Diplomatic Implausibility (2 page)

Taking a hearty gulp of
raktajino,
Klag looked over Kegren’s service record. It was unspectacular: he’d spent most of his career in security on Qo’noS. No reprimands, but no commendations, either—and he had a low rank for someone of his age.

Toq, on the other hand, had indeed filed a report saying that he had suggested a closer examination of the Breen debris, which Kegren had deemed unnecessary. And then Klag checked Toq’s personal log, where Toq stated his dissatisfaction with his superior and his intention to challenge Kegren’s position should it become necessary.

Klag then looked at Toq’s record. The boy had been rescued from a crashed ship in the Carraya system six years previously by Worf, son of Mogh—at the time, the
chief of security on the
U.S.S. Enterprise,
and the first Klingon to join the Federation’s Starfleet. Toq had been taken in by the House of Lorgh, a friend to Worf’s own House, and then joined the Defense Force with the coming of the Dominion War. He served well on both the
K’Lan
and the
Gelk.

To Klag’s surprise, there was no record of Toq’s life prior to his rescue.

Before he could pursue the matter further, the intercom rang out with Drex’s voice.
“Bridge to captain. We have
received a distress call from the planet taD.”

Rising from his chair, shutting his computer station down, and swallowing the remainder of his
raktajino,
Klag left his office.

Entering the bridge, Klag was tempted to once again take the captain’s chair, but that would leave him with his back to his officers. When going into battle, that was fine—it showed his position as their leader; it was also a sign of trust, that he was willing to turn his back on them. That was why Klingon vessels had their bridges at the foremost point on the ship. If a commander does not physically lead warriors into battle by being at the forefront, then that commander does not deserve to be followed.

Now, though, Klag needed information, and that was best gathered face to face.

“What is the nature of the distress call, Commander?” he asked Drex, who was presently standing next to Rodek at the gunner’s position.

“Governor Tiral is requesting the assistance of a starship. According to the message, al’Hmatti rebels are attacking his satellite.”

Klag was sure those words had meaning, but since he
knew nothing of taD, he could not fathom them himself. Still, a distress call from a planetary governor was hardly something he could ignore. “Any other Defense Force ships in the area?”

Drex turned to Toq, who had already added a lieutenant’s insignia to his uniform and taken up the operations console.

The new second officer manipulated that console for a moment before replying: “The
Sompek
is two days from taD, but we are less than an hour away, Captain.”

“Very well. Inform Command of our course change.” Klag turned to Leskit. “Pilot, change course for taD and execute at maximum speed.”

“Yes, sir,” Leskit said—without, Klag noticed, the sarcasm he gave Drex. The captain filed this discrepancy away for future notice.

Walking around to the operations console, Klag said to Toq, “Tell me about taD, Lieutenant.”

“It is a planet in the Korvad system, home to a race known as the al’Hmatti,” Toq said without glancing at the console—obviously, he had looked up the information as soon as they got the distress signal. “The world is almost completely covered in ice, and was conquered two centuries ago. It remained so until four years ago when—” Toq hesitated. “When the al’Hmatti threw off the Klingon overseers.”

This news surprised Klag. “Interesting. I presume that we took the planet back?”

“Yes, sir. They only succeeded in the first place because the bulk of the fleet was committed to the invasion of Cardassia. The world was retaken within a year, but there has been continued unrest.”

“So it would seem.” Klag sighed. “Prepare a full report
on taD, Lieutenant.” He turned to Leskit. “Time to arrival?”

“Fifty-four minutes, Captain,” Leskit said.

Klag looked at Drex. “Contact me when we arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Report,” Klag said as he entered the bridge fifty-four minutes later.

“We are approaching taD, Captain,” Drex said. “Sensors report that three sublight skimmers are attacking the governor’s satellite.”

According to the report Toq had compiled, taD was as cold as Rura Penthe. The average equatorial temperature on taD was considerably lower than the average polar temperature on the Homeworld. For that reason, planetary governors preferred to administrate from an orbiting station, which kept a warmer artificial environment far better suited to Klingons.

Klag approached the throne-like captain’s chair and lowered himself into it slowly. He had sat in the chair many times during the three weeks he’d been in command of the
Gorkon,
but he still savored the experience. Perhaps it was vain, but Klag had waited a long time for these moments. He could damn well savor them if he wanted.

