The Jem’Hadar was going for another blow when Klag allowed himself to sink to one knee, letting the swing miss. Instead, the mek’leth followed his body’s momentum and at the right moment, it sank into the Jem’Hadar’s neck, severing the thin tube carrying the ketracel-white nutrient. The head was now mostly severed, and the body began to flail about, allowing Klag the luxury of several deep breaths, which helped him clear his mind and control the pain. One more swing of the curved blade and the head rolled off the body and sank nose first into the dirt, which greedily absorbed the dark fluids that drained.

  Four dead, three alive. And the damned Vorta, who was probably armed to the teeth.

  Klag felt himself exposed, having been found by a sharpshooter and a brawler. He needed to move but found himself disoriented from exhaustion, pain, and a still-hot sun.

  That sun was a hand’s breadth away from the horizon, so the shadows were now elongated. He suspected with the cloudless sky that the heat would radiate away quickly and the night would be cool. And natural predators might come out, drawn by the blood scent. Klag needed to be done with his job before then so he could secure his ship and await rescue. They would come. They had to respond to Kargan’s last signal. No warrior should be abandoned when all were required to repel the Dominion.

  Klag desperately needed a drink, but there was nothing available except within the hulk mere meters before him. Within lay a opponent. Honorless, true, but one who could just as easily kill him as a Jem’Hadar soldier. And the three that were still roaming were no doubt approaching his position. There was nowhere new or especially useful to hide, so his best bet was to keep moving. He hoped he would find more tracks but after the scuffle just completed, the dirt and sand around him were a mess and useless to his eyes.

  That is, if all three were still outside and none were within, protecting the Vorta. After all, reports indicated they were sycophants and cowardly. So, how many would be inside and how many still on the prowl out here? His mind had trouble focusing on the math. The pain radiating from the aggravated stump was finally fading a bit, but he felt sore all over. His left eye was beginning to swell from the sucker punch but so far his vision was clear.

  Did Jem’Hadar feel fear? Klag did not know, but he would show these laboratory-grown monstrosities that they faced an honorable foe—and their last foe as well.

  “Jem’Hadar, hear me,” Klag shouted. “I am Klag, son of M’Raq! I have killed four of your soldiers. And I am coming!” He didn’t recognize his own voice, which startled him.

  He began walking with purpose, his disruptor once more comfortably in his grip. Klag set out in a westerly direction, toward the setting sun, his pace steady. He would walk a few more meters and then make a turn as if he detected motion.

  After three more meters, Klag paused at the sound of footsteps approaching. A soldier was making no secret of his approach, desperate as he was to protect his fellow combatant. At the sound, Klag twisted about, took aim, and fired. Three pulses shot out and there was the sound of contact, a skidding in the dirt and the fall of a lifeless body. A fast death and perhaps too quick. One cannot, however, complain about a clean kill.

  At that moment, the sun finally had fallen below the horizon and night was beginning. With little choice, Klag moved toward the ruined starship, a source of light, heat, and, more importantly, water. His chances of success and survival were now greater inside the vessel.

  Klag couldn’t remember the name of the planet. Or the last time he had eaten. Or how long he had been killing Jem’Hadar. He lost count of the Jem’Hadar he had killed. Klag did know, though, that he was now entering the hulk of their craft.

  The Jem’Hadar ship was smaller than the Pagh, which proved to work to his advantage since at best it could carry just a dozen or so, plus flight crew and troops. It was half as large across the beam, which meant there were fewer places for them to hide amidst the debris and dead bodies. Emergency lighting was still functioning as Klag crept down one corridor. He had to slosh through pools of coolant and over the dead. When he awoke earlier, Klag thought the stench of the Klingon dead could not be topped, but here, the smells of alien death were worse. It was the first time he ever regretted his people’s superior sense of smell. The warrior wanted to control his breathing, keep what little remained in his stomach intact, and still move. He heard the sizzle of burning circuits, the steady drip from deep within the hull, and the groan of deck plating that wanted to collapse.

