Imzadi Forever

by Peter David

  He extended a hand and Tang shook it firmly. “It must be, what, a dozen years since Betazed?” asked Tang.

  “At least.” Riker grinned. “And it’s Commander now.”

  “Commander! I’m impressed. Know what that means?”

  “No. What?”

  “Means I charge you twice as much for drinks. You can afford it.”

  Riker slid into a seat at the bar. “So how you feeling these days, Sarge?”

  “Well as can be expected. Shouldn’t complain, really. Over eleven thousand good people lost their lives at Wolf 359. Me, it was just a lost leg and a busted spine. And once upon a time, injuries like that get you a permanent bed and tubes up your nose. Look at me: Slower than I was, maybe, and got enough fake parts in me to supply a Swiss watch factory. But all in all, not a bad life, says I.”

  “You didn’t have to leave Starfleet, you know. I always remember, when I was a lieutenant on Betazed, you told me the galaxy was divided into two types of cultures: Starfleet and everyone else.”

  “Yeah, I know,” sighed Tang. “I loved it. But you know what, Commander? I’m a grunt. A scrapper. That’s what makes me happy. The kinda hits I took, they don’t let me keep doing what I love to do. If I’d been in the uniform and doing something else, behind a desk or something…I would’ve felt like I was just wearing a costume, y’know?”

  “I understand.”

  “Hey, it’s not like I was unprepared. I was always part owner of this place anyway. Just a silent partner. So…now I’m a loudmouth partner. Everyone’s happy. So…” His eyes narrowed. “What can I do for you? Am I correct in assuming that you’re not here just by happenstance?”

  “You are indeed correct.” Riker leaned forward, adopting a slightly conspiratorial tone. “It’s my understanding that you have some holosuites here, in the back.”

  “Sure do. Why? You have a private party in mind?” grinned Tang.

  “Not exactly. I have a bit of a delicate situation which I hope you can help me with.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Yes and no. It involves bending an order from Starfleet.”

  “I see.” Tang pondered it a moment, then said, “Let me guess: A woman is involved, right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Playing the odds, sir. Is it, by any chance, that curly-haired brunette from back on Betazed?”

  Riker was dumbfounded. “Tang, you would put Sherlock Holmes to shame.”

  “Nothing amazing about it, sir. Remember, I saw you two bust up. But I could tell: You were meant for each other. And I figured at the time it would take you about a dozen years or so to realize it. Way I see it, you’re right on schedule. So…let’s discuss how I can offer a holosuite to guide the course of true love. Oh, by the way…have you booked passage to Betazed yet?”

  “Uhm…no. I was handling one thing at a time.”

  “Ah. Well, if I can safely speculate for a moment that Starfleet isn’t sanguine about your leaving planetside, you may want to depart under somewhat subtle conditions. I still have contacts that can arrange for that so that you can get there and back with no one being the wiser. Private carriers and such. Discreet and reliable. I can take care of that for you, if you want. No extra charge.”

  “You’re a wonder, Tang.”

  Tang grinned in that lopsided way he had. “All part of the service, sir.”

  Eleven

  One did not become leader of the Klingon High Council without learning to watch one’s back. Gowron, the present holder of the title, was exploring the possibility of giving new definition to the term.

  Gowron stood in the middle of the council chamber, turning his head to the right and then to the left, moving it quickly almost to the point of dizziness, and still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Standing nearby, his arms folded in smug satisfaction, was a rather small and harmless-looking Klingon named Duntis. Duntis, while growing up, had endured many taunts and threats to his life owing to his diminutive stature. He had more than made up for it, however, thanks to his gift for unique weapons and tools of espionage that he had developed for various heads of the High Council. In all the right circles of influence, Duntis was respected, Duntis was feared, and—most important for Duntis—he was rich.

  “This is miraculous!” Gowron said in his customary growl, but in this instance it was a growl of grim satisfaction.