“Take us to the battle site, pilot,” Klag said, “attack posture.”

“Consider our shoulders raised, Captain,” Leskit drawled.

Glancing back to Rodek, Klag said, “Tactical report.”

“Only one skimmer is attacking. The second can only move using maneuvering thrusters, but still has weapons capability. The third is fully mobile but has exhausted its phaser banks.”

Klag asked, “And the satellite?”

“Shields are at forty percent. Disruptor banks are exhausted and torpedo tubes read empty.”

Klag was about to comment on the satellite gunner’s inefficiency when Toq chimed in: “There is debris consistent with two destroyed skimmers, four
qelI’qams
off the satellite’s port bow.”

That’s something, anyhow,
Klag thought. “Lieutenant Rodek, as soon as we are in range, target the skimmers and destroy them. First the one attacking, then the damaged one, then the maneuverable one.”

“Yes, sir,” Rodek said, manipulating his controls. “In range now. Targeting—firing—ship destroyed.” Rodek’s eyes widened. “Sir, the explosion has caused collateral damage to the satellite’s shields. They’re now down to twenty percent—and they have a minor hull breach.”

“Why was the captain not told of this possibility?” Drex screamed.

“I—I was simply carrying out orders, Commander,” Rodek said.

“Never mind,” Klag said. The satellite was going to need repairs in any case, and at least now the threat was passed. “Proceed, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. Second ship is firing on us—they missed,” Rodek said, with a surprising lack of emotion. Klag noted that as well. “Targeting second ship—firing—it is destroyed, sir.”

Toq said, “The third ship is taking evasive maneuvers, Captain.”

“Overtake, pilot,” Klag said to Leskit. “None of these rebels will live out this day.”

“That would indeed be bad, sir,” Leskit said. “We will overtake in ten seconds.”

“Fire when ready, gunner,” Klag said.

Eight seconds later, Rodek reported the third ship destroyed.

Klag nodded. “Excellent.” Cheers came from all around the bridge.
Our record of battle shall begin with a
victory,
Klag thought,
if a relatively easy one.
It was the first true test of the
Gorkon’s
capabilities, and Klag was mostly happy with how his crew had performed.

“Incoming message from Governor Tiral,” Toq said, and his voice served to dim some of the cheers.

“On screen.”

A round face appeared on the viewscreen, matching that in the records of Governor Tiral. He sat in the midst of a certain amount of chaos in what Klag assumed to be the operations center of the satellite. Behind the governor, Klingons barked orders to what looked like quadrupedal beings—the al’Hmatti. Some of them walked on all fours, others on their hind legs while operating consoles and machinery or carrying things with their forelegs. Some operated machinery with their hind legs, which seemed to be as prehensile as their forelegs. Few wore any kind of clothing, covered as they were in light-colored fur.

“I am Klag, commanding the
I.K.S. Gorkon.”

Eyebrows raised, Tiral said,
“The son of M’Raq? Hero
of Marcan V?”

Klag basked in the recognition. “The same.”

“It is an honor, Captain. I am Governor Tiral—and I
thank you for your aid. I don’t know how those rebels got
their hands on so many ships, but I intend to find out.”

“Do you require any other assistance, Governor?”

“Not for the station, no. We have become quite adept
at repairs of late,”
Tiral said with a snort.
“I don’t sup
pose I could convince you to remain here for a few
months?”

“Not at present. We are en route to the Homeworld following our shakedown cruise.”

“Ah, so you’re on one of the new ships. Well, congrat
ulations, Captain. I’m glad that you, at least, have had
good fortune.”

Tiral sounded bitter—but then, given what Klag had just finished reading about in Toq’s report, the captain couldn’t blame him. “I take it that the situation with the rebels has deteriorated?”

“That implies that the situation was ever good to begin
with. The rebels continue to pick away at us. Worse, they
have been crying to the Federation for support, and now
there are rumors that the Federation is starting to listen.”
Tiral spit.
“The High Council, meanwhile, refuses to give
me the same consideration. My protests have fallen on
deaf ears.”

Klag did not bother to point out that that was probably due to the fact that the Council, rebuilding the empire after the Dominion War, probably couldn’t give taD the attention its governor felt it deserved.

