Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless by John M. Ford & Michael Jan Friedman

Author:John M. Ford & Michael Jan Friedman [Ford, John M. & Friedman, Michael Jan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fiction, General, Media Tie-In, Mystery & Detective, Police Procedural
ISBN: 9780743496599
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2004-11-16T00:00:00+00:00

One: The Modern Age

The volcano shot glorious red streamers of molten rock high into the ponderous gray heavens. But that was just the first sign of its intentions, the first indication of its fury.

A moment later, in an angry spasm of disdain for the yellow and green plant life that grew along its black, fissured flanks, a tide of hissing, red lava came bubbling over the rim of the volcano’s crater. The tide separated into rivers, the rivers into a webwork of narrow streams—each one radiating a horrible heat, each one intensely eager to consume all in its path.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. At least, it appeared to be thunder. In fact, it was the volcano itself, preparing to heave another load of lava out of the scorched and tormented earth.

The name of this severe and lonely place was Kri’stak. It was the first time the volcano had erupted in nearly a hundred years.

A Klingon warrior was making his way up the volcano’s northern slope, down where the rivers of spitting, bubbling lava were still few and far between.

The warrior wore a dark leather tunic, belted at the waist and embossed with sigils of Klingon virtues. The shoulders of the garment were decorated with bright silver circlets. On his feet, he wore heavy leather boots that reached to midthigh; on his hands, leather gloves reinforced with an iron alloy.

The warrior’s enterprise seemed insane, suicidal. This was a volcano in full eruption, with death streaming from its every fissure. But that didn’t seem to dissuade him in the least.

Picking his way carefully over the pitted slope, remaining faithful to the higher ridges the lava couldn’t reach, he continued his progress. When he reached a dead end, he simply leaped over the molten rock to find a more promising route elsewhere.

At times, the figure vanished behind a curtain of smoke and cinders, or lost his footing and slipped behind some outcropping. Yet, over and over, he emerged from the setback unscathed, a look of renewed determination on his face. Sweat pouring from his bright red brow, he pushed himself from path to treacherous path, undaunted.

Unfortunately, his choices were narrowing radically as he approached the lip of the crater. There was only one ridge that looked to give him a chance of making it to the top—and that was guarded by a hellishly wide channel.

It wasn’t impossible for him to make the leap across. However, as drained as he must have been by this point, and as burdened by his heavy leather tunic, it was highly unlikely he’d survive the attempt.

Spreading his feet apart to steady himself, the warrior raised his arms above his head and unfastened the straps that held his tunic in place. Then he tore it from him and flung it into the river of lava below, as if tendering a sacrifice to some dark and ravenous demon.

In moments, the tunic was consumed, leaving little more than a thin, greasy trail of smoke. Nor would the Klingon leave the world much more than that, if he failed.

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