  What he did not hear was any sound of life.

  The Vorta was certainly within this metal carcass, and probably the remaining Jem’Hadar. Or were there two left? Klag took stock and recognized that despite his warrior’s physique, he didn’t have much time left before dehydration, blood loss, and physical exhaustion would make him vulnerable. He decided to pause; actually finding a bench still attached to the wall and let his body slump down. The Klingon practiced breathing exercises that he had barely remembered from his training—these were designed to allow a warrior to regain control of his body during battle. He was also dimly aware how comfortable it was to sit and how much he wanted to remain there. Klag’s mind reacted in alarm and he struggled back to his feet.

  Aktuh and Melota faced similar travails, Klag recalled. He was not a follower of opera, but everyone raised in the Empire knew their story. As he began to move forward once more, Klag imagined his own exploits immortalized in song. They would sing of this battle on ships throughout the fleet. Or maybe it would be turned into an opera to rival Aktuh and Melota and he would sit in a prized seat next to Chancellor Gowron.

  No, wait. They didn’t write operas about living warriors. He would have to die to have his story told. But no one was here to witness the battle and if he were to fall before reinforcements arrived, who knew how they would interpret the scene? Klag knew this was a story worthy of a song—at the very least. He began to assemble the events since the engagement above this world…what was its name again?

  Marcel? Martok? Marisol? No, Marcan! He was standing on Marcan V, a lone Klingon soldier against a horde of Jem’Hadar. Did seven make a horde? They were more than a squad, less than a division….

  He blinked five times and took four deep breaths and felt more focused.

  What he focused on, though, were two Jem’Hadar soldiers, aiming rifles at him. They arrived silently, he realized, or his wits were duller than he admitted.

  His mind snapped into focus and in the next second, his training took over. Klag could not move left or right in the narrow corridor. The ceiling was dented and ruptured in spots, but offered no solution. He dared not turn his back on the soldiers so going forward was his only option.

  Or was it?

  Dangling from a torn juncture box were some form of cables, with one of them still sparking. The Jem’Hadar were standing in such a way as to block the corridor but also left them standing with their boots touching something wet. The liquid would conduct, but was there enough to do the job?

  Only one way to find out.

  As the Jem’Hadar gestured for the Klingon to drop his disruptor, Klag did just that. The moment his hand was free, he bent for the exposed cables, continuing in a fluid motion, as the wire touched the thick liquid. Upon contact, the sparking cable ignited nothing short of a fire that rapidly spread toward the soldiers, who were already backpedaling. The fire outpaced them and engulfed their boots and licked at their pants. One soldier continued to fire at Klag, who had bent low, retreating down the corridor, away from the conflagration.

  One shot grazed his hip, sending him sprawling. Klag’s teeth snapped shut as he rolled onto his back. He took stock, noting the pain was sharpest in his left shoulder and right hip, with various other points of head and body vying for attention. Two more shots passed over his head but created flying shrapnel from a destroyed door. Pieces banged off his back but several scratched his cheek. The blood felt hot as it ran into his beard. He drew strength from the fresh wounds.

  Looking at the soldiers, he was amused to see them writhe in agony from the flames and their inability to snuff out the fire. No emergency equipment was visible, nor were there blankets or coverings to smother either torched body. They were done for; it would just be a matter of time.

  Ignoring the pain once more, Klag tried to count the Jem’Hadar dead by his hand today. He thought there were six, maybe seven, possibly even eight. That would suffice as he hunted down the Vorta, who, while probably well armed, was not bred for fighting. It was almost going to be too easy.

  The Vorta was probably trying to contact his people for help. That meant the bridge, which he needed to find. And quickly as he noted that focusing in the flickering light was getting difficult. He already had trouble concentrating, so he needed something clear.

