Kenta District
Krennla, Qo’noS
When Lakras told G’joth that the name of the opera she was performing in was The Battle at San-Tarah, he nearly choked on his zilm’kach.
He might have done so in any event, as Mother had prepared it with her usual lack of skill. G’joth had never really acquired a taste for Andorian food, but he found himself longing for Mother to prepare that, simply because she was good at it. Not that it would have done any good, as Mother said doing so at home was “too much like work.”
Once he managed to swallow the zilm’kach, G’joth said, “Say that again.”
Lakras sat across from him at the small kitchen table, both sitting between Mother and Father, practically bouncing up and down on her stool, holding a piece of bok-rat liver without actually eating it. “It’s called The Battle of San-Tarah. It’s a brand-new opera by Reshtarc that was first performed on Ty’Gokor last month. This will be its debut on Qo’noS, and I’m in the chorus!”
On the one hand, G’joth had been hoping that Lakras would have had an actual part. On the other, she was a commoner—rarely did they get the named parts. On the third hand—if one was a Pheben, anyhow—at least she got to sing. Many commoners were just given roles that were little more than bodies, playing the cannon fodder or soldiers or relatives or what have you. The chorus, though, stood at the back and narrated the action through song. While individual singers rarely were noticed, at least the chorus as a whole played an important role.
This, however, was the first time G’joth could think of where an opera was about a specific event that he participated directly in. Though he suspected it wasn’t a major work. True, the opera house in Krennla—located in the Baldi’maj District, the closest Krennla had to a respectable neighborhood—was well regarded, major operas generally had their Qo’noS debut in Novat or the First City.
“That is…amazing.” He looked at Mother. “This is what you would not tell me?”
Leaning over, Mother said, “She would have been very cross if I had told you. She wanted that privilege for herself.”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Lakras was practically squeaking. “What’s more, the leading man is Kenni.”
Lakras spoke as if that name should mean something. Then, suddenly, it hit him, from the last time he saw an opera on Ty’Gokor. Kenni had a powerful voice and performed decently with a bat’leth (for a stage performer, anyhow—stage fighting always left G’joth cold, as it bore no resemblance to actual combat). He had played Jokis in Goqlath Castle, an opera about the Kol’Vat Campaign allegedly written by Chancellor Sturka himself, though G’joth always assumed that to be propaganda and that he’d hired someone to do it for him. Still, it was a fine opera, and Kenni had performed the role of Jokis well.
However, Kenni also looked nothing like Klag. “He is playing Captain Klag?”
“No, you silly petaQ, he’s playing General Talak.”
“Talak is the villain of the piece,” Father said in the long-suffering voice he often used in conversations with his daughter. “Which means Kenni can’t be the leading man.”
“Well, he’s the leading man to me. Besides, he’s the big draw. Nobody’s even heard of Klivv. He’s the one playing your captain. In any case, that’s not the really good news. The really good news is that, when I told the director that you were coming home, he said that you had to come to the theater and be a technical adviser.”
Again, G’joth almost choked on his zilm’kach and finally just threw it down, determined to cease all attempts to eat until Lakras was done talking. “Adviser on what, exactly?”
Father stared at G’joth from under his pronounced eyebrow ridge. “What do you mean ‘on what’? Son, you were there. You know more than some idiot opera composer about what happened in that battle.”
“Reshtarc is not an idiot!” Lakras almost pouted when she said that, and G’joth had to restrain himself from throwing his zilm’kach at her. “He’s a great composer! And Konn is a great director.”
While G’joth had heard of Reshtarc, he knew nothing of this Konn person. Of course, what he knew of Reshtarc was that he was exactly the type of ignorant yIntagh whose operas led G’joth to want to compose his own just so somebody would get it right. Still, at least this Konn person seemed to understand that problem, if he wanted G’joth to consult. “What else has this Konn done?”
“This is his first time directing an opera,” Lakras said, “but he’s Reshtarc’s third-born son, so he knows the composer’s intentions.”
G’joth wasn’t sure how he saw that as a good thing but refrained from comment. “When must I arrive at the theater?”
Lakras stared at him as if he were mad. “First thing in the morning, obviously.”
“I had hoped that on leave, at least I would be spared having to rise with the sun.”
“You work in space. There is no first sun in space,” Father muttered into his chech’tluth.
“Besides, we need your help right away,” Lakras said. “We’re about to rehearse the scene where Captain Klag faces the San-Tarah in the square for the fate of the planet.”
“Ah, so you’ve already done the other contests?”
“What contests?” Lakras asked as she finally swallowed her liver.
