Theirs Was the Kingdom - Softcover

R.F. Delderfield

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0671824546 ISBN 13: 9780671824549

Publisher: Pocket Books, 1987

Synopsis

200 YEARS AGO: The expanding Klingon™ Empire found a frozen world rich in deposits of the mineral topaline. They named the planet taD -- Klingon for "frozen" -- and they called the people jeghpu'wI' -- conquered.

FOUR YEARS AGO: The Klingon Empire invaded Cardassia, breaching the Khitomer Accords and causing a break with the Federation. On taD, depleted Klingon forces were overthrown in a small coup d'état, and the victorious rebels took advantage of the disruption to appeal for recognition from the Federation.

NOW: The Klingons have returned to taD and re-established their control. But the stubborn rebels insist on Federation recognition. A solution to the diplomatic impasse must be found, a task that falls to the Federation's new ambassador to the Klingon Empire -- Worf.

Worf thinks of himself as a fighter, not a negotiator, but the Federation disagrees. Now, for the sake of the Federation and the Empire, a Klingon warrior must weave a fragile peace out of a situation ripe for war!

About this title

About the Author:

Keith R.A. DeCandido was born and raised in New York City to a family of librarians. He has written over two dozen novels, as well as short stories, nonfiction, eBooks, and comic books, most of them in various media universes, among them Star Trek, World of Warcraft, Starcraft, Marvel Comics, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Serenity, Resident Evil, Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda, Farscape, Xena, and Doctor Who. His original novel Dragon Precinct was published in 2004, and he's also edited several anthologies, among them the award-nominated Imaginings and two Star Trek anthologies. Keith is also a musician, having played percussion for the bands the Don't Quit Your Day Job Players, the Boogie Knights, and the Randy Bandits, as well as several solo acts. In what he laughingly calls his spare time, Keith follows the New York Yankees and practices kenshikai karate. He still lives in New York City with his girlfriend and two insane cats.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

The human burial ground was a verdant field, stretching as far as the eye could see. A latticework of pathways was superimposed over grass dotted by dozens of beeches, cedars, sugar maples, and massive oaks. Unlike so many other cemeteries, this one's grave markers were arranged artfully, with as much thought given to aesthetics as functionality. Instead of a grid-like pattern of straight rows, the graves here had a sense of being placed for a particular purpose, not just to fill the next spot in line. The grave markers themselves -- both headstones and mausoleums -- were designed with utmost care.

Many famous humans, and a few famous aliens, had chosen Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx on Earth as the resting place for their remains in the five hundred years since a human military officer, Admiral David Farragut, had been interred here.

Worf suspected that it was for this reason that K'Ehleyr had requested to be buried in this place.

Although raised by humans from the age of six, Worf had never understood the human custom of burying the bodies of the dead. Upon death, the spirit underwent a great journey -- hopefully to Sto-Vo-Kor -- but the body itself was just a shell. Placing that body in the ground, taking up land that could be better used for almost anything else, had always struck Worf as a waste.

But K'Ehleyr was only half Klingon. Her mother was human, and K'Ehleyr had followed many human customs, including making out a will and leaving instructions for disposition of remains. Klingons didn't have wills: their possessions went to their House and their bodies were destroyed.

Coming here, Worf decided, was a mistake. But his foster parents had suggested the visit, and once Sergey and Helena Rozhenko got an idea into their heads, it was best to go along. He had returned to Earth for the first time in several years in order to prepare for his newest challenge: Worf, son of Mogh, was now the Federation Ambassador to the Klingon Empire.

K'Ehleyr, the first woman Worf had ever loved, had had that job when she died.

Worf had first met K'Ehleyr over a decade and a half ago, when he was a cadet at Starfleet Academy. They seemed a perfect match, at first: the half-breed and the Klingon raised by humans. But they were also young, and ultimately the relationship, like many adolescent relationships, ended badly. When they were reunited aboard the Enterprise six years later, they had come to something like an understanding -- and, to Worf's later surprise, conceived a child.

Unfortunately, K'Ehleyr was killed just when she and Worf finally seemed to resolve their differences. Worf had avenged her death in the proper manner, and had done the best he could to raise their son, Alexander.

And now Worf had her old job.

It had been something of a shock when Admiral Ross offered him the post. With the end of the Dominion War, Worf had expected to resume his duties aboard Deep Space Nine as before, perhaps with a promotion to full commander. Instead, he had been given an awesome responsibility, one of which Worf was not sure he was worthy.

This is useless, Worf thought after staring at the stone grave marker for what seemed to be the fiftieth time. K'Ehleyr is not here. She is in Sto-Vo-Kor -- no doubt complaining about the noise all the warriors are making, he thought with an internal smile. All that's here are moldering body parts.

"Hey there, stranger, long time, no see," said a voice from behind him.

Worf whirled around, arms up in a defensive position -- until he recognized the familiar face. "Jeremy?"

"In the flesh," Jeremy Aster said with a big grin.