  What Gowron was seeing was the area of the council chamber directly behind him. On his right eye, there was a microthin wafer of clear material that he had layered directly onto his eyeball, much like an Earth twentieth-century contact lens. But the lens was cybernetically linked with a tiny viewing scope which was pinned, like a common ornament, onto the back of Gowron’s cloak. When Gowron closed his right eye for three seconds and then opened it, the motion served as the on/off activation for the lens and he was able to see whatever was in back of him. Duntis had been right about the one drawback: The device was going to take some getting used to. Gowron had to literally retrain his brain to perceive the images the lens was feeding him. As it was, it was blurred and distorted, and he was having trouble making anything out. But this was an inconvenience at best, and one that could be dealt with. Already, with practice, things were becoming clearer.

  “You have outdone yourself, Duntis,” Gowron commended him. “Assassins seeking to sneak up behind me will find Gowron more than ready to deal with them!” He thumped his fist on the back of a chair for good measure.

  “I knew you’d be pleased, Great Gowron,” Duntis cooed in his best sycophantic tone. “If you’d like, I can make more for the others in the council…”

  Gowron looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “But then they could see me coming!”

  Duntis winced in chagrin. “I’m sorry, Great Gowron. What was I thinking?”

  Suddenly Gowron heard footsteps approaching. He kept his back deliberately to the sounds as an experiment, and strained to bring the image into as sharp focus as he mentally could. A moment later, a Klingon who walked with more than the normal degree of swagger appeared at the main entrance. His hair was cut more closely to the skull than most Klingons’, though, and when he spoke it was in a voice that seemed suited to whispered conferences in the cover of night.

  Without turning, Gowron said heartily, “K’hanq. Welcome home. It is good to see you once more.”

  If K’hanq was surprised by Gowron’s ready identification of him despite the fact that he wasn’t looking at him, he was too well trained to reveal it. “And you, Chancellor Gowron. Recognize my footfall, did you.”

  Gowron and Duntis shared a private smile before Gowron turned to face K’hanq. “That,” boasted Gowron, “is how sharp these ears are. Although I do not hear nearly as much as you, K’hanq, nor in so many interesting places. Come. Sit and tell me what news. Duntis…you may go.”

  Duntis bowed slightly and then walked quickly away. Gowron knew that Duntis was already tallying up in his mind just how much his personal accounts would be supplemented by his latest achievement. That was fine as far as Gowron was concerned. As long as Duntis was kept satisfied by his reward for being in Gowron’s service, Gowron never had to worry about Duntis providing convenient technology for any possible enemies of Gowron’s. And there were enemies, of that Gowron was sure. Enemies everywhere, lurking in shadows, or strutting pridefully in the open.

  And there was no one who was in a better position to keep Gowron informed than K’hanq. When it came to an operative skilled at gathering information, K’hanq was the most dependable source Gowron had. He had informants everywhere. If information was the coin of the Klingon realm, then K’hanq was one of its leading millionaires.

  Gowron took care to keep him happy as well. Unfortunately, in this particular instance, K’hanq was not going to be keeping Gowron particularly happy.

  “Keep in mind,” K’hanq prefaced his comments, “that I am but the messenger.”

  “Ah. That is your way of telling me that I will not be pl
eased with what you have to say.”

  K’hanq nodded regretfully. “Your suspicions, it appears, are correct. The Romulans apparently are in the process of building an alliance with the Federation.”

  “Damn them!” snarled Gowron, his good mood already a thing of the past. He slammed a fist on the chair arm in frustration and nearly snapped the arm off. “Are they insane? Do they not know that the Romulans cannot be trusted? They endeavored to wipe out the Vulcans, for the love of Kahless! That hardly is a ringing endorsement!”

  “Nevertheless, there is some rumbling that the Romulan Star Empire can be worked with. Ambassador Spock continues to advocate peace initiatives….”

  “Fool,” muttered Gowron, but even he knew the significance of this. Spock was a legendary figure, and legends were notoriously influential, and irritating.

