The Rise of Regent Gorkon

Every warrior in the Great Hall smelled blood. The Terran Empire was starting to flounder, its Emperor Spock shedding power and control the way a gelded targ sheds fur. At long last, the greatest enemy of the Klingon Empire was faltering; it was time to strike. All that remained now was to decide who would strike, with what forces, where, when, and how. This debate, unfortunately, was dragging on late into the night, and 
Councillor Gorkon was growing weary of the bickering. Regent Sturka—the latest warrior to hold the throne for Kahless, He Who Shall Return—looked haggard and sullen as Councillors Duras and Indizar argued while circling each other inside the small pool of harsh light in the middle of the Council chamber. "You Imperial Intelligence types are all the same," Duras said with a sneer. "Infiltrate the Terrans, sabotage them, conquer them by degrees." Lifting his voice to an aggrieved bellow, he added, "Where’s the glory in that?" Keeping one hand on her d’k tahg, Indizar replied with a voice like the growl of a Kryonian tiger. "It’s smarter than your way, Duras. You’d plunge us headlong into fullscale war with the largest fleet in known space. We might emerge victorious, but at 
what cost? Our fleet would be savaged, our borders weakened. The Romulans would overrun us the moment we finished off the Terrans. … Of course, maybe that’s your real plan, isn’t it, Duras?" Duras’s eyes were wide with fury. "You dare call me a traitor?" His hand went for his own d’k tahg— Sharp, echoing cracks. One, two, three. Everyone looked at Sturka, who ceased smashing the steel-clad tip of his staff on the stone floor. "Both of you get out of the circle," he commanded Indizar and Duras. Then, to the others, he said, "I want to hear realistic strategies. Honest assessments." He looked at Gorkon, who had served for more than twenty years as Sturka’s most trusted adviser, and who had thwarted an attempt by the late Councillor Kesh to seize the throne for himself. "Have Spock’s reforms weakened 
the Terrans’ defenses," Sturka asked, "or merely damaged his own political security?" Stepping out of the crowd into the heat and glare of the circle, Gorkon gripped the edges of his black leather stole, which rested over a studded, red leather chimere; worn together, the two ceremonial vestments marked him as the second-highest-ranking individual in the chamber. "The Terran Empire," he began in a stately tone, "is still far too strong for us to risk a direct military engagement." Before the rising murmur of grumbles got out of hand, Gorkon reasserted his control over the discussion. "However, the reforms instituted by their current sovereign hold the promise of future opportunities." He began a slow walk along the edge of the circle of light, using his time to size up the commitment of both his rivals and his allies on the Council. "Emperor Spock has made significant reductions in military spending, with many 
deep cuts in the field of weapons research and development." He paused as he returned the steely glare of Duras, then moved on. "This will give us a chance to finally take the lead in our long arms race, after more than six decades of lagging behind the Terrans. This opportunity must not be squandered—it might never come again." As Gorkon reached the farthest edge of the circle from the Regent’s throne, Sturka asked, "What are you proposing, Gorkon?" Gorkon grinned at Indizar, his long-time ally, then turned to answer Sturka. "A doubling of the budget for new starship construction and refits, and a separate allocation of equal size for new military research and development." Sturka sounded skeptical. "And where will we find the money for this? Or the resources? Or the power?" 