However, that didn’t change the fact that taD needed some attention from the empire, especially if the Federation did get involved.

Klag considered. The Battle of Marcan had been a decisive and important victory. Klag’s deeds that day had already been immortalized in song, and he’d been rewarded with a fine command. He’d been hailed as a hero of the empire, and there was even talk of his being inducted into the Order of the
Bat’leth.
People listened to heroes.

“Perhaps, Governor, I can put in a good word for you
with the High Council. Mine is a more objective viewpoint. And I believe I can convince them to acknowledge your concerns.”

“I would be in your debt if you did so, Captain Klag,”
Tiral said, sounding very much relieved.
“The support of
the Hero of Marcan may be what I need to end this insan
ity once and for all.”

“Perhaps,” Klag said, trying not to sound too optimistic. He wasn’t sure how far his influence went, nor was he entirely sure this was the right place to wield it.

On the other hand, it was ludicrous that mere
jegh
pu’wI’
should be able to mount so thorough an attack against their overseers. Obviously something needed to be done.

And Klag was determined to do it.

“I will be in touch, Governor. Screen off.” After Tiral’s face disappeared, Klag said, “Pilot, resume course for Qo’noS, maximum warp.”

T
HE HUMAN BURIAL GROUND
was a verdant field, stretching as far as the eye could see. A latticework of pathways was superimposed over grass dotted by dozens of beeches, cedars, sugar maples, and massive oaks. Unlike so many other cemeteries, this one’s grave markers were arranged artfully, with as much thought given to aesthetics as functionality. Instead of a grid-like pattern of straight rows, the graves here had a sense of being placed for a particular purpose, not just to fill the next spot in line. The grave markers themselves—both headstones and mausoleums—were designed with utmost care.

Many famous humans, and a few famous aliens, had chosen Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx on Earth as the resting place for their remains in the five hundred years since a human military officer, Admiral David Farragut, had been interred here.

Worf suspected that it was for this reason that
K’Ehleyr had requested to be buried in this place.

Although raised by humans from the age of six, Worf had never understood the human custom of burying the bodies of the dead. Upon death, the spirit underwent a great journey—hopefully to
Sto-Vo-Kor
—but the body itself was just a shell. Placing that body in the ground, taking up land that could be better used for almost anything else, had always struck Worf as a waste.

But K’Ehleyr was only half Klingon. Her mother was human, and K’Ehleyr had followed many human customs, including making out a will and leaving instructions for disposition of remains. Klingons didn’t have wills: their possessions went to their House and their bodies were destroyed.

Coming here,
Worf decided,
was a mistake.
But his foster parents had suggested the visit, and once Sergey and Helena Rozhenko got an idea into their heads, it was best to go along. He had returned to Earth for the first time in several years in order to prepare for his newest challenge: Worf, son of Mogh, was now the Federation Ambassador to the Klingon Empire.

K’Ehleyr, the first woman Worf had ever loved, had had that job when she died.

Worf had first met K’Ehleyr over a decade and a half ago, when he was a cadet at Starfleet Academy. They seemed a perfect match, at first: the half-breed and the Klingon raised by humans. But they were also young, and ultimately the relationship, like many adolescent relationships, ended badly. When they were reunited aboard the
Enterprise
six years later, they had come to something like an understanding—and, to Worf’s later surprise, conceived a child.

Unfortunately, K’Ehleyr was killed just when she and
Worf finally seemed to resolve their differences. Worf had avenged her death in the proper manner, and had done the best he could to raise their son, Alexander.

And now Worf had her old job.

It had been something of a shock when Admiral Ross offered him the post. With the end of the Dominion War, Worf had expected to resume his duties aboard Deep Space Nine as before, perhaps with a promotion to full commander. Instead, he had been given an awesome responsibility, one of which Worf was not sure he was worthy.

This is useless,
Worf thought after staring at the stone grave marker for what seemed to be the fiftieth time.
K’Ehleyr is not here. She is in
Sto-Vo-Kor—
no doubt
complaining about the noise all the warriors are making,
he thought with an internal smile.
All that’s here are
moldering body parts.

“Hey there, stranger, long time, no see,” said a voice from behind him.

Worf whirled around, arms up in a defensive position—until he recognized the familiar face. “Jeremy?”

“In the flesh,” Jeremy Aster said with a big grin.

