Diplomatic Implausibility (10 page)

Toq unsheathed his
d’k tahg.
Vall felt his
racht
coming up again. Toq and Vall were the same height and roughly the same weight, but Vall suddenly felt a good deal smaller. Toq stood so close to Vall that he could smell the
grapok
sauce on Toq’s breath, and the hairs of Toq’s untrimmed beard almost tickled Vall’s face.

“And what makes you think,” Toq asked with a vicious smile, holding the knife up to Vall’s throat, “that you
deserve
to be a part of that,
Grishnar?”
Vall saw a small, dark stain on the end of the blade, and wondered if that was Kegren’s blood. He thought he smelled blood, but that could’ve been his imagination.

“I—I do my d-duty, just as you do! A-and more! Right now, I’m going to fix
Bekk
Goran’s disruptor!”

Toq sneered. “Goran can get another disruptor.”

“N-no, he can’t! It’s been in his family for generations. He told me his great-grandfather used it on Organia—I don’t know if he speaks the truth,
Dahar
Master Kor only had a few troops on Organia—but he says he did, and he can’t get rid of it without dishonoring his House, but it doesn’t work properly, so he asked me to repair it, and I’m almost done, and I think he’ll be
extremely
angry if you kill me now.”

Vall inhaled sharply, having gotten that all out without
taking a breath. He thought that if he paused to take a breath, Toq would slit his throat.

Toq leaned his head back and laughed heartily. Then, to Vall’s relief, he sheathed his
d’k tahg.
“You are—intriguing, Vall. You whine like a Ferengi, yet you perform magic with shields, make the first edible food I’ve had since I joined the Defense Force, and fix hundred-year-old disruptors. A
Grishnar
who survives among the
targs.”
He slapped Vall on the back.

Trying to keep his footing, Vall smiled nervously. “Thank you, Toq. If I may ask—what can I do about Kurak? I don’t understand her—you’d think she would want me to improve things. But she will not let me.”

“If she’s holding you back, Vall, there is only one thing you can do.” Toq once again unsheathed his knife. “Get her out of your way.” With that, he turned on his heel, said, “See you at dinner,
Grishnar,”
and walked off.

Wonderful,
Vall thought.
I’m probably stuck with that
nickname.
But he’d been called worse.

Continuing to his quarters, he thought at Toq’s retreating back,
It’s fine for you to say get her out of my way—you actually know how to use that
d’k tahg
of yours. All I
can do with mine is cut dead meat and pry open control
panels. If I challenge Kurak, she’ll hand me my head.

Or worse.

Sighing, he entered his quarters. He had a disruptor to fix.

B’Oraq approached the captain’s office. In one hand, she held a casualty report. She tugged on her braid with the other. She had been surprised at the summons requesting her to hand-deliver the report. It wasn’t necessary to provide it face to face; she could simply enter it
into the computer, and Klag would have immediate access.

“Enter,” came Klag’s voice after the buzzer sounded. The doors parted loudly in response to the keyword.

She approached the desk, which naturally had no guest chair. “I have the casualty report,” she said, holding it up.

“And?”

“Some contusions, mostly from falling objects. The bulk of the injuries came in the weapons bay—they lost gravity for two minutes. But no fatalities.”

“Good. The warriors of this ship deserve a better death than at the hands of the Kreel.” Klag spit, then reached for the report. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said as he took it.

“Captain, you didn’t need me to bring this in person.”

“No.” Klag set the report aside. “But I did need to discuss the medical ward manifest. Specifically, what is
not
on it. Commander Drex told me that you have several additional items. The commander referred to them as ‘unnecessary and barbaric medical equipment.’”

“Barbaric?” B’Oraq said with a bark of laughter. Drex had, of course, been referring to the prosthetics she had brought on board. “Captain, what is barbaric is—”

“Doctor,” Klag interrupted, “I realize you studied medicine in the Federation, so I’m willing to overlook that you forgot this is not a Federation ship—this time. We do not have a Starfleet vessel’s luxury of excess. Nonregulation equipment must be removed. Lieutenant Toq can see to its removal.”

“I’ll have him stop at your quarters then, too.”

Klag’s face darkened. “What?”

“If we don’t have the ‘luxury of excess,’ Captain, then those five cases of bloodwine in your quarters will have
to go as well. I know for a fact that they take up more mass than my tiny cabinet of prosthetics.”

