Star Trek: Vanguard: Storming Heaven (20 page)

A derisive snort escaped Jetanien’s nasal aperture. “It’s just more Tholian saber-rattling.”

“Yes, just like that empty gesture they made when they destroyed the
Bombay
.” Lugok looked up and studied Jetanien’s face, perhaps hoping to provoke some kind of response. After several seconds passed without Jetanien taking the bait, the Klingon moved on. “So, what was your little scout ship looking for on Eremar, anyway?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Jetanien said. “You might recall that I’m officially no longer cleared for sensitive operational intelligence from Starfleet.” He knew that Lugok understood the key word in that sentence had been
officially
. The two “retired” diplomats had become quite adept at reading between the lines of each other’s statements. It was simply a matter of professional
courtesy that they tended to refrain from calling each other out on their lies. “If, by some thermodynamic miracle, a server should ever appear to take our orders, I believe I should like to sample their assortment of fried beetles.”

“With any luck, this place will burn to the ground, with us in it, before I have to endure the spectacle of watching you eat that.” He perused the menu again. “The
thrakas
carpaccio sounds like it might be edible, if I can get a decent stein of
warnog
to wash it down.”

Inhaling deeply, Jetanien thought for a moment that he caught the scent of smoke from the kitchen, but then it was gone, and silence reigned once more inside Ventus. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to mention that I conferred with our friend from Romulus.”

“And . . . ?”

“The conversation was less than fully illuminating.”

Lugok chortled softly. “I presume you’re exercising your talent for understatement.” He shook his head. “So, you’ve learned nothing pertinent to my inquiry?”

“That was not what I said.” Jetanien reached under the folds of his tunic and took a data card from an inside pocket. He put it on the table and pushed it across to Lugok, who picked it up and tucked it inside his own jacket as Jetanien spoke. “Apparently, both Starfleet Intelligence and their civilian counterparts have been investigating this matter for some time. It seems your suspicions are correct: one of your empire’s noble Houses is being courted to act as a proxy for Romulan interests, perhaps as a prelude to seizing the chancellorship.”

The Klingon’s voice was a low rumble. “Which one?”

“Duras. One of the more bellicose voices on your High Council at the moment, and not one the Federation would be keen to see wield power as a head of state.”

Lugok nodded. “That is a desire you share with Councillor Gorkon and Chancellor Sturka.” He leaned closer, and Jetanien mirrored the gesture. “Of course, the chancellor’s animus toward Duras is personal, rooted in old House rivalries. Gorkon’s enmity
for the man is political. Hotheads like Duras make it difficult to cultivate more moderate voices on the High Council.”

“It’s our hope that assisting you in this matter will foster such moderate voices in the future, for our mutual benefit,” Jetanien said.

A broad grin exposed jagged teeth. “And the fact that it screws the Romulans . . . ?”

“Is merely an added incentive.”

The two comrades in exile shared a hearty laugh that gradually tapered off, leaving them once again enveloped in silence.

Then Lugok pounded his fist on the table. “Where in Gre’thor is our waiter?”

Jetanien stood and folded up his portable
glenget
. “Did I mention that on my walk over here, I saw a street vendor selling grilled
pleeka
lizards on sticks?”

The Klingon got up and gave Jetanien a fraternal slap on the back.

“Lead the way, old friend.”

The ruby glow of the transporter faded from Kutal’s sight as he materialized alone aboard the
I.K.S. baS’jev
. The ship’s commanding officer, Captain Chang, moved forward and extended his hand as Kutal stepped off the transporter platform. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Chang said.

Kutal and Chang clasped each other’s forearms, their grips firm and manners guarded. “Captain Chang.” Kutal looked down at his shorter, slightly built peer. Unlike most Klingon warriors, who took pride in their manes of hair and ragged beards, Chang had shaved his head bald and limited his facial hair to a pair of tusklike growths above the corners of his mouth. His baldness called attention to his suppressed cranial crest and emphasized his status as one of the
QuchHa’,
a caste of Klingons descended from the victims of the previous century’s Augment Virus, which had transformed proud Klingons into pathetically human-looking weaklings that the Empire had decided were good for
little but cannon fodder. Kutal knew not to judge Chang by his appearance, however. No one rose to command of an imperial warship without great reserves of strength and cunning, and he was certain that Chang, whose lineage included ties to some of the Great Houses, was no exception.