Worf lowered his arms and approached the young man, his lips curling slightly. "It is good to see you."

"Good to see you, too. I heard you were back on Earth, so I dropped in on Sergey and Helena. They said you came here. I might've been here sooner, actually, but Helena insisted I have some soup before I transported over."

Worf shook his head. No one came into Mother's house without being fed -- Worf learned early on that it was practically a natural law.

It had been ten years since Worf last saw Jeremy in person. The twelve-year-old that Worf had made R'uustai with on the Enterprise was now a twenty-two-year-old man. Jeremy's mother, Lieutenant Marla Aster, a ship's archaeologist, had died on an away mission that Worf had led, leaving the boy orphaned. Worf had made Jeremy a part of his family with the R'uustai ritual, and the two had stayed in touch in the intervening years. Jeremy had followed his mother's career in archaeology and was now working on his doctorate at the prestigious Rector Institute.

Indicating the way to the northernmost exit, Worf said, "I was just about to leave. Will you walk with me?"

"Sure. Said all you needed to say to her, huh?"

"Something like that," Worf said, not wanting to go into a diatribe against incomprehensible human death customs.

"Yeah, sometimes I visit Mom and Dad's graves, tell 'em how I'm doing. It's kinda cathartic, y'know?"

Worf was suddenly grateful he had not gone into that diatribe.

"Of course," Jeremy continued, "what I've been doing is pretty dull. 'Hi, Mom, went to school today.' 'Hi, Dad, broke up with Marra yesterday.'"

"You and Marra have ended your relationship?" Worf asked, surprised. Jeremy's last several letters had indicated that she was what humans tended to call "the one."

"Long story," Jeremy said, dismissively. "I'm over her. Really."

"Of course," Worf said, trying not to sound dubious.

"But you -- you make us all look like we lead dull lives. Your ship's destroyed by the Jem'Hadar, you're captured by the Breen, tortured by the Cardassians, rescued by Cardassia's biggest folk hero, and then for good measure you kill the Klingon chancellor and appoint his replacement, help win the worst war of the last several decades, and get a plum diplomatic assignment. Not bad for six months' work."

"I merely did my duty," Worf said, not really interested in basking in the recognition -- especially since Jeremy mentioned that as a way of deflecting the conversation away from his failed relationship.

Jeremy laughed. "Right, all in a day's work. Sure."

"Something like that."

"So, I assume you'll be living on the Klingon Homeworld, right?"

"Yes, at the embassy, though I suspect my duties will keep me traveling."

"What's your next assignment? Or is it some top-secret mission us civilians aren't allowed to hear about?" This last was said with a sardonic grin.

"I do not know. I am meeting with Minister T'Latrek tomorrow to discuss it."

"Well," Jeremy said, slapping Worf's shoulder, "I'm sure whatever it is, you'll be brilliant."

"I appreciate your confidence," Worf said. "I can only hope that it is justified," he muttered.

"Hey," Jeremy said, and he stopped walking and looked Worf right in the eye. "I'm serious here. You've taken a lot of garbage in your life, and you've always wound up on top -- maybe not right away, but you always end up there eventually. You'll do well here, too." He grinned. "Trust your brother."

Worf took a deep breath. He had had three brothers in his life. His biological brother, Kurn, now lived a new life under another name, with no memory of ever having been the younger son of Mogh. His adoptive brother, Nikolai Rozhenko, now lived on Vacca VI with the Boraalan people, raising a family. Jeremy was really the only one he had left. "Perhaps you are right."

"I'm always right."

"Except, it would seem, about Marra."

Jeremy rolled his eyes. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"I believe your last few letters mentioned marriage plans."

Wincing, Jeremy said, "They did, didn't they?"

"I will not pry if you do not wish to talk further."

Jeremy let out a held breath. "I appreciate that."

"Instead, I will invite you to join me for dinner at my parents'."

"Helena already did," Jeremy said with another grin. "She's making pipius claw and rokeg blood pie for you, and matzoh ball soup and pirogi for those of us with only one stomach."

Worf returned the slap on Jeremy's back as they approached the transporter station, located by a huge linden tree near the north entrance to the cemetery. "Excellent. Of course, I will have to tell Mother that you and Marra have broken it off."

Jeremy's face went ashen. "You wouldn't."

"I must," Worf said with mock gravity. "She has already picked a dress for the wedding. However, you may rest assured that I will insist that she respect your wishes that the details remain a secret."

Jeremy put his head in his hands. "Right. That'll work. Suuuuure. Maybe I won't come to dinner."

"After you already accepted the invitation? I do not believe that Mother will forgive such a slight so easily."

Almost pleading now, Jeremy asked, "Can't you make up some excuse?"

Worf drew himself up to his full height. "A warrior does not lie."

Shaking his head, Jeremy laughed. "I suppose I'm doomed no matter what, huh?"

"A warrior also knows when to bow to the inevitable."

