T4. The Hand that Drives the Blade, Steadies the Ship

She is not the oldest vessel in the Empire, nor the most decorated. But her hull bears a lifetime of scrapes from close calls and enough battle scars to call her seasoned. She endures.

Her consoles flicker with a stubborn refresh rate that refuses to surrender.

Her systems have been burnt out, replaced, patched, repaired, and upgraded more times than anyone could remember.

She is a veteran – not ancient, but undeniably stubborn. Seasoned, in the way only Klingon ships can be.

Built not for the narrow margins and tolerances of efficiency, but with ample allowances in her designs to resist surrender. Built to outlast, outwit, and outgun any problem that stands in her way.

She is the IKS Amar.

Her commanding officer, HoD Gravok, ruminated before the expanse of the viewscreen. A blue swirling mass loomed below, a lush planet teeming with vibrant life.

It was the innocence of that planet which reminded Gravok of how his command of Amar came to be.

— MONTHS EARLIER—

The IKS Amar was in the midst of a month-long mission, tasked with patrolling several Klingon colony worlds. She was in orbit above the final world in their schedule – the most nondescript of M-class planets, with a pedestrian mix of water and landmass. The planet’s orbit was just as far from being noteworthy as it could be.

The dim red glow of the interior illumination flickered. An almost imperceptible hum and faint tremor resonated throughout the deck plates.

Science Officer Brakor watched as his console sputtered, its crimson glyphs distorted into a nearly illegible maelstrom before they flickered back into place onscreen. Brakor furrowed his brow. “HoD, I am detecting—”

HoD Drathor cut him off abruptly.

“TACTICAL!” Drathor shouted, his voice raw. “Arm torpedoes, target the cloud!”

The bridge froze.

The tactical officer, a young warrior named Torvak, blinked in bewilderment.

“Sir…a cloud? We are in orbit of Keltos-IV, one of our colony worlds. There is no cl–”

“You dare to defy me?! You spineless whelp!” Drathor slammed his fist into the armrest of the command chair. “The cloud is expanding! It has destroyed the other two ships — it will destroy us next!”

Sogh Torvak hesitated and glanced over at la’ Gravok, then back at HoD Drathor. The HoD’s eyes were wide, unfocused, bloodshot. His breathing was ragged, and beads of sweat clung to his skin.

“There!” He proclaimed, pointing at the peaceful planet below, as it loomed on the expanse of the viewscreen. “Stand by on torpedoes…Fire!” The HoD righted himself from the command chair, his left hand still outstretched towards the viewscreen as he faced the weapons officer.

Drathor’s order was met with silence, stillness, and shock.

“HoD…the colony has hailed us. They are awaiting a resp—”

Torvak was abruptly cut off by the sound of a disruptor pistol clearing its holster.

In one fluid motion that spanned eight-tenths of a second, Drathor drew his disruptor and fired.

The jagged green bolt of energy hissed with a static-laced screech as it erupted from the muzzle of the disruptor pistol and struck Torvak center mass.

The chest of the young Klingon weapons officer was met with an immediate and catastrophic transfer of energy. His armor and uniform at the point of impact flashed into superheated plasma. Torvak staggered backward half a step as the intensely violent burst of energy began to tear apart the very molecular bonds that held his being together. A blood-curdling guttural scream escaped the warrior’s mouth as his form contorted in agonizing pain as his nervous system ignited. From the impact point, an intense emerald-green glow began to spread outward as it began enveloping him. In a flash, Torvak’s molecular cohesion was ripped asunder, and the weapons officer was no more—he had ceased to be, leaving nothing but a wisp of vapor and a scorch mark where he stood.

“Who else wishes to neglect their duty?” HoD Drathor roared as he raised his arms in an address to the rest of the bridge crew.

In an instant, la’ Gravok launched and closed the distance between them. Faster than Drathor could react, Gravok was upon him, his left hand anchored upon his HoD’s shoulder pauldron as he drove his d’k tahg into the older Klingon’s chest with such tremendous force that a resounding crunch could be heard. The sound that followed was the clattering of the HoD’s disruptor pistol as it fell from his hand onto the deckplating.

“It is only you that has neglected duty!” Gravok shouted.

“NO! The blue cloud has fired upon us! Fire the aft torpedo!” Drathor commanded. He dropped his arms, balled his fists, and began to slam them into Gravok’s sides.

His left hand remained clamped on Drathor’s shoulder pauldron, his fingers digging into the ridged metal. Drathor’s fists hammered into Gravok’s ribs—wild, frantic blows devoid of the practiced rhythm he was known for.  Each of Drathor’s strikes sent a jolt of pain through Gravok’s side, but he held fast.

