The Klingon Art of War Read online

  Years passed, and the first warrior refused even to acknowledge his neighbor. Then one day there came the greatest fire the region had ever seen. The first warrior was not home when the fire struck, but his mate was.

  The second warrior, upon seeing that his neighbor’s mate would die without his assistance, went into the fire and pulled her out at the cost of his own life. The second warrior was overwhelmed by smoke and perished. The first warrior was ashamed and disgraced, for he had chosen a poor enemy, one who proved to be far greater as a friend.

  The comrade with whom you quarrel today may well be the one who saves your mate tomorrow.

  THE GODS AND THE GREAT TREE

  Enemies also change with time. Once, thousands of years before Kahless was born, Klingons worshipped gods who ruled from atop the qo’sor—the Great Tree of the World, which once stood on the plains of Balduq. These gods required tribute and sacrifice, which the Klingons of the time provided, and ritual, which they followed.

  Wa’Joh’a’, the first god, came down from the tree to speak to the Klingons. He destroyed a village but allowed the villagers to live. He said he would rebuild the village, making it better than before, but only if the villagers killed ten klongats and burned them before him.

  The villagers did as Wa’Joh’a’ asked, though two villagers died on the hunt for the klongat. In return for doing as he asked, Wa’Joh’a’ created a new village that was more splendid than the one he had destroyed. Brick and mortar replaced clay and dirt.

  The first god even brought the two who died back to life.

  Beholding Wa’Joh’a’s many gifts, the Klingons of the time gladly bent their knee to him.

  Seeing that the Klingons gladly provided worship, other gods came down from the qo’sor to accept their due.

  As time went on, the gods’ demands increased. Each sacrifice the gods asked of the Klingons was harder than the last, and the gifts they gave in exchange more and more paltry.

  Worse, the gods squabbled. Each god claimed a village, but some gods were jealous and demanded larger villages with more pious worshippers. The gods fought among themselves, great battles that devasted the villages over which they fought.

  The Klingons became less and less interested in bending their knees to these petty, capricious creatures, or in doing their bidding.

  Eventually, there came a day when Kortar the Mighty and his mate Baka visited each village and made a call to arms. After a full turn, the pair had recruited a hundred warriors for a charge across the Balduq Plains. They climbed the qo’sor and slew the gods, and then they destroyed the great tree.

  For Kortar and Baka and their hundred warriors had learned for themselves what Kahless would later teach: We are Klingons, and we need rely on no outside force to tell us what to do. They left the stump of the qo’sor to remind us of what we no longer required and of who we are. And it was only by targeting a foe of such might that the charge on the qo’sor accomplished so much.

  THE HUR’Q INVASION

  Sometimes the enemy that defeats you can still bring strength. When the Klingon homeworld was conquered by the Hur’q, it was a vicious, brutal defeat that almost destroyed the Klingon people. But the Hur’q left the homeworld after they plundered it. Klingons still lived.

  Our people grew stronger from that defeat—their scars were their armor. For it was after the Hur’q invasion that we turned to space—another enemy we chose to battle, and one we conquered. We became a mighty empire, and it may never have happened if not for the Hur’q attack on our world. The wise warrior knows that defeat is midwife to victory.

  But there is a road between the extremes of the easy foe and the insuperable one, where one picks an enemy that provides a true and proper challenge.

  Through such challenges one becomes stronger and gains more honor. A worthy foe brings out the best in a warrior, regardless of the arena in which that battle is fought. The furnace of honor is stoked by glorious battle. A poor foe brings only the illusion of strength, and a warrior who fights with imagined strength cannot end any better than the man at Quin’lat. That man died without honor, the fate that waits for all who do not choose their enemies well.

  K’RATAK’S COMMENTARY

  This precept is one that applies across the entirety of Klingon life, from the highest seat in the council chambers to the lowliest menial worker in the slums of Krennla. It seems, at first, one that is both obvious and impossible to follow. After all, enemies are not like articles of clothing one can choose off a rack. They can appear without warning and without recourse.

  The story of Kortar the Mighty and the death of the gods is telling, for it shows that even a divine enemy can be defeated if one is worthy. But I also admire the story because it reminds me of an even greater lesson that derives from this precept.