To her relief, Klag’s face broke into a wide smile. “I should have known that Ferengi had more than bloodwine in his cargo hold. Very well, Doctor, keep your vile toys. Though remember: eventually my bloodwine will be drunk. In fact, it’s already down to four cases. But those prosthetics of yours will molder in their cabinet.”

“Plastiform doesn’t molder, Captain,” B’Oraq said tightly, “and you’d do well to consider one of them. It would get rid of that phantom itch you keep complaining to me about. And you’d be able to fight with both hands again.”

“There are seven dead Jem’Hadar who can attest to my ability to fight with the one.”

The problem with heroes,
B’Oraq thought,
is that they
tend to believe their own stories.
“Really?” she said with a smile. “Tell me, Captain, why do the
Gorkon
and the other
Qang-
class ships have upgraded weapons systems? Why the increased sensor capacity? The better shields?”

Klag glowered. “What is your point, Doctor?”

“The old weapons systems worked just fine against the Dominion. We won the war, after all. So why the upgrades to this ship?”

“There is a difference between people and equipment, B’Oraq.”

“Yes, there is,” B’Oraq said, leaning down onto Klag’s desk and resting her palms so that she was face to face with the captain. “Equipment can be replaced. Adrenaline and surprise helped you defeat those Jem’Hadar on Marcan V, but another arm would’ve helped a lot more. Why make yourself an inferior warrior? It doesn’t change what you did at Marcan. People won’t stop singing about the
heroic deeds of Klag, son of M’Raq, just because you replaced your right arm. And replacing it will increase the chances of there being more songs.”

Klag stared at B’Oraq for many minutes. B’Oraq found she could not read his expression.

“Dismissed, Doctor.”

B’Oraq straightened.
At least he didn’t kill me,
B’Oraq thought. She had half expected Klag to do so, particularly when she brought up the bloodwine. But then, she had expected to die every single time she suggested that empire medical standards were, in fact, substandard and in need of improvement. She never in her wildest dreams expected to get as far as designing her own medical ward. Each victory strengthened her convictions.

Leaving Klag’s office alive with a mere dismissal definitely constituted a victory.

She smiled and pulled on her braid.
Now if I can just
get him to replace the arm . . .

T
HREE ARMED GUARDS
—civilian, not Defense Force—scanned Klag, Worf, Drex, Krevor, and Klag’s guard the moment they materialized in the transporter room of Governor Tiral’s satellite. The guards each wore leather armor, loosely based on hundred-year-old Defense Force uniforms, before the combination of metal and leather became standard issue.

“All weapons are within expected parameters,” one of them said.

Another said, “Follow me.”

At first Klag bristled at the insult of being scanned, but he understood the need for security. Obviously Tiral feared for his life—and there was no honor in being assassinated by
jeghpu’wI’.

The satellite had none of the austerity that Klag—having lived most of his life in the military, and before that as the son of an officer—had grown accustomed to. Instead
of the standard Defense Force green, the walls here were a light brown, and were decorated—mostly, Klag noticed, with images of Tiral’s face. There were also slogans on the walls in a particularly ornate Klingon script:
Death to
the empire’s enemies, Long live the High Council, Glory
to Governor Tiral,
and others in that vein.

Several workstations lined the walls, operated by either Klingons or al’Hmatti. The ones operated by Klingons were cluttered with personal items: pictures, artwork, sculpture, miniature weapons, etc. Klag would never have allowed such luxuries on the
Gorkon,
but these
were
civilians. By contrast, the workstations occupied by the light-furred al’Hmatti—which were shaped differently to accommodate the ergonomic needs of a race evolved from ursine stock—were completely bereft of any decoration.

Tiral sat behind a large desk, cluttered with padds and remnants of food. He rose upon their entrance to his office, his belly scraping against the edge of the desk. The governor was shorter than Klag had expected. Rounder about the middle, as well.
Too much time administrating,
not enough time in battle,
Klag thought. He wore the traditional ankle-length vest indicating the holder of a high office, though, unlike the similar one Klag wore, Tiral’s was lined with white fur. Under it, the governor wore a one-piece leather outfit that accentuated his rotund form.

“You are late,” Tiral said sourly.

“We were delayed,” Klag said.

Tiral seemed to expect more explanation, but Klag didn’t see that it was any of Tiral’s concern.

The three guards took up position behind Tiral’s desk. None of them holstered their disruptors. Three guest chairs sat opposite Tiral’s desk, and Klag sat in the mid
dle one, with Drex on his right, Worf on his left. The two
Gorkon
guards stood at the door. Klag was tempted to have them unholster their disruptors as well, but decided that that was unnecessary. He preferred to show confidence rather than paranoia.

