Chapter XI: Chaotic Patterns
The lighting on the terrace was provided only by a row of traditional Klingon braziers that hung from the arches above. As Semil stepped out onto the terrace, he noticed the bright lights and towers of the First City, miniaturized by distance on the horizon. Out here in the city's hinterlands, the dense, expansive jungles of Qo'nos reached up the hillside slope. In the glow of moonlight and faint flicker of the firelight, he could see vines and creepers snaking and twisting their way up to the terrace railing and the arches above.
It was an impressive sight, though Semil could not help but think that any attempt at escape would be within a few dozen kilometers of the densest population of Klingons in the galaxy. It would have given him pause, if he had actually felt any such compulsion to race out into the Klingon night.
There were reports from undercover agents on the Klingon homeworld he had read through, while on assignment in the Alpha Quadrant. Holorecordings from Founders and various other embedded operatives, telling of the deservedly fearsome reputation of the vicious wildlife that continued to stalk the jungles of even modern Qo'nos.
The details of those reports were the furthest thing from his mind. The dossiers and briefings mentioned nothing of the heady, fetid smell - damp and overripe, that plunged through the nighttime darkness, lingering in the nostrils well after he exhaled.
He could feel an electric vibration - an aura that seemed to emanate from the silver-tinted rustle of the jungle canopy, as a cool breeze filtered through the leaves. It was the wavelength of life on the planet he felt. The dense undergrowth up to the treetops, teeming with biota, softly chirping and sqawking with alien fauna.
He turned back to the terrace, still sensing himself alone. It was curiously overdecorated, per the usually brutalist Klingon standards. Tapestries and throws and objets d'art from alien worlds he didn't recognize, but were surely not Klingon. There was a baroque sensibility to the collection of mismatched furnishings - perhaps numerous untold stories behind each he may never know. Semil thought it strange, though perfectly symmetric with the muted cacophony of wildlife he could feel from the jungles below.
Lost in thought, even his Vorta hearing failed to notice the stealthy approach of the Klingon into the room behind him. "I trust your journey here was not uncomfortable." The voice was raspy and strained, as Semil turned to face it.
An elderly - nay, decrepit Klingon male sat in a wheeled chair. Not one of the modern technological marvels preferred by the bleeding-heart Federation types, but a rustic - if not rusted, antiquated wheelchair. The man had numerous tubes running from the corners of his mouth, his nose - every conceivable orifice that was visible. And a few more that were not entirely conceivable.
"The General, I presume." Semil bowed his head graciously, relying on decades' worth of borrowed memories of ambassadorial work.
"That is an old title, for an even older Klingon." The elderly Klingon chuckled to himself with no small exertion. "K'vot chooses to pretend certain things remain true, even if they are not."
Semil looked up from his bow, visibly confused. "Then...?"
"My name is unimportant." The old man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "But you -- you, my boy, are what we are here to discuss." He made an effort to gesture towards Semil, a bony, gnarled finger making a sign more like a sickle than a point.
Gestured closer by the old man, Semil could more carefully appraise his host, taking a few steps closer. The Klingon was deeply and heavily scarred. A few scars ran across his face and brow, possibly explaining the one milky white cataracted eye. He did not wear the pompously bombastic uniform of the Klingon Defense Force, only a humble tunic covered by an ill-fitting bulky sweater of sorts. An assortment of crumbs and stains mottled every piece of clothing the Klingon wore. A throw, not unlike the others strewn about the room, covered what Semil assumed to be the Klingon's useless legs.
"I sense your curiosity. How is it an old warrior such as myself has not performed the
Hegh'bat?" The old man raised a wavering eyebrow, one that threatened to totter over and fall at any second. "The wise warrior accepts that some of our most important battles are not fought with guns, or blades, or ships even."
Sensing an indisputable opportunity for tact, Semil smiled hollowly.
"No matter. Again, these are not the questions I imagine you have."
"Why am I here?"
"Directness. A Klingon quality, most certainly. And not one reputed for your people, I'm afraid."
Semil almost began to interrupt, when the Klingon continued on, denying him the opportunity. "Why are any of us here? What purpose is life, and our niche in it? These kinds of metaphysics are hardly questions you pose alone."
Another failed chance to interject passed by, as the Klingon coughed noisily into his tubes. "But you -- you once had an answer to that question, did you not?"
It was an obvious and clearly rhetorical question to Semil. "Of course. I live..." The words stuck in Semil's throat, just beneath the limn of his consciousness. "...I live to serve." Finishing the sentence was more of a struggle than Semil anticipated.
"But who? Who do you serve?" The Klingon again jabbed in Semil's direction with a gnarled finger. "Who do you serve?" Upon repetition, the old man drew the words out, slowly and deliberately. It triggered a vague, distant memory in Semil.
"Tell me, do you know how the Founders engineered servitude in the Vorta? In you?"
Of course, Semil knew. Even though cloning operations and biomimetics was never his specialty - Vorta were responsible for operating the massive cloning foundries that churned out Jem'Hadar, entire battalions at a time. Vorta cloned each other, and even themselves sometimes. With each new generation, an exacting process of quality control assured the stability of Vorta lines. There was even a robust library of modular traits available for some degree of customization - a telekinesis package here, a little enhanced nephrotoxic resistance there. The details were not his forte - that was for other Vorta.
In spite of all this, Semil knew the old Klingon would probably continue on to tell him anyway.
"We discovered some years ago that the Vorta have an engineered olfactory receptor. Your sense of smell. Can you guess what we found?"
Again with the rhetoric.
"This engineered receptor in Vorta is responsive to a pheromone, faintly produced in infinitesimal quantities by one, and only one known species in the whole galaxy."
"The Founders."
"And this olfactory receptor is hardwired into the midbrain of every Vorta. Directly connected to the parts of the Vorta brain that control learning and the most basic and primordial forms of imprinting. Obedience. Submission. Reverence, even."
Semil was beginning to realize that this line of didact had taken a turn.
"And what if I were to tell you that we found a way to alter this engineered receptor?"
Semil choked. He welled up with emotions that he had no name for, had never experienced. Feelings well beyond the scope of his capacity to even imagine.
"Now then." The Klingon began wheeling himself haphazardly in the direction of the door. "The hour is late, and I imagine you must be exhausted from your travel."
Semil's knees buckled slightly, seating him on a wooden settee carved with intricate, chaotic patterns. An out of place relic, undoubtedly from some conquered, forgotten race.
"You might find some food in the pantry, if you're hungry. Some of it might not even be very alive anymore, if that's your taste." The old Klingon dismissively chuckled to himself as he vanished into the darkened interior of the compound.
Alone, Semil drew one of the throws over his shoulder, as he stared out over the stillness of the jungle night, towards the vaporous glow of the city lights.