  Not bothering with stealth, Klag moved through the ship, deck by deck, room by room. No sign of the bridge, or the Vorta. In fact, it seemed this ship took more damage than the Pagh, a small thing but another example to Klag of the Klingons’ eventual superiority in the war. He revised his thinking that if there were no computers running, then the Vorta was likely working to restore them, which meant he might be at the computer core. Given its value to all starships, the core tended to be housed in the thickest portion of the design, and the second most shielded section right after the warp core. Klag saw nothing that resembled the main computer, so he continued moving. Given his size and breadth, the corridors felt stifling and the air close and cloying.

  The fatigue that had been creeping up on him was nagging at his mind as stray images appeared. They were a jumble starting with his father sitting at home, polishing a sword…Dorrek and Klag building targets out of mud when they were children…a fellow trainee ripping off her leathers after losing a wrestling match…Will Riker flipping Klag to the deck of the Pagh…a fight when Klag came to the rescue of his friends when they had shore leave on Barratas…a flying creature that nearly killed him on a planetary survey….

  So many experiences but none to match the one he was now enduring. He wanted to continue adding stanzas and wondered who could add a tune. He liked tunes with a steady beat and a rousing chorus so the deck plates themselves would ring.

  Stop it, he told himself. Find the Vorta, the song would finish itself.

  He descended lower into the ship, fighting to stay focused and find the computer core and the Vorta. If he could dispatch six, no seven, Jem’Hadar, a lowly clone should pose little problem. But he remained elusive, which angered Klag. He stalked the decks with a purpose to his step but found himself frequently forcing himself to focus, first his hearing, then his eyesight. His prey wouldn’t dare go outside, exposed to the elements. After all, he had no protection.

  The lower he went the more Klag began to doubt his conclusion. Of course, he had yet to find the computer core, so it was hard to say if that was so. There was one branch that seemed to narrow, and Klag wedged himself along the walls, curious. The lighting was even dimmer, as if this were a little-used section and he wondered what was housed here.

  Clank.

  His eyes widened at the sound of metal against metal, although muffled by the door before him. There were no signs telling anyone what was beyond the doorway and he guessed that was a security measure, one he approved of. The sound repeated itself and Klag debated between his mek’leth and his disruptor. He decided to honor his ancestors and went for the blade. It felt good in his hands, much like the days he spent hunting targ at home. Even then, there was competition with Dorrek, but it was good competition and they battled like brothers should.

  He shook his head, clearing his mind one final time and focusing on the sound. The Klingon crept along the corridor, cursing its tight confines since it would hamper a retreat or even twisting to fight.

  The door was ajar, pried off tracks not damaged from the crash. The Vorta purposely sought this out, so it had to be important. Klag stood before the doorway, narrowing his focus over every edge, looking for traps. He doubted there was time for any, but he refused to take an unnecessary risk and die a fool’s death.

  Satisfied there was nothing hindering his entrance, Klag regripped the mek’leth and stepped into the room, expecting his minimal noise to be masked by the banging. The Vorta was in profile to him, absorbed in trying to repair something through brute force. Of course, he was weak and his idea of brute force was laughable to a Klingon. What surprised him was that this was one of the phased polaron beam control rooms, not the central computer. He seemed more interested in having ready defenses than a functioning means of communications. For this, Klag mentally gave him credit.

  “Ah, my opponent arrives to exact some finality to this exchange,” the Vorta said in its annoying singsong way. “I salute your courage.”

  “Your soldiers are dead,” Klag gruffly responded. He towered over the Vorta and was pleased to note the room gave him space to maneuver. The Vorta seemed to stop working, and the pistol was out of reach. What was it humans said, shooting ducks in a barrel?

  “They fought bravely but lost to a no doubt superior combatant,” the clone said with a smile. He even nodded his head in Klag’s direction. This was going to be too simple and the warrior wanted a challenge. “You must kill me now, before I have the opportunity to kill you.”

  Klag laughed out loud at the notion of the Vorta managing to kill a Klingon, especially in these circumstances. His opponent frowned like a hurt child and then his features returned to their neutral, placid expression. Klag began to step closer, ready to use the mek’leth to end this charade.