Getting a queasy feeling in both stomachs, G’joth said, “The other contests prior to the swordfight—which, by the way, was in a circle, not a square.”
For the first time since she served the meal, Mother spoke: “You see, G’joth, this is why your presence is required. You can correct things like that.”
Lakras winced as she chewed off more liver. “I do not believe that will be possible. You see, there’s an entire song leading up to the battle, and if you change square to circle it will ruin the meter.”
“This,” G’joth said with a long-suffering sigh, “is why I grow weary of operas—and why I tried to write my own.”
That got Mother’s attention. “You wrote an opera? Why did you not tell us?”
“Because I never finished it. Operas are…difficult.” He smiled snidely at Lakras. “For starters, you have to alter facts in order to make the meter work.”
Primly, Lakras said, “It’s an important part of the creative process. And anyway, Konn wants you there so you can tell him things like this.”
“Very well.” G’joth finally decided it was safe to chew his zilm’kach. While doing so, he added, “But I will need to depart at high sun for a time, in order to fulfill a promise I made to three children.”
G’joth accompanied Lakras the following morning in the opera house’s aircar, which came and picked up several members of the company, bringing them to the opera house in Baldi’maj District. The theater itself was an artificial re-creation of a natural amphitheater. From above, G’joth could see the circular stage, surrounded by ever-rising circles of benches. The benches were made of stone in what G’joth assumed was an attempt to duplicate the feel of the amphitheater on Ty’Gokor. After the top row was a sheer drop down a wall that was all that could be seen of the theater from ground level. As the aircar moved to land behind the opera house, G’joth could see poorly rendered images of opera performers carved into the wall’s surface.
The people in the aircar all spoke of either their singing, about which G’joth knew nothing, or about people whom G’joth had never met. He noticed that several of them were passing around mugs of bloodwine. Even G’joth thought it was a bit early for that, but Lakras told him archly that bloodwine helped coat the throat to improve singing ability. For his part, G’joth stuck with a raktajino, which was the one Klingon food Mother knew how to prepare properly, mostly for Father. There were times growing up that G’joth was convinced that the empire would be a better place if Father just had a permanent intravenous feed of raktajino all day long.
The aircar landed behind the theater, right near a small door inset into a corner of the theater. Presumably this area—which was surrounded by fences on three sides and the curved wall of the theater on the fourth, leaving it accessible only by air or transporter—was set off to keep the performers away from the audiences. Kenni, G’joth knew, had a huge following and likely had many devotees who would kill for a chance to meet him.
There was another aircar in the landing area, this one much more lavishly appointed than the one G’joth was in. A figure stepped out dressed in a white cloak made from al’Hmatti fur. His hair had been carefully styled to look like it was wild, and his crest looked carefully sanded.
Lakras smiled. “Kenni,” she whispered and ran toward him.
He smiled back at her, and he clasped her hand in his, squeezing so that her fingernails drew blood. She sniffed him, and he her.
The rest of the cast ignored the public display of affection. For his part, G’joth wondered what, exactly, he would extract from Lakras to keep this information from Mother and Father. There was simply no way she could have forgotten to mention that she and Kenni were lovers, though it did explain her insistence on his being the leading man.
To one of the other chorus members, G’joth asked, “How long has that been going on?”
She shrugged. “Since he discarded his last toy. He’ll discard her soon enough.”
The others all went inside. G’joth remained, not wishing to enter without Lakras to introduce him.
“Ah,” Kenni said after he and Lakras were done, “you must be the famed G’joth.” The Klingon spoke with a deep, resounding voice that no doubt served him well on the stage. He also projected his voice so that G’joth was sure it could be heard back in Kenta District.
Dryly, G’joth said, “I was unaware I had any fame to precede me.”
“My dear Lakras speaks quite highly of her brave older brother, who fights for honor on the great ship Gorkon. When I first accepted this role, I had simply assumed it to be another opera. But now, thanks to Lakras, I have learned just what a privilege it is to be permitted to help tell the story of your ship’s grand exploits for the empire.”
Unable to resist, G’joth added, “By playing the villain who forced Klingon to fight against Klingon?”
“Ah, but without great villains, whom would the great heroes fight to prove their heroism? Besides, General Talak believed he was in the right, and in the end, he dies with honor. What more can anyone ask?”
One could ask that Talak not have been an honorless fool. But G’joth did not say that. Besides, even if Talak hadn’t forced Klag to disobey orders or go back on his word to the Children of San-Tarah, Davok and Krevor would still be dead.
Indicating the door, Kenni said, “Come, let us enter, so you may see what we have made of your battle.”
