But before leaving his dead ship, he had one final duty to perform. He stood on the bridge, surrounded by the bodies of his shipmates. His eyes were bright and Klag took several short breaths before one, long deep inhalation of smoke and blood-tinged air. From the bottom of his wounded soul, Klag summoned a fearsome war cry, alerting the sentries at the River of Blood that a ship full of warriors was about to enter Sto-Vo-Kor. Even that petaQ Kargan.

  It also served notice to the Jem’Hadar that victory was not theirs to have.

  Now it was time to go and mete out revenge.

  Without stopping to grab water or rations, Klag worked his way from the battered bridge to the corridor that connected the bulbous head to the remainder of the vessel. There he found a rupture in the hull with bright sunlight filling the empty space. There were no bodies, nor was there any smoke. Klag sensed the planet’s heat from outside but was prepared to endure any environment Marcan V had to offer. He worked his way through the jagged tear in the vessel’s body and emerged, blinking against the sun, onto the planet.

  The Marcan system was resource rich, one of the first systems conquered during the Klingon’s early days of expansion as an empire. It was raised into a productive system through sheer force of Klingon will. It was therefore highly coveted by the enemy. The Pagh was part of a fleet assigned to protect the sector and almost immediately they encountered resistance. Jem’Hadar attack ships and Breen forces had been patrolling the sector first, and immediately responded to the Klingon fleet of twelve ships. Klag paused a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the sun, feeling refreshed from the warmth.

  While the Jem’Hadar were renowned as warriors in hand-to-hand combat, their smaller ships could not withstand the coordinated efforts of the determined Klingons. Klag reflected with pleasure that here, they were clearly superior. While their deflector screens were more advanced compared to Klingon technology, the combined might of torpedoes and disruptor cannons picked off one ship after another.

  Marcan V was an arid world, hotter than Qo’noS, with a slightly heavier gravity. Like Klingons, the Jem’Hadar probably also trained in heavier environments. Given the breadth of the Klingon Empire, all soldiers regularly trained in varying atmospheres and gravities, but the Dominion was also of great breadth, and though they had no honor, the rulers of the Dominion were no fools. Still, at least the oppressive heat did not put Klag at a disadvantage. Cold would have been an issue, but Klingons thrived in heat.

  Klag stumbled over rocks and lost his balance, reaching out with an arm that no longer existed. The fall filled his mouth with dirt and once more he cursed out loud. He had to force himself to concentrate and compensate for his body’s new proportions.

  As he made his way toward the dark column of smoke that could only be the downed Jem’Hadar ship, his mind filled with images of the glorious battle in the black skies above this system. Even Kargan acquitted himself well, for a change, as the Pagh took out two Jem’Hadar ships with just one well-aimed torpedo. It was the stuff of song, Klag concluded. No tune, though, presented itself. In fact, he noted, he was having uncharacteristic difficulty in concentrating.

  Within an hour, the numbers on both sides had been whittled down to just one K’Vort-class cruiser and one Jem’Hadar ship. They danced and chased and fired upon one another until the cursed Jem’Hadar dove toward Marcan V. Kargan, of course, followed, disruptors beating out a tattoo with repeated blasts. The engineer called out that the stabilizers were off-line, and suddenly Klag was in the desert, trudging toward the enemy to complete his duty to the Empire. Possibly his final duty.

  The surface was tan and dusty, the ground dried out by an unforgiving sun. Marcan V was exploited for its mineral properties, he knew, but had no population to speak of. Therefore, no hope of help. That was fine by him. Klag barely noticed the light breeze that blew across him as he marched, his eyes carefully sweeping the horizon in search of the eight victims coming his way. The sun was past its zenith so he knew there were but hours before darkness, when the advantage would be entirely theirs. Trained eyes sought protective cover or ambush spots, but the few hills were squat and opportunity was scarce. There’d be no element of surprise for him, while the Jem’Hadar had those damned personal cloaks that allowed them to fight dishonorably.