  Tarrant, the great opera composer from the time of Chancellor Sturka, found himself in a peculiar situation. One of the greatest opera singers of that era was Qaov. He toiled in obscurity for many years. Then he was abruptly forced into the lead male role in Aktuh and Melota, when the original lead quit the opera to join the Defense Force following the death of his brother. Qaov took advantage of the opportunity, and his Aktuh was considered the definitive portrayal by many, at least until Kenni’s.

  When Tarrant wrote qal yoj,1 Qaov assumed that, as one of the greatest opera singers, he would be given the right of first refusal for the role of Kal. But Tarrant instead gave that part to Korzol—which turned out to be his last performance, as he was killed in a duel by the mate of one of his lovers after the show closed.

  (Korzol was another who chose a poor enemy, by bedding another Klingon’s mate. The head of the opera company’s crew was in a loveless union they maintained only because both were from mid-level Houses. The two Houses were strengthened by the mating, but no deeper bonds sustained it. However, the crew leader was very protective of this union, and when he learned that Korzol had taken his mate as a lover, he challenged Korzol and defeated him.)

  Qaov was given the very strong role of Grimnar, one of the advocates, but Qaov always believed he deserved the role of Kal, and he swore never to perform in one of Tarrant’s operas again.

  Throughout his career, Qaov made his disdain for Tarrant well known. For his part, Tarrant had no shortage of singers who would give their fangs to perform in one of his operas, so Qaov’s avoidance was of little moment.

  But Qaov also made no secret of his lifelong desire to play the role of Kortar the Mighty. In fact, midway through his career, he began a tradition every yobta yupma’2 of performing a dramatic reading of Kohn the Brilliant’s epic poem qo’Sor luQaw’ qotar baqa je.3 He performed the reading all over the Empire, but his most famous recitations were the ones he gave at the stump in Balduq that is all that remains of the qo’Sor.

  And then came the day when Tarrant announced that his next opera would be called Qunpu’ choS,4 and while the primary lead would be Wa’Joh’a’, the first god, the second leads were Kortar and Baka. But Qaov had declared Tarrant his enemy, had declared—repeatedly—that there was no circumstance under which he would perform one of Tarrant’s operas again.

  Some opera scholars believe that Tarrant’s choice to write Qunpu’ choS was deliberate, done to provoke Qaov, to taunt him with two contradictory choices. Whether it was or not, he showed that Qaov was a fool to make an enemy of him, for it kept Qaov from his heart’s desire. The night that Qunpu’ choS opened at the amphitheater at Krennla, Qaov committed Mauk-to’Vor in his home.

  It is unwise to choose an enemy who wields a weapon against which you have no defense. Qaov believed Tarrant stole his honor by not casting him in the role he desired, but in truth Qaov committed that act of thievery himself through his resentment of Tarrant’s choice. And Tarrant was able to wield it as a weapon as lethal as any bat’leth.

  The story of Kortar and Baka’s triumph over the gods teaches us that what seems the wrong choice of enemy can be the right one, whereas the story of Qaov and Tarrant remi
nds us that what seems to be the right enemy can be very much the wrong one.

  Of course, choosing an incorrect enemy can prove fatal. Perhaps this was never better illustrated than on the fateful day in the Year of Kahless 998 when the Empire invaded Cardassia, believing the leaders of the Cardassian Union had been suborned by the shape-changing Founders of the Dominion. The Empire chose two enemies that day—not just Cardassia, but also the Federation, our staunch allies of many turns’ standing, who condemned our invasion, resulting in a sundering of the decades-old alliance between our two nations.

  Chancellor Gowron chose poorly in doubling his enemies. Of course, we now know that a Founder whispered in his ear the entire time: a Changeling had replaced General Martok, advising him to go forward with the foolish invasion—an invasion that was not even successful! The Empire did not conquer Cardassia, and we remained in conflict with them and with the Federation for several turns.