“There is no cloud!”

Drathor’s sole answer was a punch to Gravok’s ribs.

With great force, Gravok wrenched his d’k tahg free from Drathor’s chest. It was released with a wet squelch, followed by the flow of blood. Drathor staggered, but before he could regain his balance again, Gravok pistoned the blade into his chest – once, twice, again – each powerful thrust powered by a furious dedication to duty, and the memory of young Torvak’s scream.

Drathor’s legs buckled, his figure crumpling back onto the deckplate under Gravok’s control. Gravok pinned him down against the cold metal of the deck.

“You have lost yourself, uncle. But I will not lose this ship.” Another retraction of the blade, followed by one final thrust into Drathor’s chest. Gravok felt the resistance of muscle and bone through the hilt.

“The Amar…must warn the Empire…”

Drathor’s brow unfurrowed, his eyes lost their frantic focus. The fists that had been hammering Gravok’s side now hung limp. Gravok withdrew his d’k tahg one last time.

For a moment, neither warrior moved.

Then Gravok released the pauldron of his uncle’s armor. Drathor’s body slumped against the deck, his armor settling with a dull metallic thud. Gravok regained his composure. Blood soaked his gauntlet and d’k tahg, the latter of which he returned to the sheath at his side. He looked down at his opponent – not with triumph, but the grim acknowledgment of a duty fulfilled.

With deliberate care, Gravok reached out and placed his hand beneath Drathor’s jaw, positioning his head so that his eyes faced upward, as demanded by tradition.

Gravok leaned forward and softly uttered, “Qapla’, Drathor. May your spirit find the battle you sought.”

He drew open Drathor’s eyelids, staring into his uncle’s eyes, but found no recognition, no awareness—only emptiness.

He threw back his head, and he howled.

It exploded from his chest – a resounding dirge. Raw and primal, it echoed through the Amar. It was a bellowing howl that warned So’Vo’Kor that a warrior was underway.

The final echoes faded into the hum of Amar’s systems. Gravok lowered his head and steadied his breath as the ritual came to an end.

Brakor was the first to speak. The science officer stepped forward from his console. “la’ Gravok…” he hesitated, then corrected himself as the weight of reality settled in. “HoD Gravok, the colony continues to hail us.”

Engineer Thorek rose from his station, fists clenched. His eyes flitted between the scorch mark where his brother Torvak once stood, to the lifeless shell that Drathor once inhabited.

“What are your orders, HoD?” he asked, his tone respectful. He was grateful that Gravok had avenged his brother but wished he had been allowed to do so himself.

Gravok steadied his breathing. He approached the command chair and placed a hand upon the backrest – not yet sitting, but claiming the responsibility that was now bestowed upon him.

“Secure the bridge,” Gravok commanded. He had always possessed a quiet intensity — a stark contrast to that of his elder sister K’Rell, but now his usual tone carried differently. The soft-spoken, yet. “Brakor, open a channel to the colony. Kelroth, you will replace Torvak as Weapons Officer. Soghla’ Dovrah, you are now la’; as such, log Torvak’s death with honor and prepare a report for the Table of Roads.”

—PRESENT DAY —

“HoD Gravok, a communication on a secure channel from ‘ech Morak awaits you.” announced la’ Dovrah, returning him back to the present from his meditation.

“Onscreen.”

The image of a battle-hardened and distinguished warrior appeared on the viewscreen.
“You will rendezvous with the USS Solvang,” Morak said. “Their captain expects you.”

Gravok’s jaw tightened, but he did not answer.

“You will work beside them, measure their worth, and ensure they understand ours.”

He looked toward the House crest that adorned the wall behind Morak. A black gauntlet clutched a blade, flanked by two angled blades which narrowed at the top. The overall shape was reminiscent of a barbed arrowhead. Three flat stone bars beneath, the old sign of the Passage of Three Fires: raiders, storm, and betrayal. A crack ran through several of the stones, repaired in a Kintsugi-style but with silver in lieu of gold.

“The road remains. Morak, out!”

Gravok mulled over the concept of what it truly means to be of House Korvath lineage, especially since his was tied directly to the bloodline. Gravok, son of Ulrath. Ulrath, second son of Morak. And now he was in command of one of House Korvath’s mighty battlecruisers, a K’t’inga from the late twenty-fourth century. The amount of firepower under his command, continually upgraded over the years, was considerable enough to make even the mightiest of ships carefully weigh the consequences of their actions. But how would he use that to his advantage as HoD?