G’joth followed his sister and the singer through the small door that the others had already entered. Looking at Kenni, the only thing he could think was, He doesn’t look a damn thing like Talak.
The door led down a flight of stairs to a large room with a low roof. People had split off into groups of three and four and five, chatting at a low volume.
There were two exceptions to that. In one corner sat an older man with bone-white hair sitting alone at a battered and tarnished tIngDagh with strings of at least four different colors. G’joth seriously hoped that the stringed instrument was merely used for practice and that the actual performances were accompanied by a proper tIngDagh that didn’t look like it had been through the Dominion War.
The other exception was a short-haired Klingon wearing a garish green one-piece outfit. He was engaged in an animated conversation with a man wearing a cloak that looked remarkably similar to that of Kenni, though it was made from klongat fur rather than al’Hmatti, and was a ruddy color.
The one in the green suit said, “Remember, Klag has watched as his beloved first officer died, so he is distracted. That is why the alien creature is able to defeat him.”
G’joth could not help but burst out laughing. “That is not how it happened.”
Turning around, the man—whom G’joth assumed to be Konn—said, “Who are you?”
Ignoring the question, G’joth said, “First of all, Captain Klag lost the duel because he fought with a bat’leth when both arms didn’t yet work properly. Second, Commander Kornan wasn’t killed until after the captain’s duel with Me-Larr.”
“Who is Commander Kornan?” Kenni asked.
Konn said, “Ah, you must be Lakras’s brother G’joth. I’m told you served as an officer on the Gorkon.”
Sparing a glare at his sister, G’joth said, “No, I serve as one of the soldiers.”
“Oh.” That seemed to deflate Konn. “It matters not. You were there at San-Tarah! Your input will be of great value to our endeavor!”
“I can begin by telling you that the San-Tarah have their duels in a circle, not a square.”
Konn sighed. “Yes, I tried to tell Father that that was a mistake, but he did insist that it needed to be changed for the song’s meter. The circle would look better, as well, matching the contours of the stage itself. Alas, we cannot rewrite the songs, so we must work with what we have.”
Before G’joth could respond to that, Konn clapped his hands once, loud enough that G’joth’s ears almost popped. Everyone grew silent.
“Now then,” he bellowed to all in the room, “the chorus will remain here and practice the overture with Kruq.” Kruq, obviously, was the one at the tIngDagh. “Once Klivv arrives, we’ll rehearse both duels, first with Gowrik here, then with Kenni. G’joth, you will join us. Any insight you can provide into adding verisimilitude to the duels would be welcome. Let us commence!”
The members of the chorus all gathered near Kruq, who was now tuning the tIngDagh. Konn moved toward a staircase in the back, Gowrik and Kenni following. A woman moved to pick up a box off the floor, and she followed. After a moment, G’joth ran to catch up to them, asking Kenni, “Why did you ask who Kornan is?”
“There’s no character by that name in the opera.”
“What? He was the first officer!”
“The only first officer in this story is Captain Klag’s lover, Commander Tereth.”
G’joth could not help but burst out laughing at that as he followed the others up the stairs. “Commander Tereth died at Narendra III before we ever set off for the Kavrot sector! And I can assure you that, of all the lovers she had on the ship, Captain Klag was not among them. She preferred her own sex for a bed partner.”
From the top of the stairs, Konn said, “There must be a love story. There is no opera without it.”
“But there wasn’t one!” G’joth said.
“Then we create one for the story!” Konn laughed. “Come now, G’joth, you know how opera must be. The audiences will not accept it if there is no love story. When Father’s first production of this played at Ty’Gokor, the greatest cheers came after the final love song after General Talak’s assassin kills Commander Tereth.”
G’joth snarled. “Tereth was killed at Narendra III when—”
“Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure she died with honor, but that does not fit the needs of the story. And that is of no concern, for the opera has already been written, and I would not dare to change Father’s words. No, what I require from you, G’joth, is your memory of the fight between Captain Klag and Me-Larr of the San-Tarah.”
As he said that, they all reached the top of the stairs in succession, which emptied onto the stage itself. Surrounded by rows and rows of rising seats, and the almost deafening silence of the empty amphitheater, G’joth suddenly felt very small.
The woman put down the box and removed several items, the first of which was a headpiece, which she handed to Gowrik. He placed it on top of his head and suddenly, with that and the klongat cloak, he almost looked like one of the Children of San-Tarah. In truth, he looks like he killed one and is wearing his fur as a trophy, but it will do for the purposes of theater. Were this being recorded instead of staged, the aliens would be re-created more precisely, but symbolism was always enough for the opera. From his studies of the history of opera, undertaken after he first attempted to write one, he knew that this was a recent development, that operas used to go to great lengths to re-create the original events with holographic trickery and complex costuming, but the trend over the past seventy-five years or so was to return to the older ways of performing opera, the way it was supposedly done in Kahless’s time.
