Post by Nola on May 16, 2021 4:26:03 GMT
He was submerged in a Ganaldan bog, it seemed. Water surrounded him, and he could see nothing, despite his eyes being open. Even less clear was how he'd gotten there. He had no memory of entering whatever soup he was suspended in. The last thing he could remember was the mountains of Donatu V. A retreat. A close council, where the fate of worlds was decided.
Sharp pains struck his temples as awareness began to flood in. He could feel the liquid moving, the top of his head emerging, though he felt nothing lift him up. A haze grew in his vision as his eyes were uncovered, a lumiunous mist slowly congealing to form distorted shapes.
As the liquid receded, he could feel weight return to his frame. His legs shook one for a moment as his mind tried to remember how to stand, but it was only a brief moment of weakness. Indeed, he could feel strength in his frame, his legs sturdy and his core sound. Whatever devilry had befallen him hadn't taken that, at least.
He tried to speak, only to find a small torrent of fluid erupting from within, flooding mouth and nasal cavity alike. Coughing and sputtering followed as a tiredness began to seep in, one he didn't really understand. To feel both strong and weak at once was uncomfortable, to say the least, although something about it was familiar. The memory wouldn't come to him just yet.
At some point he realized he was standing in some sort of glass cylinder. There were shapes beyond, two of them. He could faintly make out speech, though not what was said. One of the figures left, and the other drew near.
"I'm going to open the vat," came their voice, seemingly disembodied. Some sort of communication system, perhaps.
"Remain calm. All will be explained."
He tried to speak again, but still words wouldn't come so he simply nodded. The glass surrounding him crawled downward into the floor. The figure stepped forward, but still his eyes wouldn't focus. They unfurled something, and he felt a soft fabric press against his bare chest. Something about that touch, or the intrusion of the outside world, stole what strength he had left. His legs buckled and he felt arms wrap around him.
"It's alright," said the voice. "Everything will be alright."
---
His dreams were fitful. Visions of war and conquest were punctuated by moments of tenderness, and joy. Bloodshed and barbarism mixed with affectionate caresses and longing stares from a pair of impossibly green eyes, and though these moments brought him joy, there was also great sorrow just beneath the surface. Something had been lost, and wouldn't be returned. All that was left was to build something new.
His vision was much better the second time around. Gone was the weight of the fluid, with only that softness wrapped around him. He was laying on some sort of slab, staring at a stone ceiling. Flickering torchlight danced on the edges of his vision; he was in some sort of cave, and the lack of moving air told him he was quite deep within the cave.
Memories started to return, little sparks of light in the void of his identity giving birth to a familiar universe. A man - the figure from before - returned to his sight, looking down upon him with a kindly, familiar smile.
"Do you remember your name?" the man asked. It only took a moment of searching to find it.
"Grell," he answered, the name carrying the weight of his dreams. "Grell, of House Degra."
The other man nodded slowly, pleased.
"And do you remember mine?" he asked. This one took a bit more searching, memories springing into being both suddenly and far too slow.
"Kur'Eq," said Grell, a hint of question in his voice. The man hummed and nodded approvingly.
"Excellent," replied Kur'Eq. "The engram transfer seems to have been successful."
Grell furrowed his brow. That phrase meant something to him, but he wasn't sure what.
"Engram Transfer," he echoed, his ridged brow furrowing. "Explain."
Kur'Eq drew a deep breath, his smile fading a bit without truly disappearing - in never did, he somehow knew.
"This may be difficult to hear," said the doctor.
"Tell me," said Grell, the truth of things flitting on the edge of his thoughts.
"You are not Grell," said Kur'Eq. "You're a clone of Grell, whose memories - to a point - have been transferred into your brain."
A number of dots connected themselves in Grell's head. Words like 'contingency' and 'immortal' echoed in his thoughts, but... no. Not 'immortal.'
"'Not finished,'" murmured Grell, his eyes searching the ceiling of the cave for more answers.
"Not finished," echoed Kur'Eq.
---
Grell-But-Not-Grell was given some time to eat and gather his thoughts. Memories continued to reveal themselves, a whole life imposing itself on him and filling his heart with sorrow, anger, and a sort of serene hope. Grell was on a mission to remake his people, and, to some degree, was unwilling to let death stop him.
After his meal, Kur'Eq led him into another chamber within the cave complex. He'd seen no sign of the other figure he'd seen while inside the tube, and some part of him know that was 'protocol.' Grell had wanted only Kur'Eq present when his clone awoke.
The chamber, like the others, was lit with torches. It looked like some sort of lab, though a portable viewscreen had been set up on one side of the room.
"Grell recorded a message in the event that his clone activated," explained Kur'Eq. "He thought that he should be the one to explain the situation, and to give you your options."
"Options?" questioned Grell.