Chang released Kutal’s arm and directed him toward the small compartment’s open doorway. “Let’s repair to a more private location.”

“As you wish.” He followed Kutal out to the corridor and then forward. The
baS’jev
was a vessel of the same class as the
Zin’za,
and except for a few minor details and the unfamiliar faces of the crew in the passageways, its interior was identical to that of Kutal’s ship—right down to the musky, acrid odors that rendered its humid air richly palpable. The two captains walked in silence until Chang entered his quarters and summoned Kutal inside.

The door slid shut behind Kutal, and then Chang spoke. “It would appear that we both count Councillor Gorkon as a friend and ally.”

Kutal didn’t like the way Chang spoke. He used too many words, like a human. It made Kutal wonder whether the man was showing off or trying to hide something—or both. “Yes,” Kutal said as he slowly circuited the room’s perimeter. “Gorkon is a friend.” He paused long enough to shoot a cautionary look at Chang. “If he were not, I would not be here.”

“True enough.” Chang crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle of very old
warnog
that Kutal knew to be obscenely expensive. He removed the stopper and held the bottle out toward Kutal. “Shall we drink to our new acquaintance?”

The more he speaks, the less I like him
. He buried his contempt deep. “I’ll drink.”

Chang filled two goblets half full, handed one to Kutal, and set down the bottle. “How much were you told by Gorkon?”

“Only that I was to meet your ship here. The rest he left to you.”

The other captain’s smile was cold. “I see.” He guzzled half
his beverage in one tip, sleeved the excess from his chin, and grinned at Kutal. “Drink, my friend. I give you my word the
warnog
’s not poisoned.”

“I never said it was.” Kutal downed a mouthful of the potent libation. It lived up to its reputation: it was some of the finest
warnog
he’d ever tasted. “What have you been told?”

“Gorkon suspects the House of Duras is in league with the Romulans, trading the Empire’s security for their own enrichment.”

If true, it was a damning accusation. “Based on what evidence?”

Chang’s icy smile remained frozen in place. “He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. Far be it from me to question the word of a member of the High Council.”

Kutal continued to wander the room’s periphery. He stopped when he noticed a row of unusual tomes on the shelf above Chang’s bunk. Leaning closer, he scrutinized the titles, then turned a curious eye toward his host. “You read
human
literature.”

“Only the playwright known as Shakespeare.” He added with a sly hint of conspiracy, “Between you and me, I think his plays read better in the original
tlhIngan Hol
.”

It was hard for Kutal to know whether Chang had spoken in jest or sincerity. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. “Know your enemy through his art, eh?”

“If you like. But for the moment, our enemy lies not without but within.”

Kutal nodded. “How do we proceed? I trust you don’t need to be reminded that Duras and his House are among the wealthiest and most powerful members of the Empire?”

All traces of mirth fled Chang’s face. “I’m well aware, yes. It falls to us to turn the strengths of the Duras clan into their weaknesses. They have numbers but lack discipline. Their patriarch is temperamental and susceptible to provocation. With time and observation, I am certain we will divine an exploitable weakness and then seek our moment of opportunity.”

A dismissive grunt telegraphed Kutal’s incredulity. “In my experience, opportunities multiply only when seized.”

“Quite right,” Chang said. “So it is that Gorkon has seized such an opportunity for us.” He stepped over to his desk and rotated the computer screen so that it faced Kutal. Then he activated the display, which showed a set of orders from the High Command. “Brakk, son of Duras, commands the battle cruiser
Qu’vang
. It recently lost its two primary combat escorts in a battle on our rimward border. Gorkon has arranged for our two vessels to be reassigned as the
Qu’vang
’s new escorts—putting us in position to monitor Brakk’s communications with Duras.”

“A waste of time.” Kutal guzzled the rest of his
warnog
and set the empty goblet on Chang’s desk. “Spying on that
taHqeq
will gain us nothing.”

