . . or we will lose both our patients,” Woolsey said as he held the protoplaser close and made a small incision in the tough flesh of the symbiote. Dark fluid, deoxygenated oozed out. “Suction,” he whispered. “Nurse Madsen, watch the vital signs of the both the host and the symbiote; inform me immediately of any change.” “Yes, Doctor. The symbiote’s are fluctuating; host is stable.” “Increase the thorizatone to two point four milligrams.” “Vital signs are stabilizing.” “Excellent, Nurse. And there is the rupture, Doctor Halloway,” Woolsey said softly. “Vascular regenerator.” “Vascular regenerator,” the human surgeon said quietly as he passed across the instrument. “A seventeen micrometer tear in the spinal vein,” he shook his head. “The symbiote would have bled out in another few hours.” “Not on my watch, Doctor Halloway,” Woolsey replied as a red light over the door of the surgical ward began to flash. And he sighed. “Now we seal the incision and let Trill nature take its course,” he raised the protoplaser again and slowly closed the wound along the symbiote’s spine.” “Both patients vital signs are improving, Doctor Woolsey,” Lara reported, and Robert smiled as he stepped back. “Doctor Halloway, would you close?” “Of course, Doctor Woolsey.” “Miss Madsen, I want Commander Malik moved into the intensive care ward once the procedure is complete—monitor both the host and symbiote for the next twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, I will prepare sickbay for more casualties. Doctor Halloway, would you join me when you are finished here?” “Yes, Doctor,” he answered as he finished sealing the surgical incision on Malik’s chest. “The patient is now closed—both of them, Doctor.” “Good,” Woolsey said as Republic suddenly shook hard. “And not a moment too soon, it seems.”
Chan Shrak frowned at the ship captain’s and senior officers that filled his briefing room. “Commodore, the Klingons are pursuing us. It is not proper for Republic to continue on for Earth, while you fight our battle.” Sig Hansen shook his head. “Commander Shrak, with the damage this ship has taken, you would add very little to the firepower assembled here. Between Blackhawk, Exeter,” he inclined his head towards Captain Elizabeth Shelby of the big Ambassador-class ship, “Endeavor,” pointing his hand at Captain Loren Garvick, the CO of the Nebula-class cruiser, “Aries,” Paul Mathison, captain of the older Renaisance-class cruiser smiled, “Agammemnon,” the Apollo-class cruiser commanded by Justin Sinclair, “and Captain Gannon’s Piper,” the Commodore nodded at the captain of the Andromeda-class light exploration cruiser, “we have the advantage over Mak’vegh’s flotilla in quality, if not numbers. Perhaps in the light of a strong Starfleet presence confronting him, Mak’vegh will give up his pursuit of you . . . if he does not,” and here Commodore Hansen shrugged. “If he does not, then he will rediscover why the Klingons came close to losing their last invasion of the Federation.” Chan’s antennae quivered and he shook his head. “Commodore, he has given up everything he has—except the ships of his House Fleet which still pursue us. Captain Shelby has brought word that Chancellor Martok has declared the entire House of Mak’vegh as renegades; his worlds are already under assault by other Great Houses . . . he has literally nothing left to return to. He will not be persuaded by words.” “Then we will show him the error of his ways with phaser beams and photon torpedoes, Commander. But in any case, our chances of stopping this—with or without violent action—before it goes any further can only happen if you and this ship are not present.” Hansen sighed. “If you were there, I fear that it would be like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull. Republic will continue on to Earth at your best speed, Mister Shrak, escorted by Captain deHaviland’s Denali,” she nodded confirmation of the order which would consign her Sequoia-class Light Cruiser to an escort. Sig glared across the table at Chan, as the stars streaked by in the windows of the briefing room beyond. “Arguing the point any further, Commander, will not change my mind; my orders stand. Understood.” Chan sighed and his antennae shrank slightly. “Understood, Commodore,” he said. Hansen waited until all six remaining Starfleet officers had acknowledged the command and he smiled crookedly at Chan. “And you need not worry about looking the part of a coward, Mister Shrak. This ship has done far more than her part in fighting off Mak’vegh’s forces—you have earned a breather. Those of here, today, in this compartment, we know well the worth of USS Republic—we know what you and this ship’s crew have accomplished. You just concentrate on getting her home intact; we will deal with the Klingons behind us.” He said as he stood, and Chan nodded, his attennae standing straight and tall once again. “Thank you, Commodore; that means a lot to this crew. We will see you at Earth, Sir,” Chan rose as well, followed by every one of the captain’s seated at the table. “Godspeed, Commander. We will be no more than a day behind you,” and Hansen’s voice grew cold, because the little Fleet had received word from Earth just four hours ago of Admiral Parker’s arrest. “And rest assured, that we will discover what is going on at the heart of the government, Mister Shrak.”
Worf stood beside one of the few windows on the Imperial Klingon Battlecruiser K’mpec, watching as the stars streaked by. He wore a Starfleet uniform, and his hands were clasped behind his back as gazed into infinity. “Your evaluation, Commander?” he asked. A snort of Klingon laughter came from behind him. “Had the Chancellor not declared Mak’vegh an outlaw and renegade, it could have worked—it might still make those who follow him reconsider on whether or not today is a good day to die. But the Chancellor has made his decree, and Mak’vegh has nothing left to return to. He will throw his Warriors against the ships of Starfleet while he continues on in pursuit once he determines that his quarry is not among those who turn to face him.” Worf sighed. “Agreed. But will he proceed alone or with some of his ships?” “Mak’vegh is . . . bold. He will try to defeat those ships which are all that stand between him and Republic; no,” the Klingon officer said as he shook his head. “He will leave them behind to cover his pursuit. Seventeen ships, but mostly older models . . . they will attack your Starfleet, brother, and they will be destroyed. The Boreth might survive, but the rest? They are already lost.” The Federation ambassador and Starfleet officer turned around and he nodded his agreement to Kurn. “We will bypass the battle as well then—make our course to intercept Republic as rapidly as possible.” “As you command, brother,” Kurn said with a Klingon smile. “My Warriors are prepare to deal with Mak’vegh once he shows himself.” Kurn turned to go, but he stopped at quiet word from his brother. “It is good to see you content once again Kurn,” Worf spoke. “I had feared that never again would you know the joy of life.” “I have my honor, Worf. And I am a Klingon Warrior; you,” Kurn paused, never turning around, “you were correct. It would have been a waste for me to destroy myself for the crimes of Gowron . . . and that mistake I shall never again make. Never again.” Neither brother spoke for several moments, but then neither needed to. Worf heard the doors to his quarters slide open and then close once more and he continued to watch the stars flash by.
Note #1: The Boreth-class Attack Cruiser is from Ex Astris Scientia. It was the immediate predecessor of the Vor'cha-class. Note #2: I have never liked how the writers dealt with Kurn in the DS9 episode Sons of Morgh. I have retconned the entire idea of Worf erasing Kurn's memory away. Instead, Kurn was convinced to train Worf's son Alexander on Earth . . . which led to his enlistment in the Klingon Defense Forces during the Dominion War. Kurn returned to the Empire alongside Alexander in disguise, serving as a Warrior aboard Martok's flagship. Martok was aware of Kurn's true identity and he concealed the presence of the Warrior from Gowron, and after Martok became Chancellor restored Kurn's honor.