"Yes," said Kur'Eq, offering nothing further. Grell felt like he understood. Whatever message his progenitor had left would explain. Grell made his way over to a chair situated in front of the viewscreen and sat down, hugging a heavy fur cloak around himself.
Kur'Eq tapped in a few commands at a console, and the viewscreen came to life. Grell looked up at himself expectantly.
"Good morning, brother," said the recording. "If you are seeing this, it means I have been killed. It also means that the memory transfer has been a success: you now bear a copy of my memories, which were updated once every week, so there isn't much about me that you won't know, though I understand it might take some time for all of it to settle in."
Indeed, the clone felt there was a great deal still sitting on the periphery of his mind, waiting to come into being.
"I won't claim to be an expert on cloning," the recording continued. "Kur can answer any particular questions you might have about the process. I do know that you're likely one of the most advanced clones ever created, but that's not important just now. What's important is you.
"First, I will tell you what I envisioned for you. When we first began working on this project, the idea was to have a contingency in place should I be killed in pursuit of my mission to remake our people. I would die, you would awaken, and then you would take my place and resume leadership.
"Assuming your memories haven't fully formed, that may seem quite arrogant to you. You may be wondering if I'm so hungry for power that I'm not willing to let death take it from me. You may see some of my memories and think me a bloodthirsty warlord, and I don't know that I can say anything that would convince you otherwise. All I can tell you is what is in my heart.
"There will be a point where our people will be able to carry on without me, but that time is not now. There are many who follow me simply because I am successful in combat, people who don't yet understand the world before us. With my death, this dream will fall apart, and we will fall into the same old cycle of conquest and corruption.
"We have the technology to prevent that, and I am willing to use it."
The clone watched his original speak. His words rang with uncertain truth. He believed the man on the screen to be sincere in his intent. He could feel that dream within him, even if he couldn't yet fully understand it.
"Or, I was," said screen-Grell, after a small, thoughtful pause. "I realized that you are not a machine, and if my convictions are true, and I really do want a better, more just world for our people, then that must extend to all of us. To you.
"You are not me. You have my body, and you have my memories, and presumably my personality, but if I woke up one day and learned I was a clone, I don't know who I'd be after that. That is the reality you now live within. You've woken up and learned that the things you remember, the things you feel, were experienced by someone else. And so you are different. You are now not me, which makes you your own person.
"You should be free to choose your own path, and so you are. You can be me, or you can be someone else. If you choose the latter, the memories you've received will be removed and replaced with a fresh start. You will be given latinum, and you'll be taken to your choice of destinations to begin your life.
"There is a significant caveat. Due to the process they used to create you, and ensure your brain would be receptive to the engram transfer, your body will have about ten years before it begins to break down. There are many ethical concerns involved in that fact, but, as I wasn't planning on being in power forever, I decided ten years was long enough. I'm sorry. If I'd come to my realizaiton sooner, perhaps we would've done things differently, but things are as they are."
The clone didn't feel as bothered by that as he thought he should be. Learning that he was a clone should've been shocking enough. To learn he also had a relatively short amount of time to live should've been particularly devastating, but it wasn't.
Already, he could tell the burden Grell carried in life was great. He'd lost much, and to persist after that loss weighed heavy on him. Thanks to the memories imprinted on his brain, the clone knew that Grell didn't mind the thought of dying, which lent some credence to his earlier claim that having himself cloned wasn't some bid to avoid death.
"Take whatever time you need to make this decision," said the man on the screen. "The galaxy will wait. Wa'les."
"Wa'les," echoed Kur'Eq, and the clone had to resist the urge to do the same. The rapidity of his brain's adoption of the original's habits was remarkable indeed.
---
The clone spent the next few days remembering various things for the first time. He could remember the first time Grell killed a man, and how it wounded him to do it. He could remember how that pain faded over time, and he eventually learned to revel in victory.
So many of the memories, which he guessed to be Grell's strongest recollections, seemed... small. He felt there had been momentous victories in Grell's time, but those didn't end up being the important things to him. Instead, the things he held most dear were the intimate moments with friends and comrades, and the simpler joys in life.
Through it all, though, was the memory of those green eyes. The clone felt this memory was the most vivid of all, and yet he could remember nothing else. He didn't know whose eyes they were. He didn't know when Grell had seen them.
He asked Kur'Eq about it, and the old doctor wore a knowing, reluctant look.
"If fate decides you should know, you will know," he'd said. "I will not be the one to give you this knowledge."
It was the first time the clone had felt Kur'Eq was keeping something from him, which seemed rather remarkable all things considered. Despite the message Grell had left, Kur'Eq hadn't once pushed him to follow Grell's footsteps. He always took great care to put the clone's personhood before the dead leader's, and made clear distinctions between their lives.
Perhaps his dedication to that was so complete that he felt the matter was not his secret to share. Whatever the clone would choose in the end, he appreciated that a man like Kur'Eq had been the one to guide him.