“Perhaps.” Chang’s frigid smile returned. “Though I suspect Gorkon already knows that.”

Momentarily dumbfounded, Kutal wondered aloud, “Then why make us wing guards to that sniveling—” He caught himself as the councillor’s likely rationale became clear to him. “We’re being used as bait. To see if Duras moves against us as a prelude to attacking Gorkon.”

“My supposition exactly. However, we have the advantage of knowing our part ahead of time—and as every hunter knows, sometimes the prey wins.”

“And if spying on Brakk uncovers proof of the Durases’ treachery, what then?”

Chang refilled Kutal’s glass. “In that case, my friend, on behalf of the Empire, we shall make medicines of our great revenge.”

Hands folded atop his desk and his face cast in a portrait of stern rebuke, Nogura watched Captain Khatami enter his office and halt at attention in front of him. The tall, olive-skinned woman of Iranian ancestry held her chin up proudly. “You asked to see me, sir?”

“Indeed, I did.” His voice had an edge that could cut through steel. “Do you have any idea how much damage control Starfleet has had to do because of your actions at Eremar? The Tholians have filed formal protests with the Federation Council! Half the members of the Security Council are calling for your stripes.” He stood and stepped around his desk, then circled slowly behind her as he continued. “You damned near put us into an all-out shooting war with the Tholians. In the last seven days, I’ve had my head handed to me by everyone from the C-in-C to the president’s chief of staff! If they had their way, you’d be swabbing decks aboard a sublight garbage scow on an endless loop through the Rigel colonies.” He stopped in front of her and trained his stare on her brown eyes, which were fixed on the rear wall of his office. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Captain?”

Khatami’s demeanor was cool and composed. “Permission to speak freely, Admiral?”

“Granted.”

She turned and met his gaze. “If you’ve read my report, sir, then you know that I did absolutely everything I could to resolve the situation without the use of force. The Tholian fleet commander refused to negotiate in good faith or even permit the
Sagittarius
to withdraw safely. Once they began bombarding the statite, and refused our requests to cease fire, they left me no choice but to take armed action. In keeping with both the letter
and spirit of your orders, I restrained our initial response to targeting the interphasic generators the Tholians had deployed. Legally, we acted in defense of the
Sagittarius,
and under the terms of the Selonis Accords, we were fully within our rights to do so. Subsequently, the Tholian fleet opened fire on us, and I took such action as I deemed necessary to defend my ship and crew, as well as the
Sagittarius
. Our tactical responses were designed to be proportional, not lethal.” She paused, drew a deep breath, and looked away from Nogura. “If placed in the same situation again, I would respond
exactly
the same way. If that means you need to take my stripes and relieve me of my command, so be it. But I stand by my decision, whether the paper-pushers back on Earth like it or not.”

Holding his poker face steady, Nogura paced back to his chair and sat down. He folded his hands and leaned forward. “No one’s taking your stripes, Captain. Or your command. Not if I have anything to say about it.” She registered the news with a wide-eyed stare, and Nogura smiled. “Of course you did the right thing. But the president yells at Starfleet Command, and Starfleet Command tells me to yell at you. So, this is me yelling at you. After all, orders are orders. And now that I’ve obeyed my orders, I can tell you what I
really
want to say: Well done, Captain. You and your crew have an open tab tonight at Manón’s.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Take a seat. There’s something else we need to talk about.” Khatami sat down in a guest chair and crossed her legs at the knee—a relaxed pose made possible by her preference for wearing the standard duty uniform of tunic and trousers rather than the minidress variation some personnel had adopted. She raised her brow, cueing Nogura to continue. “I’m afraid it’s going to take a bit longer than usual for us to complete your ship’s repairs. We used up a lot of resources refitting a super-freighter to sneak the
Sagittarius
out to the Iremal Cluster, and what we didn’t pour into that went into building the decoy whose wreckage you recovered. We have a shipment of spare parts on order, and we’re doing our best to fabricate what we can, but I’m
afraid the
Endeavour
will have to spend at least the next few weeks in the docking bay—and maybe longer, depending on whether our shipment gets delayed by piracy.”