“So,” Tiral said with a small smile as he sat back down behind the desk, “my fortunes have finally changed. After months of the High Council ignoring my pleas, they send me the Hero of Marcan, the son of the chancellor, and the kingmaker himself. I have to wonder what I have done to suddenly earn this.”

Again Klag bristled, and this time he growled slightly. The High Council had granted Klag’s petition due to his status as a hero, and taken the taD situation seriously in part due to his pleas. Tiral’s implication that the current mission was a random event annoyed the captain.

“It is not what you have done, Governor,” Worf said. “It is simply a case of timing. The situation on taD could not receive proper attention from either the empire or the Federation because of the war.”

“I’m not clear what the Federation has to do with any of this, Ambassador,” Tiral said. “TaD is a Klingon world.”

“It wasn’t when the al’Hmatti appealed to the Federation for assistance,” Worf replied. “Nor was the Federation allied with the empire when that appeal was made.”

Klag added, “Ambassador Worf is in charge of this mission, by command of Chancellor Martok himself.”

Tiral pounded his fist on the desk, knocking two padds and some
krada
leg stubs to the floor. “This is outrageous! They are
jeghpu’wI’.
They have no more right to appeal to the Federation than my pet
targ.
I am responsible for this planet, Ambassador, and I will not have its
fate decided by outsiders—especially not a coward who has lived his life among inferiors and who has
twice
been declared a traitor.”

Worf rose from his chair. “This meeting is over.”

“What?” Tiral and Klag said simultaneously. Klag wondered what the son of Mogh was playing at this time.

“There is no point to this,” Worf said to Klag. “The solution to what ails taD is obvious—replace the governor. I daresay the situation has gotten out of hand because its current leader is not fit for the job. As he himself said, he has been presented with the Hero of Marcan, the son of the chancellor, and a Federation ambassador. His response is to indulge in name-calling. Fit behavior for a tavern, perhaps, but not a meeting to settle an issue important to the empire.”

Tiral also stood up, this time unsheathing a
d’k tahg.
“You dare insult me?”

Behind him, the three guards moved forward, pointing their disruptors at Worf.

Worf ignored the guards and stared at Tiral without blinking. “I do not mean to insult, Governor. I have simply made a statement based on my interpretation of what I have been presented with. It is possible that my interpretation is in error.” He leaned forward, resting his fists on the desk, knocking two padds aside. “Convince me that it is.”

Klag watched the tableau with amusement. Much as Klag hated to admit it, Worf was playing this precisely the right way. Tiral was acting like a fool. If he took this to the next step and challenged Worf, it would simply prove Worf’s point.

Keeping his smoldering gray eyes on Worf, Tiral slowly sheathed his blade, sat back down, and said through clenched teeth, “Very well.”

The three guards lowered their weapons. Worf sat back down.

“I take it you are all familiar with the situation?” Tiral said, looking around the table.

“Yes,” Worf said. “The al’Hmatti rebels successfully overthrew the Klingon overseers. Governor Kalax put himself to death in disgrace, Captain Lornak’s fleet retook the planet, and you were assigned as the new overseer.”

“Yes. And, I might add, topaline production has increased since I took over.”

“As has al’Hmatti resistance,” Klag said.

Tiral gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“Mass executions have failed?” Drex asked.

Nodding, Tiral said, “I have increased the number with each rebel action, but these creatures seem to care little about their own deaths. I also had their emperor speak out against the rebels.”

“They have an
emperor?”
Drex said.

Klag bared his teeth at his first officer. He had assumed that Drex had familiarized himself with the files on taD.

Worf said, “Before being conquered, the al’Hmatti had an emperor and ministry to govern the world. The empire overseers left the ministry intact for the day-to-day operation of the planet. Since the emperor also served as the al’Hmatti’s spiritual leader, the governor at the time thought it best to leave her in place, but remove her political power.”

“Putting the emperor to death was not an option, either,” Tiral said. “He is old and beloved, and would only serve as a martyr to the rebels’ cause. Better that he speak on our behalf.” Tiral snarled. “But that, too, has failed.”

Worf asked, “Have you attempted negotiation?”

“Are you mad? These are
jeghpu’wI’.
You do not negotiate with them—you force them to serve you, or you kill them.”

“Since neither tactic has been effective,” Worf said, “perhaps it is time to try something else. Do you have any way of contacting the rebels?”