  The Vorta raised his hands and looked ready to surrender. Klag smiled and a part of him wanted this over so he could heal and a part of him wanted a challenge.

  He must have lost focus or blinked, for suddenly Klag was losing his balance. He fell heavily to the deck, losing his breath with the impact. As he struggled to rise, his boots felt a tug. The damned creature had taken the time to rig a trap. And Klag, curse him, missed it and was now ensnared in some form of wire.

  As he attempted to turn over and use his mek’leth to cut himself free, a heavy weight knocked him back to the deck. It was the damned Vorta; he jumped and landed heavily on his back once more. As the enemy leapt into the air to land a third time, Klag managed to roll onto his side and the landing figure only straddled him, missing altogether.

  The Vorta reached into a pocket and withdrew a handheld device that glowed green in the dim light. A thumb depressed a trigger and a pointed object emerged. Klag didn’t know what it was, nor did he care. What mattered was that anything pointy in close proximity was a threat, especially in his weakened condition. He rolled hard to his right and knocked his opponent off balance, but not enough to make him fall.

  Again, his reflexes were slow, and Klag was struck by the Vorta’s weapon. It was being gripped and regripped as if the Vorta had never held it before. Then Klag saw that it was actually a tool that tapered to one end, imitating a knife. He truly was an inexperienced fighter, but even those could be dangerous when fighting for their lives.

  The tool was waved back and forth, trying to keep Klag at bay. Instead, he was timing the Vorta, noting that he moved in a predictable fashion. Three-second arcs, the Klingon counted as he backed up. His enemy’s expression was still neutral which irritated Klag no end. Klag twisted to move in time with the arc and thrust with his mek’leth, coming close to the defenseless Vorta.

  The blade bit deep, organs being sliced into pieces and blood rushing out the widening wound. Klag knew this was a killing blow and would have nothing further to worry about. The Vorta looked at the wound, then at Klag. He muttered, “Oh…” and collapsed to the deck.

  Klag made certain he would move no more and then left the room. The wounded Klingon made his way back toward the rip in the hull where he would wait for his comrades-in-arms. As he approached the new exit, he saw the stars in the night sky. They twinkled and it was bright with a biting chill in the air. It made Klag think of the time he and B’Ursana snuck away from home to go lie under the stars, two naked youths with their futures yet to be written. The air was just as crisp, the sky filled with possibilities. As Klag slumped obliviously to the deck, he swore he felt B’Ursana’s teeth bite his neck, just like the first time….

  When Klag next opened his eyes, his first thought was that Sto-Vo-Kor looked too bright.

  As his vision cleared, he saw several Klingons clustered by a monitor. One saw Klag was awake and announced himself as Ganok, captain of the rescue fleet. His first officer, Melik, had given Klag up for dead until he groaned when warriors hefted him from the Dominion ship.

  “The Jem’Hadar scattered out here,” Ganok said, gesturing toward the all-too-familiar plains.

  “My kills,” Klag simply stated.

  Ganok nodded in satisfaction.

  “There are more inside I claim,” Klag continued. “Including their Vorta handler.”

  “Yes, we found him. You killed six….”

  “Seven,” a clear-headed Klag said with authority.

  “Seven Jem’Hadar and a Vorta with just one arm?”

  “Yes.”

  Ganok reared back and laughed, then clapped a hand on Klag’s good shoulder. Clearly, this was an entirely different kind of captain than Kargan. Klag liked him immediately.

  “I am Klag, son of M’Raq, first officer of the Pagh.”

  “Ganok, son of Ganthet, captain of the Ro’Kronos,” his host said. “Your ship is no more.”

  “But it died in service to the Empire,” Klag said with solemnity.

  “You are the sole survivor of Marcan V, an excellent soldier,” the captain admitted.

  “What of the fleet?”

  “My fleet has been dispatched to replace the one destroyed here. But no Dominion ships are here to challenge us. Marcan is once again ours, and soon the entire Allicar Sector will be free.”