"Money is not a warrior’s concern," Gorkon said, even though he knew it was a politician’s concern. "If we need power, we all know Praxis is not running at capacity— we can triple its output to power new shipyards. As for raw materials and personnel"—he paused and looked around the room, already plotting which of his rivals would bear the brunt of his plans for the future—"sacrifices will have to be made. Hard choices. For the cost of a few worlds and a few billion people conscripted into service, we can transform the quadrant into an unassailable bastion of Klingon power." "Whose worlds?" Councillor Argashek blurted. Suspicious growls worked their way around the room. Many of the councillors were already aware what Gorkon had in mind for them should he ever rise to the regency. Leaning over Argashek’s shoulders were 
Grozik and Glazya, his two staunchest comrades. They sniped verbally at Gorkon. "PetaQ," spat Grozik, as Glazya cursed, "Filthy yIntagh!" Councillors Narvak and Veselka conferred in hushed voices near the back of the room, while the Council’s three newest—and youngest—members stepped to the edge of the circle from different directions, flanking Gorkon. Korax had come up through the ranks of the military, much as Gorkon had. Both his friends in this challenge were scions of noble houses: Berik, of the House of Beyhn, and Rhaza, of the House of Guul. "Bold words, old man," Korax taunted. "But I bet it won’t be your homeworld that gets ground up for the Empire." Gorkon watched the three younger men moving in unison, circling him … and he 
smiled. "Step into the circle, whelps," Gorkon said. "And I’ll show you what being ground up really means." Again came the thunderous rapping of Sturka’s staff. "Enough. Korax, take your jesters back to the shadows. Gorkon, let them go." With a respectful nod at Sturka, Gorkon said, "As you wish, my lord." Secretly, he wondered if Regent Sturka had lost his appetite for battle, his love of purifying combat. Twice today he had intervened when custom dictated the strong should reign. Perhaps the Terrans’ leader isn’t the only one losing his edge, Gorkon mused grimly. Leaning forward from the edge of the throne, Sturka spoke slowly, his roar of a voice diminished with age to a ragged rumble. "Praxis is unstable. Doubling its output 
would be a mistake; tripling it is out of the question. And if a few of our worlds must be sacrificed to secure our victory over the Terrans, I will decide which worlds to cast into the fire, and when. But for now, this option is rejected." Vengeful fury raged inside Gorkon, but his countenance was as steady as granite, his gaze winter-cold. Sturka has lost the will to fight, he realized. He doesn’t have the stomach for casualties, for risk. His fire is gone; he’s just a politician now. Looking at the Regent, bitter regret filled Gorkon’s heart. Sturka had helped elevate Gorkon to the High Council more than twenty years ago. Since then the Regent had kept him close and taught him how to keep the other councillors fighting among themselves so that he and Sturka could be free to plot grander schemes for the glory of 
the Empire. Sturka had become like a second father to Gorkon, but now the old statesman was past his prime—enfeebled, vulnerable, and no longer able to lead. Gorkon knew what had to be done for the good of the Empire. It galls me that it must come to this, he admitted to himself. But better it should be me than that petaQ Duras. Sturka was still talking. His eyes drifted from one side of the room to the other, gauging each councillor’s reactions as he spoke. As soon as his gaze was turned away, Gorkon adjusted his wrist to let his concealed d’k tahg fall into his grip. His hand shot out and up and plunged the blade deep into Sturka’s chest. A twist tore apart the Regent’s heart. Lavender ichor spurted thick and warm from the ugly, sucking wound, coating Gorkon’s hand. Sturka fell into Gorkon’s arms, hanging on to his protégé as his lifeblood escaped in 
generous spurts. As he looked up at Gorkon, the Regent’s expression seemed almost … grateful. "I knew … it would … be you," he rasped through a mouthful of pinkish spittle. His corpse fell off Gorkon’s blade and landed in a blood-sodden heap on the floor. Gorkon looked around the room to see if anyone wanted to challenge him. No one seemed eager to do so. He sheathed his d’k tahg and kneeled beside Sturka’s body. He pried the eyelids open and gazed into their lifeless depths. His warning cry for Sto-Vo-Kor built like a long-growing thunderhead, resonating inside his barrel chest. Within seconds, more gravelly hums built in the bellies of those around him. Then he threw back his head and let his bellicose roar burst forth, and the High Council roared with him, the sound of the Heghtay powerful enough to shake dust from the rafters. The 
ranks of the dead could not say they hadn’t been warned: a Klingon warrior was coming. Pushing aside the empty husk of Sturka’s body, Gorkon stepped onto the raised dais and took his place on the throne. Immediately, Indizar was at his right side, handing him the ceremonial staff. Alakon, a common-born soldier who had earned his seat on the Council through honorable battle, took his place at Gorkon’s left and made the declaration, which was echoed back by the councillors without a challenge: "All hail, Regent Gorkon!"
Category:Fan Fiction