Worf lowered his arms and approached the young man, his lips curling slightly. “It is good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too. I heard you were back on Earth, so I dropped in on Sergey and Helena. They said you came here. I might’ve been here sooner, actually, but Helena insisted I have some soup before I transported over.”

Worf shook his head. No one came into Mother’s house without being fed—Worf learned early on that it was practically a natural law.

It had been ten years since Worf last saw Jeremy in per
son. The twelve-year-old that Worf had made
R’uustai
with on the
Enterprise
was now a twenty-two-year-old man. Jeremy’s mother, Lieutenant Marla Aster, a ship’s archaeologist, had died on an away mission that Worf had led, leaving the boy orphaned. Worf had made Jeremy a part of his family with the
R’uustai
ritual, and the two had stayed in touch in the intervening years. Jeremy had followed his mother’s career in archaeology and was now working on his doctorate at the prestigious Rector Institute.

Indicating the way to the northernmost exit, Worf said, “I was just about to leave. Will you walk with me?”

“Sure. Said all you needed to say to her, huh?”

“Something like that,” Worf said, not wanting to go into a diatribe against incomprehensible human death customs.

“Yeah, sometimes I visit Mom and Dad’s graves, tell ’em how I’m doing. It’s kinda cathartic, y’know?”

Worf was suddenly grateful he had not gone into that diatribe.

“Of course,” Jeremy continued, “what
I’ve
been doing is pretty dull. ‘Hi, Mom, went to school today.’ ‘Hi, Dad, broke up with Marra yesterday.’”

“You and Marra have ended your relationship?” Worf asked, surprised. Jeremy’s last several letters had indicated that she was what humans tended to call “the one.”

“Long story,” Jeremy said, dismissively. “I’m over her. Really.”

“Of course,” Worf said, trying not to sound dubious.

“But
you
—you make us all look like we lead dull lives. Your ship’s destroyed by the Jem’Hadar, you’re captured by the Breen, tortured by the Cardassians, rescued by Cardassia’s biggest folk hero, and then for good measure you kill the Klingon chancellor and appoint his
replacement, help win the worst war of the last several decades,
and
get a plum diplomatic assignment. Not bad for six months’ work.”

“I merely did my duty,” Worf said, not really interested in basking in the recognition—especially since Jeremy mentioned that as a way of deflecting the conversation away from his failed relationship.

Jeremy laughed. “Right, all in a day’s work. Sure.”

“Something like that.”

“So, I assume you’ll be living on the Klingon Home-world, right?”

“Yes, at the embassy, though I suspect my duties will keep me traveling.”

“What’s your next assignment? Or is it some top-secret mission us civilians aren’t allowed to hear about?” This last was said with a sardonic grin.

“I do not know. I am meeting with Minister T’Latrek tomorrow to discuss it.”

“Well,” Jeremy said, slapping Worf’s shoulder, “I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll be brilliant.”

“I appreciate your confidence,” Worf said. “I can only hope that it is justified,” he muttered.

“Hey,” Jeremy said, and he stopped walking and looked Worf right in the eye. “I’m serious here. You’ve taken a lot of garbage in your life, and you’ve always wound up on top—maybe not right away, but you always end up there eventually. You’ll do well here, too.” He grinned. “Trust your brother.”

Worf took a deep breath. He had had three brothers in his life. His biological brother, Kurn, now lived a new life under another name, with no memory of ever having been the younger son of Mogh. His adoptive brother, Nikolai Rozhenko, now lived on Vacca VI with the Boraalan peo
ple, raising a family. Jeremy was really the only one he had left. “Perhaps you are right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Except, it would seem, about Marra.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“I believe your last few letters mentioned marriage plans.”

Wincing, Jeremy said, “They did, didn’t they?”

“I will not pry if you do not wish to talk further.”

Jeremy let out a held breath. “I appreciate that.”

“Instead, I will invite you to join me for dinner at my parents’.”

“Helena already did,” Jeremy said with another grin. “She’s making
pipius
claw and
rokeg
blood pie for you, and matzoh ball soup and pirogi for those of us with only one stomach.”

Worf returned the slap on Jeremy’s back as they approached the transporter station, located by a huge linden tree near the north entrance to the cemetery. “Excellent. Of course, I will have to tell Mother that you and Marra have broken it off.”