After that conversation, the clone devoted his energies to unraveling this mystery. It took some time, but when it finally happened, he finally understood.
He remembered lying with Kintag on a bed of furs in a cave high in the Tol'kar mountains. He remembered getting lost in him, and the elation of finding another in the darkness to share his light with. He remembered how warm he'd felt against Grell's skin, and how relieving it was when their lips met.
The Klingons had unfortunate words for people like Grell and Kintag, most of them translating along the lines of 'invisible,' or 'unnamed.' To the Klingon way of life, there was no room for men to love other men, at least not openly. You were expected to bear children, and pass your legacy on to them. Those men known to have male lovers usually did so quietly while they maintained loveless marriages in order to produce progeny.
That was when Grell first realized how much he hated the Klingon way of life. When the clone remembered how much it hurt when Grell heard Kintag had died, he found it difficult to disagree with that hatred.
Kintag had died when Gowron attacked Deep Space 9 for harboring the Detapa Council, the same Deep Space 9 that the Empire would later defend against the Dominion. It seemed so petty to Grell. There were other ways to try and get the Council; attacking a fortified starbase was foolish. Honor had demanded it, and for this 'pillar' of Klingon-hood, the love of Grell's life was ripped from him forever.
A wound that would never heal.
---
Grell looked to each of his comrades - his conspirators - with a distant gaze. He tried to see beyond them, to the rich tapestry of their individual lives, all despoiled by the false image of Klingon righteousness. All sacrificed for 'the way things are.'
"How much is enough?" he asked. The quiet murmuring that'd preceeded stopped as they all looked to Grell.
"How many are we willing to lose, hm? How much of our blood is enough to satisfy the weight of history? How much of our joy must it rip away? How much pain must it return?"
None had answers, of course. The questions were the answers. What order built upon such misery could ever truly be justified?
The group was meeting in the same cave in which Grell had first layed with Kintag. The same firelight flickered on the walls, and a similar feeling of liberation washed through him, though only similar. This wasn't the relief of the heart finding its want. This was the relief of a man shedding the tatters of a life he no longer wished to bear.
Grell stood up, subconsciously bundling his furs around himself.
"It doesn't have to be this way," he said, his voice only just above a whisper. "It only persists because we tell ourselves it must. We cling to this illusion of honor as we fight and die at the whim of those for whom 'honor' does not exist. While we flagellate ourselves to uphold an impossible standard of living, those who know better sit back and get fat on that which our blood produces.
"They subsist on our grief. They feast on our agonies."
A tear rolled down Grell's cheek, the Klingon reflexively cursing himself, only to realize this, too, was part of those chains. He reached up and wiped the tear away before presenting his wetted finger to the others.
"They would tell me this is a grave error," he hissed. "They would tell me that this grief makes me soft, that I am weak to let you see it."
Grell sniffed heavily and lowered his hand. The others hung on his every word, none really daring to move as he spoke. That feeling unnerved him a bit. He didn't understand why his words seemed to weigh so much for others.
"But it doesn't have to be this way," he reiterated. "We have the power to change the way things are. We can build a world for our children that doesn't see them as expendable weapons. We can build a world for our grandchildren that never sees them go hungry or cold just because they're not killing machines. We can build a world that doesn't require a calloused heart just to survive, a world where they are free to follow their desires, instead of being told what their desires are!"
Some of the others nodded. Grell could feel his blood starting to boil as the weight of everything 'The Empire' had stolen from them became clear.
"We can build this world, and so we must build this world! To do otherwise would be to mark ourselves with the same sins!"
Some shouted in agreement while most of the others nodded vigorously. One, Kur'Eq, simply sat and stared at him. The look stole Grell's building anger, his eyes locking on the doctor's.
"What have you to say?" asked Grell, quelling some of the others.
"What will be the price of this new world, Grell?" asked Kur'Eq. Grell stared for a long moment as he weighed the question. If they went through with this, there would be blood. A great deal of it, in fact. The only way the Empire would ever change would be through complete and utter defeat.
Barring the fact that they didn't have a way to accomplish that just yet, the reality of this vision was that, in order to build this new world, the old would need to be reduced to ash.
Grell moved from his spot, keeping his eyes on Kur'Eq as he moved around the circle. The woman next to Kur'Eq moved as it became clear Grell wished to sit next to the doctor, who seemed to bristle - also a reflex, in anticipation of Grell perhaps trying to kill him. Another little Klingon agony.
Grell sat next to Kur'Eq and carefully extended a hand to rest on his shoulder.
"I won't lie to you, Kur," he said softly. "Many would die in the making of this world. Much of what we've come to hold as sacred would need to be burned. Planets will need to be conquered, sometimes street-by-street, and we will have to overwhelm every enemy fleet we encounter. There will be no shortage of bloodshed.