  Not that Chancellor Gowron was wrong; he was simply premature, for eventually Cardassia was taken over by the Dominion. By that time, the Martok Changeling had been exposed on Ty’Gokor by Gowron, and the real Martok was returned to the Klingons after he escaped from a Dominion prison. Only then did Chancellor Gowron realize his error in making the Federation his enemy. At that point, the chancellor realized his mistake and finally heeded the words of Kahless. The wind—the massing force against which there is no defense—was once more an ally. The Khitomer Accords were restored, and Klingons and the Federation became stalwart allies once more. Together, the two nations faced the Dominion in many a mighty battle.

  So many statues in the Hall of Warriors were erected for those who fought bravely against the Dominion: Kor, the Dahar Master, who kept ten Jem’Hadar vessels at bay with but a single Bird-of-Prey; K’Temoc, who held the line at Bolarus; Woktar, whose daring maneuvers after his captain was killed led to victory at Hanovra; B’Entra, who discovered how to counter the Breen energy-dampening weapon; Klag, who singlehandedly fought off a dozen Jem’Hadar at Marcan V; Mavlaq, who led the raid on the ketracel-white facility on Pelosa Minor; Kartok, who led the forces that took Raknal V; H’vis, who discovered the sabotage of Captain Goluk’s fleet; and, of course, Martok himself, who ascended to the chancellor’s chair by the war’s end and has led us ever since. Let their names echo evermore!

  Tellingly, no statues were erected in the Hall for heroism against the Cardassians or the Federation from 998–999.

  Eventually, even the Romulans joined the war effort. In the past, both the Federation and the Romulans were our enemies. Who can forget the vicious battles fought against the former at Donatu V or against the latter at Klach D’Kel Bracht? But the Empire accepted the Federation’s help after the Praxis disaster, which led to the Khitomer Accords. The Romulans had been our allies in the past, though it was often an alliance of convenience against a common enemy. At one time that enemy was the Federation, and more recently, it was the Dominion.

  Once, the Empire was surrounded by enemies, by its own choice. It was a rock in the sea. Now it had united with two former foes against the greatest threat the Galaxy had seen to that point: the Dominion. United, the three nations were able to turn the tide of the war and bring the Dominion to ignominious defeat in one of the greatest victories in our empire’s grand history.

  The day when Chancellor Martok stood alongside Federation and Romulan soldiers on the desolate ruins of Cardassia Prime was one of the greatest the Empire had ever seen. And it came about because the leaders of the Empire chose the right enemy, and the right time to sift amity from the dregs of enmity.

  Another example of this precept’s value comes from my own career. My first novel was qul naj,5 and upon its release, it was generally praised. The book remains readily available to this day and is one of the most read books in the Empire. Some were, naturally, less than fond of it, for such is the nature of art that it is not seen the same way by all. However, those critics who disparaged my work were critical only of the work itself, not of me as a Klingon. It was only the text they found disagreeable, and they said so in their commentaries.

  There was, however, one exception. I will not honor this particular petaQ6 by naming him, but suffice it to say that he was not satisfied with simply enumerating the flaws he perceived in qul naj. No, he also besmirched my honor, belittled my parentage, and questioned my motives. When yoj nIyma’7 was published two turns later, this critic took things a step further and spoke poorly of my mate at the time.

  That critic chose me as an enemy. I would not have chosen him—the artist who chooses a critic as an enemy is a fool, for such foes are unworthy under the best of circumstances. Indeed, there is a valuable lesson in that. It is obvious that choosing an enemy whom one cannot defeat is unwise, but not so obvious is that choosing a foe whose defeat brings you nothing is equally pointless. While I would have been completely within my rights to seek him out and challenge him to a duel, I did not see any reason to waste my time to do so. (I had never directly encountered him in person.) Indeed, the duel would have accomplished nothing. My book was a success, and this particular commentary did little to affect my reputation. Indeed, the critic’s comments said more about him than they did about me. So if I defeated him, it would have done no more to enhance my honor than stepping on a glob fly. And if he defeated me, the Empire would lose any art I might create in the future, while my victory would cost the Empire only a critic. Between us, we exemplified both sides of this precept: aim neither too high nor too low.

  I would have thought nothing of this toDSaH,8 but for my later encounter with him at the celebration hosted by my publisher upon the release of poH bIrqu’ SuvwI’pu’.9 He approached me and said he had just finished a novel of his own, and he had the temerity to ask me for advice and possibly for editorial input.