  While Klag marched and scanned, his mind drifted, from running battle scenarios to thinking about his drinking mates or the last woman to share his bunk. Every so often, the Klingon recognized he was not as sharp as he should be and forced himself to focus on a singular point ahead of him, detailing it to himself, making certain his mind remained alert. He strained his nostrils and ears for any telltale sign of the enemy but he was met only with the faint scents of the local plant life.

  It took him a torturous hour or more to cross the distance between the two wrecked ships. On the way he continued to drift in and out of focus, his mind returning to Qo’noS and his father. M’Raq was captured by Romulans and later escaped without divulging a single Klingon secret. The cruel Romulans refused M’Raq’s request to die an honorable death. Instead, he returned home, his secrets intact but his spirit broken. All he wanted to do now was sit and await death from old age. It was not a proper way for a warrior to die, and Klag had chosen not to speak with him rather than sully his own reputation. Klag’s heart grieved for what his father had been and what he allowed himself to become. M’Raq’s wife, his mother, tended to the disgraced warrior, running their House and doing whatever was possible to remind her mate of the glorious past. Dorrek, his younger brother, felt differently and took Klag’s silence as a betrayal of their father. Klag had not spoken with him, either. His brother, though, had fought bravely in the war, which gave Klag some small measure of pride. Last he heard Dorrek had received another field promotion so both did their fair share to restore pride to their House.

  His ruined shoulder began to throb with pain. Klag ignored it, gritting his teeth, using the pain to stay aware of his surroundings, pushing images of M’Raq and Dorrek to a far corner of his fevered mind. The burning of his brain and his blood would prepare him for battle.

  Soon after, the enemy ship was finally in sight and this heartened Klag, who blinked back sweat while studying it. The vessel also seemed unworthy to test the vacuum of space, which quickened Klag’s heart. Still, he watched, and listened. And smelled. The slight breeze carried what his eyes could not see—Jem’Hadar were nearby. Their stink was of living in close quarters with those pathetic Vorta. Perhaps just over the rise of a nearby hill, scant meters ahead. Klag’s left hand grabbed the disruptor and fired several shots while he simultaneously dove to the plains. His shots struck nothing but air, although it worked, forcing the nearby Jem’Hadar to fire back, giving away their position, for they could not fire weapons while shrouded. So predictable. It took Klag two shots to target his first soldier, a shot more than it should have. Klag was ashamed at his weakness. He watched with delight as the soldier’s entire right side was blackened from the impact.

  One down. Six more Jem’Hadar and their keeper were still loose. But even one dead alien improved the odds. Klag was ready for a fight but was also no fool—he was outgunned, he was wounded, and time was against him. There’d be no chance for stealth or careful planning; he would need to strike ferociously, making each shot or stab or even punch count.

  The sounds of fire worked both for and against him. True, it did deliver him his first kill of the afternoon, but it also revealed his position. Exposed to the sun, his ravaged body was no doubt visible. Perhaps, he considered, this would make them overconfident and he could use that against them.

  They were out of eyesight, cloaked cowardly soldiers. Klag decided to head straight toward the point where the dead Jem’Hadar was. It was directly before the ship and made sense to him as a starting point. The others had probably scattered, looking for their best opportunity to strike. The Vorta would be in the ship where it was safe.

  Bits and pieces of the alien ship wreckage littered the ground between Klag and the remains. No body parts, which disappointed him, but also no footsteps in the sandy spaces between conduits, hull plating, and other debris. They scattered before this point. He cautiously approached the dead vessel, stopping frequently to sniff the air and listen. A shift in the dirt behind him and to the right, perhaps a foot slipping on a stone. He tensed his body and a small smile crept over his lips.

  They were not fools, Klag knew, but neither was he. With a steel-tipped boot, the Klingon carefully balanced a piece of hull plating on his right foot. Then, he kicked it to the right, letting it rattle amidst other pieces of wreckage. As it landed, he darted left, zigzagging toward larger pieces that would provide better cover. Klag paused underneath a large, dull gray piece of hull, controlling his breathing and listening. No more footsteps as the dislodged piece of shrapnel stopped scratching against the ground. The breeze, Klag finally noted, was dying down from almost nothing to nothing. His ears and eyes would have to become sharper.