"And you believe that blood is worth shedding?" asked Kur'Eq.
"Yes," Grell answered immediately.
"Why?"
"Because it will be but a drop next to the ocean they'll take if we don't."
---
Kur'Eq had just finished his nightly log when the clone entered his lab.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. The clone didn't answer immediately. The look in his eyes was familiar to Kur'Eq, but he would let the clone speak for himself.
"Can we do it?" the clone asked quietly. Kur'Eq gave a slow nod.
"We have what we need, yes," he answered. The drone fleets had performed far better than expected. The battle over Qo'nos had seen the most significant losses of the war thus far, but those losses would be restored in under a month. Save for Grell's death, it was a question of when, not if.
"And you still believe?" asked the clone. Kur'Eq took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He had an immediate answer, but he'd learned from Grell the value of thinking it through anyway.
"You should see Donatu," he offered the clone. "It's been an adjustment, but alread we're seeing the dream come to life. People there are free to be what they want to be. They work together to make sure everyone gets what they need. Artists, farmers, entertainers, builders, craftsmen; it turns out that, left to their devices, people like to feel useful."
The clone's eyes drifted, his shoulders sagging as they released a hidden tension.
"And, are there... people like..."
"Yes," Kur'Eq answered, immediately knowing what the clone meant.
"And nobody bothers them?"
Again, Kur'Eq took the time to consider his answer.
"It's an adjustment for many," he said slowly. "There are those who don't approve, and are free to express that opinion, but they are not free to harm those like you. In time, those attitudes will fade."
The clone rubbed his eyes, a profound sense of exhaustion filling his form.
"And it can be like that everywhere?" he whispered. Kur'Eq leaned forward slowly, a small, warm grin on his face.
"It will be."
---
Grell stood before a holorecorder wearing one of his predecessor's usual fur cloaks. He hadn't made notes for this speech, something he understood to be a bit of a habit for his previous incarnation. He knew the gist of what he wanted to say, and he was dearly hoping he had his progenitor's gift for improvisation.
"We're ready," said Pek'a, nodding to Grell. He gave a nod in return and the device began recording.
"My name is Grell, of House Degra," he began. "By now, you have likely heard reports of my death at the battle of Qo'nos. Those reports are accurate, if incomplete. The original Grell has indeed perished."
He gave a moment for that information to sink in for the prospective viewer.
"Anticipating this possibility, Grell arranged for himself to be cloned. For those Klingons viewing this, this story will not be entirely unfamiliar. Emperor Kahless is a clone himself. Unlike him, however, I was given a choice of what to do with my life, which is one of the reasons this message has taken so long to arrive.
"Also unlike Kahless, I do not need to learn how to be my progenitor. I have been given his memories, and his experiences, which I was given the choice to reject."
Grell's eyes slowly drifted to the floor in front of him as he gathered his thoughts.
"It has been an odd few days as Grell's memories have become my own. It took some time to understand him, to understand what he was trying to do. Grell's vision is ambitious. Some might call it arrogance. Some may say it is madness. To learn the why of it, to learn what the old world took from him and, in truth, from all Klingons, has been harrowing."
Grell ran a hand over his mouth and along his short beard as his gaze rose back up.
"I believe in Grell's mission," he affirmed. "I believe the dream is too vital to die with him, and so I have chosen to follow in his footsteps. Like my counterpart on Qo'nos, I will consider myself the son of my progenitor: Grell, son of Grell - the only son Grell could've had, in truth. House Degra has already accepted me as the rightful heir, and so I have taken command of House Degra's fleets. As of now, the dream lives."
Grell wore a brief, self-conscious grin. That one was perhaps a bit overwrought.
"I understand that some of House Degra's allies may have reservations about following a clone," he continued. "I can only offer to meet with them and give them my assurances that my father's promises are my promises, and that I will honor all agreements. To that end, the offensive against House Martok's forces will be halted until such time as all of our allies affirm their support for the endeavor."
He drew a deep breath, his shoulders rising as his gaze narrowed.
"To Martok and his people, I implore you to take this reprieve to consider your options," he said softly. "Thus far, you've proven unable to truly slow us. Qo'nos was taken in a matter of hours. In your desperation, you constructed a weapon on its surface that ultimately saw the destruction of D'Takka and the loss of thousands of innocent lives.
"What is your glory worth to you? How much are you willing to lose in order to satisfy your conditioning, hm? What is it you feel you're truly accomplishing by throwing away so many lives?"
Grell held the invisible audience's gaze, letting his words settle.
"To Martok's followers, I ask you to consider how much of your life you're willing to sacrifice for the way things were. Ask yourself who fears this change the most. Is it the average farmer on our agriworlds? Is it our factory workers? Or is it those who've profited off our misery for centuries? The ones who saw us engage in so many costly wars for ephemeral reasons?