"And nothing's more inevitable than your mother. All right, fine, I'll tell you all everything over dinner. And to think -- you were worried about whether you'll make a good diplomat."

Worf said nothing as he handed the transporter operator a chip with the coordinates of the Rozhenkos' house.

He did, however, smile.

Emperor me'Grmat XIX lay on his cushion and waited for death.

Death, however, didn't seem particularly interested in showing up anytime soon.

He had been born named te'Osbron on the planet that was now called taD. However, when the previous Klingon governor appointed him to the position of emperor, he -- like the eighteen emperors before him -- took on the name me'Grmat. That was how things were done, even when the world was called al'Hmat and no one had ever heard of Klingons. And it was how things were still done now that the world had been conquered, renamed, and made a part of the Klingon Empire.

Te'Osbron had lived a long but quiet life as an acolyte, serving the spiritual and medical needs of the people of the he'Vant Mountains. The people liked him, and the Klingon overseers liked him. He was pleasant without being annoying, and he wasn't afraid to stand up to the Klingons when the situation called for it. The Klingons admired both qualities, and so when me'Grmat XVIII had died after a long illness, te'Osbron was the one the Kling- ons thought should serve as the new spiritual leader of their people.

Once, the title of emperor had carried more weight than that, of course. Once, the emperor ruled over all of al'Hmat. The word of me'Grmat was law.

Whether or not people followed that law was another question entirely, but me'Grmat preferred to think of the days of al'Hmat as a time of peace and joy and prosperity, not as a time of barbarous wars and internecine conflict that left the al'Hmatti easy pickings for the Klingon conquerors two centuries ago.

One of me'Grmat's servants -- the emperor found he could not remember the young woman's name -- entered, bringing in an antigrav tray containing his morning meal. She set it next to his cushion and said, "May I get Your Eminence anything else?"

"No, that will be all," me'Grmat said wearily. He didn't remember ever seeing this woman before, he realized. That's probably why I don't know her name.

The breakfast was standard: assortments of fish, a raktajino, and pipius claw -- the latter being the one Klingon food me'Grmat could stomach. Indeed, he'd grown rather fond of it over the years. That, and Klingon coffee, of course, to which he'd become addicted.

He took a sip of the raktajino after the servant dashed out on all fours, then quickly spit it back onto the tray. There was something inside the drink, something solid.

Sitting on the tray amidst the regurgitated raktajino was a small, seamed plastic ball. With a heavy sigh, me'Grmat picked it up and pried it apart at the seams with his claws. To his total lack of surprise, it contained an optical chip.

The emperor's first instinct was to throw it away unread. It was almost assuredly another message from re'Trenat or one of his other rebel idiots, imploring him to support their cause and to stop being a "mouthpiece for the Klingon fools."

But, me'Grmat thought, re'Trenat went to all the trouble of smuggling it in here. The least I can do is hear what he has to say.

He reached over to the nightstand with his right hind leg and grabbed his reader. The optical chip presently inside it was some paperwork or other that me'Grmat had been putting off doing, so removing it was no onerous task. He put the new chip in with his left hind leg while nibbling on his fish with his forelegs.

As expected, re'Trenat's face appeared on the screen. Like most of his silly rebels, he had shaved the fur on one side of his head in the pattern of the glyph for victory. Re'Trenat's fur was snow-white, so the victory glyph stood out, etched as it was in his obsidian skin. He also, me'Grmat noticed, had taken to wearing some kind of jewelry in his left ear.

"Good morning, Your Eminence. I hope this message finds you well. I am told that a Federation ambassador is arriving within a day or so. It only took four years -- though I suspect that attacking Governor Tiral's satellite is what really got their attention. But for whatever reason, the Federation has finally decided to heed our cries for help. Now is your chance, Your Eminence. The next time the governor tells you to speak before the people to denounce us, refuse! Or better yet, tell the people that they should support us! You wield great power among our people -- your support would send a message to the Klingons that we are truly sick of their -- "

Me'Grmat shut the reader off with a derisive snort. Send a message to the Klingons, of course, he thought. That message being, "Time to kill this old fool and appoint a new emperor."

Emperor me'Grmat XIX had lived a long, prosperous, happy life. He did not want it to end at the wrong end of a disruptor. Besides, what better way to rebel against the Klingons than to die quietly in one's bed? It would make any self-respecting Klingon sick to his stomachs.

That is a philosophical rebellion, of course, me'Grmat thought with a sigh, so someone who leads attacks on mines and satellites probably wouldn't understand it.

He was about to reach over and signal for the servant, when she loped back in. "Your Eminence, Governor Tiral wishes to speak with you."

"Very well. Please take this raktajino away -- it is defective. Have it destroyed in case some other, less understanding person drinks it."

"Are you sure, Your Eminence? The galley told me it was an especially fine batch this m...

About this edition

• Publisher: Pocket Books
• Publication date: 1987
• ISBN 10: 0671824546
• ISBN 13: 9780671824549
• Binding: Paperback