"With our great empire on the brink of imminent collapse, we cannot afford to not take action.   Look around you at the poverty.   Look around you at the decay.   Not only are our buildings and streets in shambles, but so are the lives and souls of our people.   I realize many of you are young, and have no memory of the incredible glory and prestige that was once embodied by this great city, this great world, this great empire.   But left in the hands of this ragged band of battle-mongers, who spend the fruits of our blood and sweat on war machines, who spend their efforts and energies on the intergalactic border skirmishes of other races, who turn deaf ears to the outcries of the impoverished Klingon people, who choose to neglect the dire needs here at home-- Left in their hands, we are a doomed empire, a lost race, and a hopeless people."

     As the speaker stepped down from the makeshift podium, hundreds of Klingon arms bearing the white rag of the Civilist movement were raised, and cheers filled the crowded Blood and Guts Pubhouse.   Alexander was dumbfounded as he watched speaker after speaker mount the podium during the last hour, expounding on Kosh's ideals, quoting Kosh's writings-- which were his ideals, his writings.

     This last speaker, however, caused Alexander concern.   Not only was his speech emotionally charged, but he implied stronger socio-political ramifications to the writings of Kosh than Alexander had ever intended.   But Alexander considered, in light of the dire conditions here on Kronos, perhaps he would have come to some of the same allegations and conclusions this speaker had.

     The crowd inside the pubhouse continued to swell, and some were even standing in the street to overhear the goings-on inside.   Alexander noticed that there were quite a few, like himself, who did not wear the white Civilist rag around their arm.   But so far, to his surprise, no one had heckled the speakers.
     An elder, battle-dressed Klingon took the podium next, leaning forward against it as he peered out over the crowd through squinting eyes.   Soon, the room was quiet again.   The Klingon stood for several moments, unmoving, unspeaking, letting the uneasiness of silence fix upon the room.   Several coughed nervously.   The speaker smiled, and began.

     "It is time," he said calmly, and then he paused again.
     "Right now, throughout the Klingon Empire, the Disciples of Kosh are gathered in hundreds of groups, very much like this one.   We are growing, we are learning, we are speaking.   But our numbers go unheeded, our ideals scorned, and our words ignored.   So, it is time--time for us to take the next step.   Kosh teaches that, if the powers-that-be continue to suppress the masses..."
     "What's this?," Alexander wondered.
     "...even limited and controlled acts of aggression, if need be.   It is time."
    Alexander thought, "I never even alluded to anything of the sort!"
     Several low grunts of approval could be heard around the room, but Alexander saw some shifting uneasily in their places.   Tension increased as the murmurs in the room began to grow.   Alexander caught pieces of scattered whisperings: "...uprising...", "...demand justice...", "...assert our rights...", "...revolution..."   Alexander saw in the crowd the bloodied face of the boy who led him to the pubhouse, and then thought of his now-dead professor and friend, Dr. Trang.
     The speaker began again, this time shouting, "It is time!"
     "Wait!," Alexander shouted as he jumped from his seat.
     It seemed a million Klingon eyes turned on him as the room fell into an icy stillness.
     "You have something to say, stranger?," the challenge came from the podium.   Alexander trembled physically as he pushed himself forward.   The boy who brought him tugged on his vest as he passed, face warning, "Don't!"   But Alexander pressed on until he stood just beneath the imposing speaker.
     Voice quivering, and hardly audible, he began, "These are not the teachings of Kosh!"
     "What!   Are you calling me a liar?", the speaker boomed.
     "I call myself Kosh!", Alexander retorted with confidence.
     After a brief moment of shocked silence, the room burst into an uproarious protest, people throwing accusations at Alexander and at each other.   The speaker raised his hands in the air and yelled, "Quiet!"
     The room fell to a simmer as he moved from the podium to stare Alexander down.   "Your life should not be spared for uttering such blasphemy," the warrior snarled.
     "And that from one who calls himself a Disciple of Kosh?," Alexander asked with confident defiance.
     "How would you prove yourself, blasphemer?," the flustered Klingon challenged.
     Alexander pulled his datapad from an inside vest pocket, and thrust it at the Klingon.   "You'll find my writings in the original here."
     "This proves nothing," the Klingon replied as he threw the datapad to another nearby.   "Electronic documents are easily forged."
     The Klingon holding the datapad began, "Says here your name is Alexander Rozhenko.   You're not even a Klingon!"

     The room burst out in protest again, when suddenly a Klingon rushed towards Alexander, wrenched one arm behind him, threw a sack over his head, and held a kut'luch dagger to his throat.
     "Back off," he yelled, "or your beloved Kosh dies!"
     Three other Klingons pulled disrupters on the crowd while protectively surrounding the attacker and hostage, who were moving slowly towards the doorway.
     "I am Toral, Son of Duras, here to restore the honor of the Klingon Empire!"
     Scattered about the room, several shouted, "For the Empire!"
     "Toral," the speaker growled, "don't be a fool!   How can this be Kosh?"
     "I have good reason to believe he is, Councillor Droq," Toral responded coolly as he paused in the doorway, "so he will be my hostage until you convince yourselves that your Klingon savior is -- neither!"

     A heavily disguised Worf and Tegra arrived to see people flooding from the Blood and Guts.   Worf overheard a quick conversation between two passing youths.
     "Teqrel!   I don't care if it's Kosh, or Alexander, or whoever -- we can't let Toral get away with this!"
     "Don't worry, Bakra, I know where to find him."
     Worf stopped dead in his tracks and turned to engage the youths, when Tegra grabbed his shoulder with one hand, and with the other pointed to a figure exiting from the door of the pubhouse.   "There's your Droq, Betrayer of the High Council!"