"Ask yourselves which of those groups you'd rather be fighting for. Ask your leaders. House Degra dearly hopes they'll come to their senses, but we are prepared if they don't. If they insist that the old world must go kicking and screaming, then so it shall."
Sharp pains struck his temples as awareness began to flood in. He could feel the liquid moving, the top of his head emerging, though he felt nothing lift him up. A haze grew in his vision as his eyes were uncovered, a lumiunous mist slowly congealing to form distorted shapes.
As the liquid receded, he could feel weight return to his frame. His legs shook one for a moment as his mind tried to remember how to stand, but it was only a brief moment of weakness. Indeed, he could feel strength in his frame, his legs sturdy and his core sound. Whatever devilry had befallen him hadn't taken that, at least.
He tried to speak, only to find a small torrent of fluid erupting from within, flooding mouth and nasal cavity alike. Coughing and sputtering followed as a tiredness began to seep in, one he didn't really understand. To feel both strong and weak at once was uncomfortable, to say the least, although something about it was familiar. The memory wouldn't come to him just yet.
At some point he realized he was standing in some sort of glass cylinder. There were shapes beyond, two of them. He could faintly make out speech, though not what was said. One of the figures left, and the other drew near.
"I'm going to open the vat," came their voice, seemingly disembodied. Some sort of communication system, perhaps.
"Remain calm. All will be explained."
He tried to speak again, but still words wouldn't come so he simply nodded. The glass surrounding him crawled downward into the floor. The figure stepped forward, but still his eyes wouldn't focus. They unfurled something, and he felt a soft fabric press against his bare chest. Something about that touch, or the intrusion of the outside world, stole what strength he had left. His legs buckled and he felt arms wrap around him.
"It's alright," said the voice. "Everything will be alright."
---
His dreams were fitful. Visions of war and conquest were punctuated by moments of tenderness, and joy. Bloodshed and barbarism mixed with affectionate caresses and longing stares from a pair of impossibly green eyes, and though these moments brought him joy, there was also great sorrow just beneath the surface. Something had been lost, and wouldn't be returned. All that was left was to build something new.
His vision was much better the second time around. Gone was the weight of the fluid, with only that softness wrapped around him. He was laying on some sort of slab, staring at a stone ceiling. Flickering torchlight danced on the edges of his vision; he was in some sort of cave, and the lack of moving air told him he was quite deep within the cave.
Memories started to return, little sparks of light in the void of his identity giving birth to a familiar universe. A man - the figure from before - returned to his sight, looking down upon him with a kindly, familiar smile.
"Do you remember your name?" the man asked. It only took a moment of searching to find it.
"Grell," he answered, the name carrying the weight of his dreams. "Grell, of House Degra."
The other man nodded slowly, pleased.
"And do you remember mine?" he asked. This one took a bit more searching, memories springing into being both suddenly and far too slow.
"Kur'Eq," said Grell, a hint of question in his voice. The man hummed and nodded approvingly.
"Excellent," replied Kur'Eq. "The engram transfer seems to have been successful."
Grell furrowed his brow. That phrase meant something to him, but he wasn't sure what.
"Engram Transfer," he echoed, his ridged brow furrowing. "Explain."
Kur'Eq drew a deep breath, his smile fading a bit without truly disappearing - in never did, he somehow knew.
"This may be difficult to hear," said the doctor.
"Tell me," said Grell, the truth of things flitting on the edge of his thoughts.
"You are not Grell," said Kur'Eq. "You're a clone of Grell, whose memories - to a point - have been transferred into your brain."
A number of dots connected themselves in Grell's head. Words like 'contingency' and 'immortal' echoed in his thoughts, but... no. Not 'immortal.'
"'Not finished,'" murmured Grell, his eyes searching the ceiling of the cave for more answers.
"Not finished," echoed Kur'Eq.
---
Grell-But-Not-Grell was given some time to eat and gather his thoughts. Memories continued to reveal themselves, a whole life imposing itself on him and filling his heart with sorrow, anger, and a sort of serene hope. Grell was on a mission to remake his people, and, to some degree, was unwilling to let death stop him.
After his meal, Kur'Eq led him into another chamber within the cave complex. He'd seen no sign of the other figure he'd seen while inside the tube, and some part of him know that was 'protocol.' Grell had wanted only Kur'Eq present when his clone awoke.
The chamber, like the others, was lit with torches. It looked like some sort of lab, though a portable viewscreen had been set up on one side of the room.
"Grell recorded a message in the event that his clone activated," explained Kur'Eq. "He thought that he should be the one to explain the situation, and to give you your options."
"Options?" questioned Grell.
"Yes," said Kur'Eq, offering nothing further. Grell felt like he understood. Whatever message his progenitor had left would explain. Grell made his way over to a chair situated in front of the viewscreen and sat down, hugging a heavy fur cloak around himself.