“If I did, I would have crushed them by now.”

Worf nodded. “As I suspected. I would like to meet with the prime minister.”

Tiral waved his hand dismissively. “That is a waste of time. Prime Minister em’Rlakun does nothing without my express orders. She knows nothing I have not told her.”

“Perhaps that is so. Nevertheless, I will meet with her tonight in the council chambers.”

Klag said, “That, Ambassador, would be foolish. It’s a security risk for you to beam to taD. All meetings should either take place on the
Gorkon
or here.”

“I appreciate your concern, Captain,” Worf said, “however, that is a risk I am willing to take. And I assume
Bekk
Krevor will accompany me to ensure my safety.”

“Ambassador—”

“Are you questioning my decision, Captain?” Worf asked.

Klag started to say “Yes,” but then thought better of it. “You are in command of the mission, Ambassador. If you wish to die a fool’s death, that is your right.”

Worf turned back to Tiral. “Have you determined the source of the ships the rebels used to attack your satellite last week?”

Tiral nodded. “The rebels had a base on the moon, which we have eliminated. At first, we thought it was their primary headquarters, but that is not the case—they just used it as a place to acquire offplanet material. We
don’t know where they got the ships. They were sublight skimmers of a type that was very common in this sector thirty years ago. In any case, all lunar operations have been shut down—the mining we did there was of little import—and any vessel approaching the moon is shot on sight.”

Speaking of security risks,
Klag thought. Still, Tiral’s response was the correct one. Not that it did any good.

“I believe that is all,” Worf said, standing again.

Tiral began, “I will meet you in the council chambers at—”

“No,” Worf interrupted. “I will meet with Prime Minister em’Rlakun alone.”

Letting out a snort, Tiral said, “If that is what the ambassador wishes, so be it. My guards will, of course, also be present.”

“That is not necessary, Governor.”

“I disagree. Besides, it is already done. At least two guards are posted in every public room on the planet.” Tiral stood and bared his teeth. “These are dangerous times, Ambassador. Attempts on the lives of Klingons have become commonplace. Someone of your rank will be a target the moment you set foot on taD. You do, after all, still
appear
to be a Klingon.”

Klag was not surprised to see Worf let this insult go by. The ambassador simply looked at Klag, who started to rise as well—until Tiral said, “I wish to speak to the captain and commander about other military matters.”

Worf hesitated a moment, then simply inclined his head and left the room without a word, Krevor following.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, Tiral turned on Klag, spittle flying from his mouth.
“This
is your idea of help? A traitor from the
Federation?”

“You will modify your tone, Governor,” Klag said quietly, “or I will modify it for you. I promised you nothing but a good word with the High Council. I gave you that. The orders on this mission came from Chancellor Martok himself. I fail to see what more you want.”

“I want a
Klingon
to solve this problem, not that
petaQ
who just left my office.”

Klag looked at Drex. Worf was, after all, a House-mate of Drex’s—but nothing was forthcoming from his first officer. “Ambassador Worf is who you have, Governor. I suggest you make use of him, or risk him going through with his threat.”

“You would permit that?”

Klag was starting to wonder if speaking on Tiral’s behalf had been such a good idea. “Governor, my orders from the chancellor were to escort the ambassador to taD and obey him for the duration of the mission. I would need a very convincing reason to disobey those orders. I doubt you can give me one. Now then, are there truly military matters to discuss, or was that simply an excuse to whine to me about the ambassador?”

Tiral snarled and said, “That is all, Captain. If you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

Klag rose and left the room, his guard and Drex following behind.

As they traversed the corridors toward the transporter room, Klag said, “I had expected you to be familiar with the mission profile, Commander.”

“I wasn’t aware that it was necessary, Captain,” Drex said. “I will attend to it upon our return to the
Gorkon.”

“See that you do,” Klag said.

His right arm itched.

* * *

As soon as Worf materialized in the transporter chamber on taD, he adjusted the temperature control on his thermal suit to a higher setting. The reports hadn’t prepared him for how
cold
it was here.

A white-furred al’Hmatti technician operated the transporter platform. Behind him stood two armed Klingons, with another two at the door.

The reports hadn’t prepared him for how
big
the al’Hmatti were, either. He knew that they were generally taller than Klingons, but he hadn’t expected them to so dwarf him. Never in his adult life had Worf felt as small as he felt in their presence, first on the satellite and now here. It didn’t sit well with him.