  “Furthermore, Starfleet is pleased that the Romulans have loaned a cloaking device to the Starship Defiant. The Romulans, you see, are no happier about the Dominion and the Jem’Hadar than is the UFP. They represent a mutual enemy, and mutual enemies tend to breed allies.”

  “Are we not allies enough?” demanded Gowron.

  K’hanq bared his teeth in annoyance. “We are perceived as unstable by some. A warrior race torn by civil war, unable to clean up after ourselves or solve any problems without the intervention of Starfleet officers such as Picard to guide us.”

  “They act as if we are but children!” Gowron bellowed.

  “Not all of them,” K’hanq hastened to emphasize. “The UFP does not speak with one voice in this case. There are those who respect the long-standing alliance…and certainly have no desire to see the Klingon Empire as enemies once again.”

  “That is wise of them.”

  “But there are others who see it differently. Who think that the Romulans represent the future. They do not trust us…nor do they trust the Romulans. And since they trust no one…they will deal with anyone.”

  “Insane.” Gowron shook his head. “Simply insane. They must learn otherwise. They must see the error of their ways. No one knows the Romulans better than we. Were we not their allies? Do we not know their betraying ways? Their treacheries? We Klingons have not yet forgotten Khitomer. We have not forgotten the Romulan promises of loyalty that were tossed aside.” He rose and began to pace. “Ironic, is it not, K’hanq? When we began our initial rapprochement with the Federation…that was when our alliance with the Romulans began to deteriorate. It was as if they were our allies simply because of our mutual antagonists, the Federation. Yet now they would switch sides. It is as if the Romulans need someone to hate before they can then work with someone else.”

  “And they most definitely hate us,” said K’hanq.

  “That is beyond question. So where does that leave us?”

  “I regret that it leaves us on extremely uncertain ground. If the Federation comes to terms with the Romulans, and the Romulans launch hostilities against us…”

  “What would the UFP do, do you think?”

  “Well,” K’hanq said thoughtfully, “if one can judge by past actions…there are three likely possibilities. The first is that they might attempt to mediate a settlement…”

  “A settlement!” snorted Gowron disdainfully. “You mean some sort of compromise so that the Romulans could buy themselves more time to gather more strength against us!”

  “The second is that they will simply stay neutral…”

  “Allowing for an all-out war.” This option clearly did not appeal to Gowron. “Not for a moment am I contemplating shrinking from a fight. I would welcome the opportunity to put those arrogant, pointy-eared bastards in their place. However, with all the recent civil stress and strife that have enveloped the empire, it would be akin to fighting a two-front war—from within and without. I would be less than enthused.” He paused. “And the third possibility?”

  “That the Romulans and Federation would ally against us.”

  There followed a long silence as the awesome challenge that represented hung in the air. K’hanq was unsure of what to expect from Gowron, for the Klingon leader’s face was unreadable. And then his eyes sparkled with anticipation and he flashed a wolfen grin. “A fight like that…the Klingon Empire’s last, hopeless stand against overwhelming and hopeless odds…gods, K’hanq…it would be glorious.”

  “It would at that, Gowron. Of course,” he added as an afterthought, “it would also be suicide. And if none of us are left to tell the tale, what point in glory?”

  “True,” admitted Gowron. He gave it a bit more thought, and then said, “K’hanq…I want you to find someone. For one of your talents, it should not be difficult.”

  “Who, Great One?”

  “Worf.”

  “Worf, son of Mogh?”

  “The very same.”

  “But why?” asked K’hanq. “He is in Starfleet.”

  “Precisely. But he is also beholden to me, K’hanq. I restored honor to his family, cleared the name of his father. If there is anyone who is trustworthy enough to tell me of how the Federation perceives matters…it is Worf.”

  “Once I have located him, do you desire to speak with him via subspace?”

  Gowron snorted disdainfully at the very notion. “So that either Romulan or Federation spies can find a way to break through transmissions? Listen in on our conversations? I do not think so, K’hanq, no. No, bring him here.”