Kur'Eq tapped in a few commands at a console, and the viewscreen came to life. Grell looked up at himself expectantly.
"Good morning, brother," said the recording. "If you are seeing this, it means I have been killed. It also means that the memory transfer has been a success: you now bear a copy of my memories, which were updated once every week, so there isn't much about me that you won't know, though I understand it might take some time for all of it to settle in."
Indeed, the clone felt there was a great deal still sitting on the periphery of his mind, waiting to come into being.
"I won't claim to be an expert on cloning," the recording continued. "Kur can answer any particular questions you might have about the process. I do know that you're likely one of the most advanced clones ever created, but that's not important just now. What's important is you.
"First, I will tell you what I envisioned for you. When we first began working on this project, the idea was to have a contingency in place should I be killed in pursuit of my mission to remake our people. I would die, you would awaken, and then you would take my place and resume leadership.
"Assuming your memories haven't fully formed, that may seem quite arrogant to you. You may be wondering if I'm so hungry for power that I'm not willing to let death take it from me. You may see some of my memories and think me a bloodthirsty warlord, and I don't know that I can say anything that would convince you otherwise. All I can tell you is what is in my heart.
"There will be a point where our people will be able to carry on without me, but that time is not now. There are many who follow me simply because I am successful in combat, people who don't yet understand the world before us. With my death, this dream will fall apart, and we will fall into the same old cycle of conquest and corruption.
"We have the technology to prevent that, and I am willing to use it."
The clone watched his original speak. His words rang with uncertain truth. He believed the man on the screen to be sincere in his intent. He could feel that dream within him, even if he couldn't yet fully understand it.
"Or, I was," said screen-Grell, after a small, thoughtful pause. "I realized that you are not a machine, and if my convictions are true, and I really do want a better, more just world for our people, then that must extend to all of us. To you.
"You are not me. You have my body, and you have my memories, and presumably my personality, but if I woke up one day and learned I was a clone, I don't know who I'd be after that. That is the reality you now live within. You've woken up and learned that the things you remember, the things you feel, were experienced by someone else. And so you are different. You are now not me, which makes you your own person.
"You should be free to choose your own path, and so you are. You can be me, or you can be someone else. If you choose the latter, the memories you've received will be removed and replaced with a fresh start. You will be given latinum, and you'll be taken to your choice of destinations to begin your life.
"There is a significant caveat. Due to the process they used to create you, and ensure your brain would be receptive to the engram transfer, your body will have about ten years before it begins to break down. There are many ethical concerns involved in that fact, but, as I wasn't planning on being in power forever, I decided ten years was long enough. I'm sorry. If I'd come to my realizaiton sooner, perhaps we would've done things differently, but things are as they are."
The clone didn't feel as bothered by that as he thought he should be. Learning that he was a clone should've been shocking enough. To learn he also had a relatively short amount of time to live should've been particularly devastating, but it wasn't.
Already, he could tell the burden Grell carried in life was great. He'd lost much, and to persist after that loss weighed heavy on him. Thanks to the memories imprinted on his brain, the clone knew that Grell didn't mind the thought of dying, which lent some credence to his earlier claim that having himself cloned wasn't some bid to avoid death.
"Take whatever time you need to make this decision," said the man on the screen. "The galaxy will wait. Wa'les."
"Wa'les," echoed Kur'Eq, and the clone had to resist the urge to do the same. The rapidity of his brain's adoption of the original's habits was remarkable indeed.
---
The clone spent the next few days remembering various things for the first time. He could remember the first time Grell killed a man, and how it wounded him to do it. He could remember how that pain faded over time, and he eventually learned to revel in victory.
So many of the memories, which he guessed to be Grell's strongest recollections, seemed... small. He felt there had been momentous victories in Grell's time, but those didn't end up being the important things to him. Instead, the things he held most dear were the intimate moments with friends and comrades, and the simpler joys in life.
Through it all, though, was the memory of those green eyes. The clone felt this memory was the most vivid of all, and yet he could remember nothing else. He didn't know whose eyes they were. He didn't know when Grell had seen them.
He asked Kur'Eq about it, and the old doctor wore a knowing, reluctant look.
"If fate decides you should know, you will know," he'd said. "I will not be the one to give you this knowledge."
It was the first time the clone had felt Kur'Eq was keeping something from him, which seemed rather remarkable all things considered. Despite the message Grell had left, Kur'Eq hadn't once pushed him to follow Grell's footsteps. He always took great care to put the clone's personhood before the dead leader's, and made clear distinctions between their lives.
Perhaps his dedication to that was so complete that he felt the matter was not his secret to share. Whatever the clone would choose in the end, he appreciated that a man like Kur'Eq had been the one to guide him.
After that conversation, the clone devoted his energies to unraveling this mystery. It took some time, but when it finally happened, he finally understood.