  Remaining still and breathing shallowly helped. Minutes passed in utter silence and then there was the unmistakable sound of a footfall. The cloaked enemy was to his right, maybe five meters away. He was clearly picking his way through the debris to get closer. Klag merely gritted his teeth in preparation and slowly removed his disruptor. His thumb changed the setting, going from a narrow-focused beam to a wider one. Perhaps less effective, he knew, but more likely to strike first.

  Another faint sound from the same direction allowed the Klingon to narrow his aim. For a moment, his mind shifted from Marcan V to Qo’noS, and his first kill. It happened while still drilling for duty as a warrior. There was…odd, he couldn’t recall the man’s name. They had just finished training on the firing range, getting used to a new model disruptor, each boasting of their accuracy. There were the normal shouts and head butting, but this one man—no, youth—was insulting, not boastful. He took exception to Klag’s House, intimating Klag’s mother must have bedded with someone on the High Council to earn him a spot in the Defense Force. While the others laughed, Klag seethed. A single backhand swipe from his now-missing arm sent the nameless one stumbling into a cluster of laughing colleagues. The fight was on, with Klag’s blood rushing in his ears, drowning out the laughter. The backhand was followed with a heavy booted kick to the side, forcing the trainee to sprawl. Without waiting, Klag hefted the other one up and smashed him headfirst into a support column. He smelled blood, which only encouraged him. The other one waved his arms, trying to force Klag off him or reach for a weapon, he never knew which. Instead, Klag held on tighter, kicking once again into his ribs and laughed when he heard one crack. This contest was clearly one-sided, and his opponent was totally unworthy of the effort. It was brief and the man fell and was left to bleed to death as Klag and the others walked back to the barracks. None screamed on the dead one’s behalf. The moment of the kill was glorious for the youth, especially since it was committed with bare hands. That enhanced his reputation with his instructors and ensured him a peaceful night’s sleep.

  Klag blinked several times, casting aside the mental image of the dim hall where the fight with the forgotten petaQ occurred, replacing the vision with the desert reality. He paused to note how far the sun had dropped, estimating as best as he could how much longer before dusk arrived. Then he took aim, squeezing the trigger. A burst of light and the high-pitched whine of release gave away his position but also found its target. There was a muffled exhalation of air and then the sound of a body collapsing to the ground. Klag fired a second time and this time the body barely shifted on the ground. A second Jem’Hadar had fallen to a superior combatant.

  Quickly, Klag scuttled from his hiding place, toward the body and then past it. He needed a new place to position himself, knowing the others would come. Five were still a formidable number, but he chuckled at the notion that five was less than six.

  Eyes rapidly scanned for other large pieces of the Dominion ship to use and he chose one that was barely going to cover his body but brought him closer to the wreck. Should dusk find any Jem’Hadar alive, he needed to bring the battle into the ship where even emergency lighting would prove useful.

  How he wanted water to slake his thirst, but he had neglected to bring anything with him save his weapons. Even his wits threatened to depart as the pain in his shoulder continued unabated. Were his comrades still alive, he knew, Klag would have been left back on the ship, seen as useless in combating the Jem’Hadar. He would prove them wrong; prove that even one-armed, a Klingon warrior could vanquish this enemy.

  Klag needed to work with the pain, use it to help keep his mind focused on his surroundings. Rather than let his mind drift, he used each sense one at a time to get a feel for where more cloaked Jem’Hadar might be hiding. There was nothing to hear, nothing to smell…he would have to wait until something became obvious. Similarly, he knew that to stay hidden left his sight as useless to him as his taste. He did note with increasing alarm the sun’s descent, revising his estimate for dusk.

  A shot from behind forced Klag to flatten himself in the dirt. How did anyone get behind him, the warrior wondered as he crawled away from his hiding spot. The taste of dirt was getting bothersome, only serving to remind him how thirsty he had become. His body was tense, anticipating another discharge, but when nothing came in the seconds that followed, Klag once more strained his tired senses. The disruptor was comfortable in his left hand, but it had no target. He could only guess where the soldier was now, certainly not in the same place as before. Wildly shooting would be a waste of energy and that, he knew, needed conserving. Instead, he slowly moved first to his knees and then to a crouch, scanning the horizon.