  “And if he will not come?”

  Completely without warning, Gowron’s temper flared. “I am Gowron!” he fairly roared. “Gowron, son of M’Rel! Leader of the High Council! If I say that Worf will come…then he will come! Is that clear?!”

  “Yes, Gowron,” K’hanq said quickly.

  “Well? Do not just stand here. Go!”

  K’hanq headed for the door. And as he did, Gowron…with his back to him…said, “And K’hanq…I will be watching you.” K’hanq bowed slightly and left.

  “He will come,” Gowron said with confidence to the empty room. “He will come.”

  For no accountable reason…he felt a chill. The winds of war, perhaps, cutting to the bone. For the first time in a long time…Gowron felt old.

  Twelve

  Lwaxana had lost track of the days, as had Worf. But they knew one thing, beyond question:

  Things were not getting easier.

  “It’s like slamming my head repeatedly against a rock!” Lwaxana had complained to Deanna at one point. “Except less fulfilling!”

  “Mother, maybe you’re going about this the wrong way….”

  “Little One, he has to understand! He has to be open to our ways!”

  “And does it cut both ways, Mother? What if his Klingon relatives desire to enroll me in some sort of gladiatorial school?”

  “Would you agree to do it?”

  “Yes,” said Deanna without hesitation.

  “And would you give it your best effort?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s the point, dear. I don’t think Worf is giving this his best effort. I think he’s being stubborn and hardheaded, and if he really loved you—”

  “Don’t, Mother,” Deanna had said, holding up a warning finger. “Don’t put that sort of price on what’s being done here. Worf has agreed to your tutelage on my behalf. If he is having trouble understanding, does the problem lie with the student or the teacher?”

  Lwaxana had glowered at her and said nothing. For Lwaxana, saying nothing was an impressive feat all its own.

  Worf looked at the painting with some confusion.

  He had rendezvoused with Lwaxana, as promised, at a rather pleasant and scenic place. It was an overlook near Bacarba Lake, which was as flat and as blue as any body of water that Worf had ever seen.

  “Glorious day, isn’t it, Worf,” Lwaxana had said when he had arrived. She was standing in front of an easel, wearing work clothes. She was busy applying paint in thick layers to the easel. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Yes. That is preferable.”

>   There was something in his tone that had caught her attention. “Why do you feel it’s preferable?”

  “Incoming ships are easy to spot. Reduces chances of a sneak attack, unless—of course—they have a cloaking device.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Worf, I’ll give you credit for one thing: You’re consistent.” She laid down her brush and gestured to the painting. “So…what do you think?”

  He stared at it uncomprehendingly. The large easel was covered entirely with one color of red, top to bottom. The strokes were uniform, no variation at all. That was all it was, just…a big red easel.

  “Very modern,” he said judiciously. “A…sublime introspection.”

  “Hmm. You think? I just thought it was a big easel covered with red paint.”

  “Oh. Well…yes. It is.”

  “Then what were you just talking about?”

  “I was being polite.”

  “Why Worf,” said Lwaxana in mock astonishment, “you are capable of surprising me every once in a while.”

  “Is there a point to producing this…work?”

  “Yes, there is. In fact, it’s the subject of today’s exercise. Sit down.”

  Once Worf had seated himself on the ground, he said, “Now what?”

  “Now,” Lwaxana told him, sitting next to him, “we’re going to watch it.”

  “Watch it? Watch it do what?”

  “Dry.”

  He couldn’t quite believe he’d heard her properly. “You want me to sit here…and watch paint dry?”

  “That’s right.”

  He studied her carefully to see if there was some hint of humor in what she was saying, some slight endeavor on her part to be making a joke. She couldn’t be serious. “For how long?”

  “Until it’s dry, of course. Otherwise it would be pointless.”

  “It is pointless in any event!”

  “Worf,” she sighed. She shifted around on the ground so that she could face him directly. “We’re trying to deal in subtleties. That’s what all this has been about.”