  At that point, I had little choice but to kill the fool. He was baffled by my challenge and was utterly unprepared for it. Barely was he able even to defend himself, as he had absolutely no comprehension of the fact that he had made an enemy of me many turns earlier. I did not choose him as an enemy, but he chose me, and he did not live to regret that choice.

  Councillor K’Tal, who served on the High Council from the days of Chancellor Ditagh until shortly after the Dominion War, told a story once at a feast in his honor. When he was growing up in the First City, he would always purchase jInjoq bread from a small bakery. Every morning, K’Tal would enter the shop at the same time as a cantankerous old Klingon. Barely able to walk, this old warrior would enter the shop and berate the proprietor for several minutes, casting aspersions on his parentage, his mate, his choice in clothing, the state of his shop, and anything else that came to mind.

  But then, after a lengthy harangue—the same diatribe as on every other day, but robed in different words—the old man would purchase seven loaves of jInjoq and be on his way.

  At first, K’Tal was incensed. He asked the baker, “Why do you allow him to insult you so? His words boil my blood, and they were not even directed at me!” But the baker chuckled and said, “He is my best customer. Every day he buys seven loaves of jInjoq, except on holidays, when he buys ten. I could choose to accept his insults and challenge him. Given his age and infirmity, victory would easily be mine. But then seven loaves of jInjoq would rot on the shelves every day, and I would be denied the entertainment of hearing what new insults he had for me.”

  K’Tal said he learned a lesson about the treacherous waters of politics that day. The old man tried to goad the baker into becoming his enemy, but the baker chose more sensibly than that. Making an enemy of the old man would not have furthered the cause of honor, would not have improved his standing within the community, would not have accomplished much of anything except to end a morning ritual that the baker had actually come to appreciate.

  Honor is served only by combat that elevates the spirit. Correct choices—of whom we fight, and why, and how we live—are paving stones. Taken together, they can make a road we travel to reach honor. Choos
ing unworthy foes such as the critic or the old man creates a road to futility; choosing foes such as Tarrant or the Federation can erect not a road, but a wall that keeps one from entering the domain of honor. Only worthy foes like the Dominion or the gods themselves bring a warrior glory and honor.

  * * *

  1. The Judgment of Kal.

  2. The Klingon harvest festival, an important holiday among some families and in Klingon farming enclaves, though less important than in older times, before the Empire expanded beyond Qo’noS.

  3. Kortar and Baka and the Destruction of the Great Tree.

  4. Twilight of the Gods.

  5. The Dream of the Fire.

  6. This strong insult has no direct translation.

  7. The Vision of Judgment.

  8. An insult roughly equivalent to idiot.

  9. Warriors of the Deep Winter.

  SECOND PRECEPT

  STRIKE QUICKLY OR STRIKE NOT.

  “Four thousand throats may be cut in a single night by a running man.”

  —KAHLESS

  Carrying just his d’k tahg, Krim climbed the mountain with the stealth available only to a single unencumbered warrior. He ran across the battlements, slashing the throat of each sentry.

  DICTUM: THE BOLD STRIKE

  WARRIORS MUST EXALT UNFETTERED ACTION. WHILE COUNCILLORS DISCUSS AND SCHOLARS DEBATE, WARRIORS ACT. THE HARMONIOUS WARRIOR—THE WARRIOR ALWAYS MARCHING TOWARD THAT WHICH CONFERS HONOR—DOES NOT HESITATE. ACTION TAKEN WITHOUT UNDUE CONSIDERATION IS PURE, AND WARRIORS SEEK PURITY. PURITY OF ACTION, PURITY OF PURPOSE. WHEN THE FEAR OF DANGER LOOMS, WISE WARRIORS WILL ASSAIL IT.  WHEN THE THOUGHT OF FAILURE CREEPS, NOBLE WARRIORS WILL BANISH IT. THUS PURGED OF DOUBT, A WARRIOR’S MIND IS LIGHT AS SMOKE. QUIET MINDS FREE OF DELIBERATION CONSTRUCT NO OBSTACLES BETWEEN WARRIORS AND THEIR AIMS. CLEAR MINDS DO NOT IMPEDE THE WILL, THE PRIMARY INSTRUMENT OF A WARRIOR’S POWER.