  There! In the loose dirt dislodged by the ship’s crash, there were footprints. Spaced unevenly and intended to throw off being tracked, but there was the clue Klag needed. They were deep from their greater weight, but not so deep as to indicate they were moving in single file. It was just one Jem’Hadar, Klag concluded, and he felt emboldened by the even odds. The trail implied the soldier had been moving in a circular pattern, surrounding Klag, seeking the best shot to either kill him or drive him into the open. Since the shot failed to accomplish either goal, Klag laughed to himself about how fearsome these genetic abominations were deemed.

  The Jem’Hadar lived to fight, as did the Klingon people, but they did nothing but train and fight. None were assigned to build weapons or starships. As a result, they could overwhelm their opponents with sheer numbers, directed by those other genetic miscreants, the Vorta. Together, the Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets, and even the honorless petaQ of the Romulan Empire, had the people and matériel to defend their quadrant, but the battles were too often lopsided. The Federation fought bravely, Klag knew, but they were too resistant to finish off the enemy, preferring to reclaim star systems or stations and declare victory. He shook his head at their notions of mercy and their own rules of engagement. To the Klingons, their code was simple: Hoch ‘ebmey tIjon. Capture all opportunities.

  Klag continued to scan the footprints, moving slowly under cover of debris, following the soldier’s path. It seemed to be circling again, in the same area as the first shot. He was going to try again now that Klag had moved. Shadows caused by the lowering sun made spotting every footstep difficult, but not impossible. Instead, Klag steadied himself and then began to anticipate the soldier’s likely position. After all, for the shot to be true, a clear line of sight would have to extend in both directions. He let his eye and hand drift a bit to the left and then, acting on a mix of experience and instinct, he lowered the disruptor half a meter and squeezed the trigger.

  The sound seemed deafening in the silence, but the weapon’s aim was true. The Jem’Hadar’s shroud shimmered and died as the soldier, who was indeed crouching for a better shot, fell backward. If five soldiers were formidable, then four was almost too easy.

  As he was mentally congratulating himself, Klag felt a blow to the back of his head and he tumbled forward, off balance once again. Reptilian hands were almost immediately at his throat, and the wounded Klingon was instantly fighting for breath. His Jem’Hadar assailant made no sound, not even labored breathing, as opposed to Klag, who was now grunting and gasping with every shortened breath.

  Klag tucked his knees to his chest and kicked out. The effort worked, the hands left his throat, and the Jem’Hadar fell backwards. In that moment, his disruptor, still in his clenched hand, fired repeatedly. However, the Jem’Hadar dodged the blasts, and Klag let out a hoarse curse.

  He turned slowly and as he did, a stone came hurtling from a short distance away and knocked the disruptor from his hand. His assailant was once more upon him, punching at his neck and near his eyes. Both men fell backwards, with Klag’s back hitting the dirt first. His shoulder stung anew but he ignored the pain. Klag did not try to strike back, but instead withstood the blows and reached for his mek’leth. One punch landed next to the left eye and he winced. Then a foot to his stomach forced him back. The pain that once nestled itself in his shoulder now trooped across his body. A warrior did not complain about physical discomfort, he told himself, and besides, there was no one to share that complaint with. He let himself chuckle aloud, which probably confused the Jem’Hadar. He never heard them laugh, suspected they were not bred with a sense of humor, and for a moment he considered that a sad thing.

  The alien aimed a weapon at Klag. The Klingon’s lips turned into a sneer. He quickly hurled himself forward, the direction least expected, somersaulting—more of a roll actually—toward the soldier and slicing at his legs with the sharp blade. The metal found the fleshy part of a calf and the Jem’Hadar staggered backward.

  Klag swept his arm upward and nicked against the torso, quickly changing direction so the blade made a horizontal incision against his abdomen. The Jem’Hadar clasped his hands together and brought them with crushing force against his stump. The pain caused spots to form before his eyes and extended throughout the Klingon’s entire body. It took every iota of will he still possessed to not let go of the mek’leth. If anything, he held on to it tighter, focusing everything he had left on his grip. His knuckles whitened.