Qris arrived home on a fine spring day, carrying a large and heavy bundle with alien markings up the stairs to his quarters. To see this tall, skinny and gangling young tlhingan struggle with the unbalanced load, huffing and puffing, wondering just want in Kahless’ Holy Name he was carrying, you would have to laugh. A tlhingan warrior has a robust sense of humor, but he would not laugh once he found that what our young hero was carrying would soon shake the Empire to it’s very core. Qris was carrying his destiny up those steps. He had received Federation trinkets in the mail from his father on the human world Dirt, but never anything bigger than disrupter pistol!
Once behind the door, Qris opened the rectangular box with the alien markings. It was an antique Earth instrument: an electric guitar called a Gibson SG. He lifted the surprisingly light instrument and studied it carefully. It was like a tlhIngan stringed instrument, but it had six strings made of shiny steel instead of three made from an insect’s web. It was made of wood, had a long neck and thin body that was shaped like a targ’s horns. Inside the body were two rectangular pieces of metal with small divots underneath each string. Three control knobs jutted out from the bottom of the guitar’s body. It was unlike anything that Qris had ever seen. He plucked the strings with his fingernails. It made a thin hollow sound that rang out like a dying victim’s mercy plea.
He set the instrument down on the floor and opened the heavy box next. “What curious thing is this,” he asked the empty room at large. It was a solid heavy box with a row of knobs that lined up on the top, a metal mesh screen that covered two curious round things on one side and a cavernous opening on the other. Trailing from the back of the box was a long chord with a tlhIngan power supply welded on. Inside the back opening was another small package, wrapped in a cheerfully printed blue and pink paper with nauseatingly cute cartoon animals in patterned, frolicking postures. So like my father to send this in this, Qris thought to himself as he put the obscene box on the floor.
Inside the small package was a long coiled cable, a bag of thin plastic discs and another padd. In the data stream was a set of instructions on how to play the electric guitar along with directions on how to use the ‘amplifier.’ He followed the instructions to the letter, connecting the guitar and amp together with the long cable. He finished by plugging the amp into the power supply.
When he turned on the amplifier, the blasted thing screeched and hooted. He dropped the guitar in surprise. When it hit the ground a discordant thumping screech was heard coming from the amp. He had the thing’s volume up way too loud.
“What was that noise, son!” cried his mother from down the stairs. “It sounded like a wounded animal!”
“It’s nothing mother,” he yelled back.
In tlhIngan music, the individual sound of a singer’s voice and an instrument’s acoustical properties were the only standard. The only amplified music in the whole of tlhIngan history was prerecorded music. To take an instrument, and use electricity to generate then amplify the sound was unheard of. Instead of using different materials and craftsmanship to give an instrument its own unique texture, this thing used variants of electric current to generate its powerful sound.
It was incredible! He couldn’t even describe the sense of purpose that swelled within him when he played the electric guitar for the first time.
He stood in front of the long mirror with the guitar strapped to his chest, one hand clutching a flat image of a human being named eyngeS’yeung.. He was comparing his reflection with the solido of the human guitarist. In the sharply angled design of the mirror stood a slim light skinned young tlhIngan, with the beginnings of a sparse red beard, straight long blond hair that he wore pulled back in a half ponytail and down his shoulders. His movements as he turned to examine different angles of his profile had the beginnings of a great gracefulness, though not yet fully realized in his adolescent gait. The instrument suited him very well. He saw that he held the instrument correctly, but there was no way he would ever wear those weird clothes.
Qris new right then that he held his destiny in his hands.
The Elder, along with the twelve other students of the Ancient Epics and Opera class had stood there in shock when Qris demonstrated, using visuals and music, the Earthly Rock and Roll. After he finished with his guitar demonstration his Elder uncovered his ears and said in a stammering voice, “That was . . . interesting” while saying to himself, I must watch this youth lest he go insane! None the less, he was fascinated in a morbid way with that strange music
B’arq came up to him afterward and said that he, too, wanted an electric guitar. Qris offered to help him build one in the basement of the school, lovingly called the crypt by the young students of the school, the workshop where they kept and repaired old discarded instruments. Out of the debris of discarded instruments they built a guitar with four sharply angled horns and a head stock that was almost shaped like a fire-bat’s wings. When they had finished building the thing, B’arq had it painted flat black with the red and black tlhIngan Empire’s Standard on the body, behind the bridge. The only thing missing were the electronic components. Qris and B’arq thought that they were sly when they asked the Elder about dealers in useless and discarded technologies. The Elder just laughed and directed them to the shop of an old war buddy, saying: “He will be able to qerq-rig your empty instruments.”