The other three items in the box were bat’leths. She handed one each to Gowrik and Kenni. The third, presumably, was for Klivv. As soon as they took them, G’joth realized that they were not real bat’leths. The one manner in which modern theater tended away from the time of Kahless was in the use of weaponry. In the old days, performers used real weapons. When performances became ever more enhanced with false images and illusions, the weapons followed suit. But when theater became more stripped down, the weaponry remained false. It had always struck G’joth as hypocritical—and dishonorable.
But that was the least of the problems. He said, “The Children of San-Tarah did not use Klingon weapons.”
“I am aware,” Konn said. “However, we already have the bat’leths. To create new weapons would force us to go over budget, and Father would kill me.”
G’joth sighed. “I cannot provide you with advice as to the accuracy of the fight if you are not using the same weapons. For that matter, for the captain’s duel against Talak, he used a mek’leth.”
The woman, whom G’joth assumed to be the prop master, spoke for the first time. “Can’t use a mek’leth.”
“Why not?”
She indicated the upper rows with her head. “Can’t see them from the high seats.”
Snarling, G’joth said, “Very well.”
Then he heard panting and running feet, both noises growing louder. A short, squat man came onto the stage. He had broad shoulders and small, beady eyes.
Angrily, Konn said, “You are late, Klivv. If you are late again, I will kill you and replace you with a performer who is punctual.”
Klivv spoke in a high, whiny voice. “The aircar was late.”
G’joth was aghast. This little petaQ looked more like the captain’s traitorous brother Captain Dorrek than like Klag, and sounded more like a Ferengi than a Klingon.
The prop master held out his bat’leth, which he took. “Which are we doing first?” Klivv asked.
“The duel with Me-Larr. This is Bekk G’joth. He serves on the Gorkon and will provide technical advice.”
Klivv’s beady eyes grew wide. “Really? Oh, that is excellent! I will speak with you when rehearsal has ended, honored Bekk. There is much I may learn from you about the great Captain Klag.”
“Of course,” G’joth said, though he wondered what excuses this little toDSaH would contrive to avoid being accurate. Then again, perhaps he is not as maddening as his director.
“Take your stations,” Konn said. He and Kenni, as well as the prop master, moved to the edge of the stage. G’joth joined them a moment later. Klivv and Gowrik, meanwhile, went to center stage, each holding his bat’leth.
“Computer,” Konn said, “begin playback of soundtrack for Act 2, scene 9 of The Battle at San-Tarah.”
Some rather bombastic music began playing, and G’joth remembered the other thing he disliked about Reshtarc’s operas: the noise. The best operas, to G’joth’s mind, kept the music simple to allow the singers free rein. After all, the music was there only to support the singers. Reshtarc, though, subscribed to the theory that the music was the important part, with the words being only the grapok sauce to garnish the meat of the instrumentation.
As soon as the music started, Gowrik and Klivv got into character. Gowrik hunched downward, almost pulling his body into the cloak, which, G’joth realized, was meant to emphasize his cloak and mask to the audience. As for Klivv, he danced back and forth lightly on his feet. It looked quite elegant and graceful, and it made G’joth’s crest ache.
“No,” he said, “this is wrong!”
“Computer, cease playback,” Konn said. The music stopped, which G’joth saw as a kindness. “What is wrong, G’joth?”
“Klivv. Those movements are wrong.”
Frowning, Klivv asked, “Does Klag not move like that?”
“Nobody moves like that when wielding a bat’leth. It is a two-handed weapon, and a heavy one. Proper use of it requires that one’s footing be solid.” He walked over to Klivv and took the prop bat’leth from his hands. Sure enough, it was lighter than G’joth’s d’k tahg, much less a real bat’leth. “You must stand with your feet slightly inverted, your hip thrust slightly outward, and dropping your stance so that your center of gravity is lowered. That provides you with stability. Otherwise, at the first clash of blade on blade, you will fall down.” He shook his head. “This is the first thing you are taught when you learn the bat’leth. Children know this.”
“Perhaps,” Konn said, “but that is not what will play to the high seats. We will continue.”
Angrily, G’joth handed the bat’leth back to Klivv. To his credit, Klivv inverted his feet slightly after taking the weapon back.
Then Konn said, “Klivv, cease that idiotic stance. Do it the way it was choreographed. Computer, restart playback.”
G’joth started thinking up ways of killing his sister.