Morqla made no effort to stifle the bellow of laughter that exploded from his gut. Seeing the expression on the soldier’s face as the subordinate attempted to maintain his bearing only made the governor cackle that much harder.
“Insurgents? Covert attack?” he asked as his laughter subsided. Stepping forward, Morqla clapped the soldier on the shoulder. “Did you not see the face of your enemy, Bekk? Three children, no doubt carrying a bottle of their father’s favorite spirits, and yet they were able to attack and escape almost undetected by the finest troops under my command.” His smile abruptly vanished. “Perhaps I should enlist them as sentries. They would almost certainly be an improvement over the current arrangement.”
To his credit, the soldier said nothing in response to the obvious threat. His only reply was to draw himself up even straighter and taller. Morqla glared at him for an additional moment, counting off the seconds until the subordinate’s limited ability to withstand such prolonged scrutiny finally failed him.
“What are your orders, Excellency?”
Stepping away from the soldier, Morqla turned his attention back to the town square, where other members of his garrison had completed gathering what he counted to be nearly three dozen Palgrenai villagers. They were in the process of shepherding them toward the building that had been designated as the unit’s detention facility.
Indicating the bedraggled cluster with a dismissive wave, he said, “Tell them to release the jeghpu’wI’. Interrogating them will be a waste of time. It was a child’s prank.”
“Excellency,” the soldier said, “with all due respect, this is not the first such insurgency we have faced since our arrival.”
Morqla turned to face the soldier, bristling at his blunt comments. “Do you consider me ignorant of this occupation’s current status, Bekk?”
Once more the subordinate straightened his posture, so much so that the governor wondered if he might snap his own spine. “Certainly not, sir.”
The troop had a point, Morqla admitted to himself. Though the Palgrenai were a primitive people, a preindustrial society closely resembling that of Qo’noS perhaps eight or nine centuries ago, since the garrison’s arrival they had engaged in an irregular yet frequent series of haphazard attacks on Klingon forces and equipment across the planet. All such acts had been carried out even while the natives conducted themselves as a passive people who had accepted their status as subjects of the empire. Most of the assaults had been only slightly more sophisticated than what Morqla had just experienced, with the Palgrenai using whatever primitive means were at their disposal to disrupt what the governor initially had expected to be a routine occupation of this world, referred to by its native inhabitants as Palgrenax.
It was not an unexpected outgrowth of being conquered, Morqla knew. There were more than a few instances of attempts by jeghpu’wI’to overthrow their conquerors on worlds throughout the empire. Some of those attempts even had been successful—for which songs had been sung as Klingon warriors celebrated the tenacity and courage of their enemies in battle—though Morqla held no suspicions that such would be the case here. The Palgrenai, though obstinate, had no hope of standing against his garrison.
Though it is entertaining to watch them try,Morqla mused, suppressing the urge to grin at the amusing thought.
“Sir,” the soldier said after a moment, “they targeted your office specifically. We must capture the petaQthat are responsible and punish them publicly, to show the jeghpu’wI’that such actions cannot be tolerated.”
Glaring at the subordinate once more, Morqla was sorely tempted to kill him where he stood. “Is there any other information you think I’ve forgotten, Bekk? Perhaps you have guidance to offer regarding my hygiene or eating habits?”
In truth, his options in light of this most recent event were clear-cut: Acts of insurrection, no matter their size or scope, could not be tolerated. Strict discipline had to be enforced to minimize the risk and crush the desire and ability of a subjugated planet’s indigenous population—which typically outnumbered the occupying force by orders of magnitude—to attempt overthrowing their conquerors. It was a simple and often brutal strategy, one Morqla understood and for the most part always had endorsed, at least in his younger days as a lower-ranking soldier participating in several such occupations.
Now, on his first assignment as planetary governor overseeing jeghpu’wI’,things were different.
Though he had enforced imperial directives—more or less—Morqla actually had welcomed the Palgrenai’s laughable attempts to break up what had already become a dull, monotonous state of affairs. In truth, none of the attacks had proven to be anything more than annoyances. While the natives might be brave to even consider standing up to a superior force, their choice of tactics left much to be desired. Morqla guessed that might have much to do with their largely pacifistic nature. The Palgrenai were simply ill equipped to ever present anything resembling even a marginal threat.
And yet, they continue to try. There’s something to be admired about that.
“The security of the empire will not be compromised if we show a measure of leniency,” he said after a moment. “Gather the village population in the square at sunset, and we will remind them of the occupation orders. I will decide then whether to select members of the crowd for summary execution.” He had no intention of doing any such thing, of course, but it was enough to satisfy the bekkfor the time being.
“As you command, Excellency,” the soldier said. He saluted, turned on his heel to instruct his companions to return to their normal duty posts, then left to carry out Morqla’s instructions.
The governor watched him go, his eyes drawn toward the southwest where he saw a line of storm clouds gathering over the distant trees. It was the first time since his arrival on this planet that he had seen any sign of precipitation. Given what he had been told by more than one of the villagers about the dry seasons—including the current one—that could grip this hemisphere, any rainfall would be welcomed. Rain would quell the dust that seemed to permeate the air, his clothes, his skin—everything.
What a worthless pile of dirt this planet is.
So far as Morqla knew, Palgrenax offered nothing of military or political value. Mineral ores lacing its bedrock were of only marginal use for refining or energy generation, particularly of the type needed to power the empire’s fleet of warships. The planet itself was too far away from those areas of the Gonmog Sector where Federation colonies and patrol routes had been established, therefore making it impractical as a base from which to coordinate any sort of effective combat operations against Starfleet vessels.
The only thing of interest this world offered, from what he could tell, seemed to be its collection of ancient, crumbling ruins scattered across this continent. For some reason, Chancellor Sturka and the Klingon High Council were most interested in the primeval structures, though of course they had not deemed it necessary to inform a lowly planetary governor what that reason might be.
It is of no consequence,he reminded himself. I serve the empire, wherever they might send me, and for whatever reason.
Feeling the stifling heat beginning to work its way underneath his uniform in earnest, Morqla turned and headed back inside his headquarters building, but he stopped short at the sight of his aide, K’voq, waiting for him. Small by Klingon standards, the younger officer further maligned the warrior stereotype with his unnaturally lightened hair, which he wore tied at the base of his neck rather than allowing it to flow freely about his shoulders like most soldiers. Despite his appearance, Morqla knew from experience that K’voq was a fierce and loyal warrior, which included a proficiency with the bat’leththat rivaled some Dahar masters the governor had known.