They had just set up their guitars in a small room of the Artisan’s Studios at the suggestion of the Academy Elder. It was a sprawling compound where other tlhIngans painted, sculpted and practiced music. Questioning stares had greeted them as they loaded in their strange implements. One middle aged tlhIngan asked them what those strange boxes were. After Qris explained that they were for music, the tlhIngan just scratched his head and muttered to himself.
* * *
Kroak returned to his studio after meeting the new ‘musicians’ that had moved into the room next door to his. He took up his favorite carving knife and started again on what would be his finest work yet. It was an eight feet tall likeness of Kahles, standing in his final victory, batleth raised to the sky. The grain of the wood had been a perfect match, its lines spreading out in a fan that traced the shape of qeylIS‘ sword.
He was delicately carving out the tlhIngan standard when a piercing cry from the next room startled him. The noise was brutal and alien-louder than Grethor himself-that sent a chill down his spines. The noise went on and on, raising and lowering in pitch; whining, crying, screeching.
What in qeylIS‘ Holy Name? He asked himself. Then he noticed a huge gouge down the center of the tlhIngan Standard, utterly ruining his great piece.
It sounded wonderful! The room was perfect for music. The acoustics took the sound of their amplifiers, bounced it off the walls, and sent the sound back at them, further enhancing the rich tones that came from B’arq’s new amp. They played and played.
When they stopped for a break, the angry pounding of their door beckoned them. Upon opening the door, twelve angry artists stormed into the room. Qris and B’arq could only stand there in the middle of their room as the other artists protested and threatened them. They were barely able to keep them from smashing their instruments as they were forcibly ejected from the Artesian’s Studio.
They followed an old tlhIngan who carried his useless legs tucked underneath him on the seat of his travel chair. The whirring of the ancient motors echoed through the long, narrow, empty building. His voice was at the same frequency as his motors, making it hard for Qris to follow. “This used to house the old Klinzai Motor Company, before the Border Wars. It is sound-proof outside, so the neighbors wont be bothered by your, ah. . . what did you call it? ‘heavy alloy?’”
“Heavy metal,” interjected Qris.
“Strange name, young musician,” replied the tlhIngan over his wheels. “The place is yours-until I rent it out to somebody else, ha, ha.” His laugh reverberated.
The place was perfect: narrow and airy with a small, enclosed office that was on a raised floor. In front of the office was a platform that would be perfect for a stage. The lights were bright and evenly spaced, the crossbeam shadows throwing lines over the black tile floor. It was powered by an old style fusion power plant that needed little fuel, but put out a lot of power; enough for their amps at full volume.
The old man presently left them to the room after showing them how the locks and power worked, wheeling away at a fast clip, laughing in glee at finally renting out that dingy building. But to Qris and B’arq, it was beautiful.
By this time, Qris had become quite the proficient player. He could pick out the melody of any human song, learn how to play it, then teach it to B’arq. They would play along with the recordings throughout the night, singing their own made up lyrics.
One day, B’arq brought to their basement a tall, handsome Warrior Academy student, named Torn, who came from a Minor House in Krotmag. He had powerful muscles, prominent ridges angled sharply downward into his permanently mischievous, symmetrical face. His most striking feature was his luxurious, long black hair. His combat specialty was the Federation languages. He spoke fluent Fed Standard, vulqan and Andorian. He also had a rich singing voice that resonated along the walls like a voice from Sto-Vo-Kor.
When Torn heard Qris, B’arq and IySI – Dey ‘SI play he fell in love with this heavy metal music. It stirred his warrior heart! It spoke to him of the glory of battle and the thrill of conquest. He knew that this music (that was ironically made by the non-aggressive humans) would stir the hearts of all tlhIngans the same way it stirred his.
Torn told them that he could easily translate the human words into Language, therefor giving the Earth music a proper tlhIngan perspective. He would, of course, only do this if they let him sing as well.
Qris hadn’t thought about starting his own band, but with Torn’s rich singing voice and intense enthusiasm, and B’arq’s drive to get free of his nearly hopeless situation, Qris relented. He might as well; his schooling was almost finished-and after that, he had no real idea what he would do. He opened a bottle of rare blood wine that he was saving for his graduation in a few months. He thought that this was a better way to use it. They toasted, “To the beginning of our band.”
B’arq said before he drank, “To the ‘House of roQ.’”
* * *