He remembered lying with Kintag on a bed of furs in a cave high in the Tol'kar mountains. He remembered getting lost in him, and the elation of finding another in the darkness to share his light with. He remembered how warm he'd felt against Grell's skin, and how relieving it was when their lips met.
The Klingons had unfortunate words for people like Grell and Kintag, most of them translating along the lines of 'invisible,' or 'unnamed.' To the Klingon way of life, there was no room for men to love other men, at least not openly. You were expected to bear children, and pass your legacy on to them. Those men known to have male lovers usually did so quietly while they maintained loveless marriages in order to produce progeny.
That was when Grell first realized how much he hated the Klingon way of life. When the clone remembered how much it hurt when Grell heard Kintag had died, he found it difficult to disagree with that hatred.
Kintag had died when Gowron attacked Deep Space 9 for harboring the Detapa Council, the same Deep Space 9 that the Empire would later defend against the Dominion. It seemed so petty to Grell. There were other ways to try and get the Council; attacking a fortified starbase was foolish. Honor had demanded it, and for this 'pillar' of Klingon-hood, the love of Grell's life was ripped from him forever.
A wound that would never heal.
---
Grell looked to each of his comrades - his conspirators - with a distant gaze. He tried to see beyond them, to the rich tapestry of their individual lives, all despoiled by the false image of Klingon righteousness. All sacrificed for 'the way things are.'
"How much is enough?" he asked. The quiet murmuring that'd preceeded stopped as they all looked to Grell.
"How many are we willing to lose, hm? How much of our blood is enough to satisfy the weight of history? How much of our joy must it rip away? How much pain must it return?"
None had answers, of course. The questions were the answers. What order built upon such misery could ever truly be justified?
The group was meeting in the same cave in which Grell had first layed with Kintag. The same firelight flickered on the walls, and a similar feeling of liberation washed through him, though only similar. This wasn't the relief of the heart finding its want. This was the relief of a man shedding the tatters of a life he no longer wished to bear.
Grell stood up, subconsciously bundling his furs around himself.
"It doesn't have to be this way," he said, his voice only just above a whisper. "It only persists because we tell ourselves it must. We cling to this illusion of honor as we fight and die at the whim of those for whom 'honor' does not exist. While we flagellate ourselves to uphold an impossible standard of living, those who know better sit back and get fat on that which our blood produces.
"They subsist on our grief. They feast on our agonies."
A tear rolled down Grell's cheek, the Klingon reflexively cursing himself, only to realize this, too, was part of those chains. He reached up and wiped the tear away before presenting his wetted finger to the others.
"They would tell me this is a grave error," he hissed. "They would tell me that this grief makes me soft, that I am weak to let you see it."
Grell sniffed heavily and lowered his hand. The others hung on his every word, none really daring to move as he spoke. That feeling unnerved him a bit. He didn't understand why his words seemed to weigh so much for others.
"But it doesn't have to be this way," he reiterated. "We have the power to change the way things are. We can build a world for our children that doesn't see them as expendable weapons. We can build a world for our grandchildren that never sees them go hungry or cold just because they're not killing machines. We can build a world that doesn't require a calloused heart just to survive, a world where they are free to follow their desires, instead of being told what their desires are!"
Some of the others nodded. Grell could feel his blood starting to boil as the weight of everything 'The Empire' had stolen from them became clear.
"We can build this world, and so we must build this world! To do otherwise would be to mark ourselves with the same sins!"
Some shouted in agreement while most of the others nodded vigorously. One, Kur'Eq, simply sat and stared at him. The look stole Grell's building anger, his eyes locking on the doctor's.
"What have you to say?" asked Grell, quelling some of the others.
"What will be the price of this new world, Grell?" asked Kur'Eq. Grell stared for a long moment as he weighed the question. If they went through with this, there would be blood. A great deal of it, in fact. The only way the Empire would ever change would be through complete and utter defeat.
Barring the fact that they didn't have a way to accomplish that just yet, the reality of this vision was that, in order to build this new world, the old would need to be reduced to ash.
Grell moved from his spot, keeping his eyes on Kur'Eq as he moved around the circle. The woman next to Kur'Eq moved as it became clear Grell wished to sit next to the doctor, who seemed to bristle - also a reflex, in anticipation of Grell perhaps trying to kill him. Another little Klingon agony.
Grell sat next to Kur'Eq and carefully extended a hand to rest on his shoulder.
"I won't lie to you, Kur," he said softly. "Many would die in the making of this world. Much of what we've come to hold as sacred would need to be burned. Planets will need to be conquered, sometimes street-by-street, and we will have to overwhelm every enemy fleet we encounter. There will be no shortage of bloodshed.
"And you believe that blood is worth shedding?" asked Kur'Eq.
"Yes," Grell answered immediately.
"Why?"
"Because it will be but a drop next to the ocean they'll take if we don't."