Jeremy’s face went ashen. “You wouldn’t.”

“I must,” Worf said with mock gravity. “She has already picked a dress for the wedding. However, you may rest assured that I will insist that she respect your wishes that the details remain a secret.”

Jeremy put his head in his hands. “Right.
That’ll
work. Suuuuure. Maybe I won’t come to dinner.”

“After you already accepted the invitation? I do not believe that Mother will forgive such a slight so easily.”

Almost pleading now, Jeremy asked, “Can’t you make up some excuse?”

Worf drew himself up to his full height. “A warrior does not lie.”

Shaking his head, Jeremy laughed. “I suppose I’m doomed no matter what, huh?”

“A warrior also knows when to bow to the inevitable.”

“And nothing’s more inevitable than your mother. All right, fine, I’ll tell you all everything over dinner. And to think—you were
worried
about whether you’ll make a good diplomat.”

Worf said nothing as he handed the transporter operator a chip with the coordinates of the Rozhenkos’ house.

He did, however, smile.

Emperor me’Grmat XIX lay on his cushion and waited for death.

Death, however, didn’t seem particularly interested in showing up anytime soon.

He had been born named te’Osbron on the planet that was now called taD. However, when the previous Klingon governor appointed him to the position of emperor, he—like the eighteen emperors before him—took on the name me’Grmat. That was how things were done, even when the world was called al’Hmat and no one had ever heard of Klingons. And it was how things were still done now that the world had been conquered, renamed, and made a part of the Klingon Empire.

Te’Osbron had lived a long but quiet life as an acolyte, serving the spiritual and medical needs of the people of the he’Vant Mountains. The people liked him, and the Klingon overseers liked him. He was pleasant without being annoying, and he wasn’t afraid to stand up to the Klingons when the situation called for it. The Klingons admired both qualities, and so when me’Grmat XVIII had
died after a long illness, te’Osbron was the one the Klingons thought should serve as the new spiritual leader of their people.

Once, the title of emperor had carried more weight than that, of course. Once, the emperor ruled over all of al’Hmat. The word of me’Grmat was law.

Whether or not people followed that law was another question entirely, but me’Grmat preferred to think of the days of al’Hmat as a time of peace and joy and prosperity, not as a time of barbarous wars and internecine conflict that left the al’Hmatti easy pickings for the Klingon conquerors two centuries ago.

One of me’Grmat’s servants—the emperor found he could not remember the young woman’s name—entered, bringing in an antigrav tray containing his morning meal. She set it next to his cushion and said, “May I get Your Eminence anything else?”

“No, that will be all,” me’Grmat said wearily. He didn’t remember ever seeing this woman before, he realized.
That’s probably why I don’t know her name.

The breakfast was standard: assortments of fish, a
rak
tajino,
and
pipius
claw—the latter being the one Klingon food me’Grmat could stomach. Indeed, he’d grown rather fond of it over the years. That, and Klingon coffee, of course, to which he’d become addicted.

He took a sip of the
raktajino
after the servant dashed out on all fours, then quickly spit it back onto the tray. There was something inside the drink, something solid.

Sitting on the tray amidst the regurgitated
raktajino
was a small, seamed plastic ball. With a heavy sigh, me’Grmat picked it up and pried it apart at the seams with his claws. To his total lack of surprise, it contained an optical chip.

The emperor’s first instinct was to throw it away
unread. It was almost assuredly another message from re’Trenat or one of his other rebel idiots, imploring him to support their cause and to stop being a “mouthpiece for the Klingon fools.”

But,
me’Grmat thought,
re’Trenat went to all the trou
ble of smuggling it in here. The least I can do is hear
what he has to say.

He reached over to the nightstand with his right hind leg and grabbed his reader. The optical chip presently inside it was some paperwork or other that me’Grmat had been putting off doing, so removing it was no onerous task. He put the new chip in with his left hind leg while nibbling on his fish with his forelegs.

As expected, re’Trenat’s face appeared on the screen. Like most of his silly rebels, he had shaved the fur on one side of his head in the pattern of the glyph for
victory.
Re’Trenat’s fur was snow-white, so the
victory
glyph stood out, etched as it was in his obsidian skin. He also, me’Grmat noticed, had taken to wearing some kind of jewelry in his left ear.