A Dish Served Cold - Pt. 1 of 2

Varga II - the planet alone was an assault on the senses. Even now, at midday, light was unwilling to extend too much of its presence on the surface of this hell. The dull red glow of the planet’s sun was coupled with a temperature far colder than to be expected from the dry, desert landscape. And the smell - the acrid stench that burned the nose and the eyes. No matter how many times he had reviewed the logs and reports, nothing had truly prepared him for the stench of this place. But he was Worf, son of Mog, and he had no time to concern himself with mild unpleasantries.

It had taken a great deal of effort and latinum to circumvent the quarantines that protected this planet, quarantines put in place decades ago by Starfleet Command. Admittedly, he was no longer under their rule, but this was still their territory. And he was far from the Klingon home world. So far, in fact, that he had been forced to call in several old favors to make it here undetected, but, honestly, what else would he be saving them for.

Worf reached to his hip and lifted the tricorder up into his now fading gaze. There had once been a time when his eyes were as keen as any Klingons. A time when his body was honed as hard as steel and the warrior’s fire that burned in his heart could not be quenched. But those times were long gone. Age had dulled those eyes and quenched that fire. All that was now left was a dull smoldering, not worthy of a true Klingon.

The tricorder chirped and whirred, analyzing the surrounding area and condensing this information into a pulsing burst of lights. He was, of course, heading the right way. He had planned this day for some time and knew the route already, but he found some comfort in checking anyway. Though the path was easy, he still struggled, limping slowly and placing much of his weight on a thin, black cane with a bright silver tip.

He was now but a shell, ravaged by a disease and time. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, a nasty scar stretching above and below, tracing the path of a blade long since stilled. It had been so long ago now he could not even remember that battle. Had it been the second civil war? His graying, mattered hair hung loosely about his shoulders. Deep in thought, he ran his fingers through his also graying beard, clutching them into a fist before releasing. The danger was quickly approaching, and he readied himself for battle.

“Ah, I see I have a visitor once again,” gurgled a voice from ahead. It had a liquid sound that belied its alien origin. It was a voice as dark as night and as cold as space. A voice of emptiness and doubt that burrowed its way into your mind. “Come closer,” it continued, “come to your death.”

Worf stepped out into a small, sandy clearing, perhaps twenty meters in diameter. The clearing was banked by small rock formations not five meters high, and a large crater was burned into the far side of the opening. Near the edge of the crater, a black, oily channel cut through the sand.

Worf inhaled deeply, and answered in his most official-sounding voice, “Hail, Armus. The Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets salutes you. I am Ambassador Worf, son of Mog, and in the interests of intergalactic peace, I extend greetings to you.”

A vaguely humanoid form began to slowly rise from the river of sludge. “Welcome, Meat, to the place of your death.” The being appeared to possess two arms and head of sorts, but it was covered – if not composed – of the oily substance. “You know my name, who I am, and yet you still come. What makes you value your life so little?”

Worf stepped forward with his arms spread open, “I come on behalf of many civilizations with a proposition for you. One that I believe you will find to your—” Worf’s voice broke off as his airway was cut off. An unseen force coiled around his neck, slowly choking him.

“You dare bargain with me?” bellowed Armus. Another jolt of force dropped Worf to his knees. “You seek commerce? You seek profit? You dare come to me with this filth?”

Worf’s fingers fumbled about his neck, seeking to pry the unseen vice from his throat. He pushed with all of the air in his lungs and wheezed out a faint, but audible word, “Titans.” The pressure immediately released from his neck, and Worf collapsed onto the ground gasping for air.

“What do you know of the Titans?” Armus bellowed. “Why are you here?”

Worf panted on the ground for a few moments before rising back to his knees. Rubbing his throat, he answered, “They have returned.”

Armus shimmered, visible agitated. The consistency of the liquid that made his form altered, losing color. The being began to ramble to itself shaking violently with each syllable, “They have returned, and yet they do not seek me? They abandon me here with no explanation, no course” Armus turned its attention back to Worf, “Where? Where are they now?”

Worf took a moment to get back on his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, before he answered. “Not far from here. A few days travel. They have appeared near the Antillian homeworld and have begun interfering in our affairs.”

“Interfering?” Armus asked, almost sounding interested.

“Yes,” Worf answered as he sat down on a small rock formation nearby. He leaned forward, much of his weight resting on the cane. “They demand tribute from us. They demand that we honor them for their superior nature. They interfere with our trade routes. They have proclaimed themselves rulers of the sector.” With each word, each sentence he had allowed his voice to grow louder, more angry. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. “Rulers of our territory.” He spat on the ground. “And there is nothing that we can do about it. Every military force that we have sent against them has been destroyed. Every attack has been overcome. We are at a loss. We are desperate. We need help from someone who is as powerful as they.”

Armus’s answer was almost sickening in the delight it showed, “And you to come to me?”

Worf nodded in agreement. “And we come to you. While our last visit to this planet was brief, we recognized the sheer force that you hold at your command. You were able to strike down one of our people with but a gesture. You outmatched every show of force we could offer. It was obvious that we faced a superior being with a superior intellect.”

Armus paused a moment, mulling over Worf’s words. “Yes, you would need my help. The one I killed – “

“Lt. Yar” interrupted Worf.

“Her name does not matter,” answered Armus curtly. “This Yar,” Armus spat the name out as if it were a bit of rancid meat “she died quickly. Your people possess no power. No strength. You would have no hope of overcoming the Titans.”

“And that is why we seek your aid. We know that with your hand guiding us, we will be able to rise up and overcome them. With you allied by our side, we may find true power.”

“You delude yourself with your own importance, son of Mog. You will not be my ally. You will be my victim if you do not obey me. You will use your ship to take me to the Titans, and I will crush them. I will feast on their flesh and grind their bones into dust. They will weep before me, and they will know fear. And you, you will—I, I do not—what, what is happening to me? What—what have you done to me?”

(To Be Concluded)