---
Kur'Eq had just finished his nightly log when the clone entered his lab.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. The clone didn't answer immediately. The look in his eyes was familiar to Kur'Eq, but he would let the clone speak for himself.
"Can we do it?" the clone asked quietly. Kur'Eq gave a slow nod.
"We have what we need, yes," he answered. The drone fleets had performed far better than expected. The battle over Qo'nos had seen the most significant losses of the war thus far, but those losses would be restored in under a month. Save for Grell's death, it was a question of when, not if.
"And you still believe?" asked the clone. Kur'Eq took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He had an immediate answer, but he'd learned from Grell the value of thinking it through anyway.
"You should see Donatu," he offered the clone. "It's been an adjustment, but alread we're seeing the dream come to life. People there are free to be what they want to be. They work together to make sure everyone gets what they need. Artists, farmers, entertainers, builders, craftsmen; it turns out that, left to their devices, people like to feel useful."
The clone's eyes drifted, his shoulders sagging as they released a hidden tension.
"And, are there... people like..."
"Yes," Kur'Eq answered, immediately knowing what the clone meant.
"And nobody bothers them?"
Again, Kur'Eq took the time to consider his answer.
"It's an adjustment for many," he said slowly. "There are those who don't approve, and are free to express that opinion, but they are not free to harm those like you. In time, those attitudes will fade."
The clone rubbed his eyes, a profound sense of exhaustion filling his form.
"And it can be like that everywhere?" he whispered. Kur'Eq leaned forward slowly, a small, warm grin on his face.
"It will be."
---
Grell stood before a holorecorder wearing one of his predecessor's usual fur cloaks. He hadn't made notes for this speech, something he understood to be a bit of a habit for his previous incarnation. He knew the gist of what he wanted to say, and he was dearly hoping he had his progenitor's gift for improvisation.
"We're ready," said Pek'a, nodding to Grell. He gave a nod in return and the device began recording.
"My name is Grell, of House Degra," he began. "By now, you have likely heard reports of my death at the battle of Qo'nos. Those reports are accurate, if incomplete. The original Grell has indeed perished."
He gave a moment for that information to sink in for the prospective viewer.
"Anticipating this possibility, Grell arranged for himself to be cloned. For those Klingons viewing this, this story will not be entirely unfamiliar. Emperor Kahless is a clone himself. Unlike him, however, I was given a choice of what to do with my life, which is one of the reasons this message has taken so long to arrive.
"Also unlike Kahless, I do not need to learn how to be my progenitor. I have been given his memories, and his experiences, which I was given the choice to reject."
Grell's eyes slowly drifted to the floor in front of him as he gathered his thoughts.
"It has been an odd few days as Grell's memories have become my own. It took some time to understand him, to understand what he was trying to do. Grell's vision is ambitious. Some might call it arrogance. Some may say it is madness. To learn the why of it, to learn what the old world took from him and, in truth, from all Klingons, has been harrowing."
Grell ran a hand over his mouth and along his short beard as his gaze rose back up.
"I believe in Grell's mission," he affirmed. "I believe the dream is too vital to die with him, and so I have chosen to follow in his footsteps. Like my counterpart on Qo'nos, I will consider myself the son of my progenitor: Grell, son of Grell - the only son Grell could've had, in truth. House Degra has already accepted me as the rightful heir, and so I have taken command of House Degra's fleets. As of now, the dream lives."
Grell wore a brief, self-conscious grin. That one was perhaps a bit overwrought.
"I understand that some of House Degra's allies may have reservations about following a clone," he continued. "I can only offer to meet with them and give them my assurances that my father's promises are my promises, and that I will honor all agreements. To that end, the offensive against House Martok's forces will be halted until such time as all of our allies affirm their support for the endeavor."
He drew a deep breath, his shoulders rising as his gaze narrowed.
"To Martok and his people, I implore you to take this reprieve to consider your options," he said softly. "Thus far, you've proven unable to truly slow us. Qo'nos was taken in a matter of hours. In your desperation, you constructed a weapon on its surface that ultimately saw the destruction of D'Takka and the loss of thousands of innocent lives.
"What is your glory worth to you? How much are you willing to lose in order to satisfy your conditioning, hm? What is it you feel you're truly accomplishing by throwing away so many lives?"
Grell held the invisible audience's gaze, letting his words settle.
"To Martok's followers, I ask you to consider how much of your life you're willing to sacrifice for the way things were. Ask yourself who fears this change the most. Is it the average farmer on our agriworlds? Is it our factory workers? Or is it those who've profited off our misery for centuries? The ones who saw us engage in so many costly wars for ephemeral reasons?
"Ask yourselves which of those groups you'd rather be fighting for. Ask your leaders. House Degra dearly hopes they'll come to their senses, but we are prepared if they don't. If they insist that the old world must go kicking and screaming, then so it shall."