by David Mack
“Your accusation would be far more damning if I believed for a moment that you would actually have used your abilities to aid the rebellion, and not just to flee from known space with Neelix as your telepathically enslaved love object.”
She spat in his face. “You disgust me!” As Tuvok wiped the spittle from his cheek, Kes stormed past him and darted through the half-obstructed doorway.
He listened to her receding footsteps. Hoping her sensitive Ocampa ears could still hear him, he replied, “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”
27
The Wine of Desolation
Though Klag had entertained his share of foul moods over the years, few equaled the one that animated him as he stormed through the doors of the High Command’s strategic command center. The cause and object of his wrath, General Goluk, stood waiting for him in the center of the situation floor.
A guard noted Klag’s unheralded entrance and snapped to attention as he shouted, “All hail Him Who Holds—”
Klag snapped, “Shut up, you petaQ!” He fixed his rage-knit brow on Goluk. “When I’m roused in the middle of the night, I expect to hear a reason why, General.” A glance at the holographic map of the Empire beneath his feet revealed several active areas of interest. “What in the name of Kahless is going on?”
“A great deal, My Lord,” Goluk said. “Excellent news from the Gorn border. We’ve crushed their forces on Ogat with ease, as I predicted. Meanwhile, the Fourth and Eighth fleets have begun their invasion of the Hegemony. Several planets have already fallen, including Seudath, Karazek, and Ozannot. If we push on, we can expect to land forces on the Gorn homeworld in six weeks.”
“What do you mean if we push on?”
Goluk gestured into the heart of the Empire’s territory. In a sepulchral voice, he said, “There have also been less fortuitous developments in the past few hours. The rebels are back—and they’ve destroyed our primary fleet yards at SoHcha.”
Certain he must have misheard the general, Klag said, “They did what?”
“It’s confirmed, My Lord.”
“How extensive is the damage?”
The question seemed to pain Goluk. “The facility isn’t damaged. It’s been completely destroyed, along with every starship it was building.”
It was simply unbelievable to Klag. “How? It’s located in the center of the Empire. It’s surrounded by the First Fleet and four tachyon pulse networks that can detect cloaked ships. How did they get anywhere near it?”
“Our intel is incomplete at the moment, but some survivors report seeing the rebel fleet arrive and withdraw through an artificial wormhole.”
The more Klag learned, the more he wished he’d ignored Goluk’s summons and stayed in bed. “Where in Fek’lhr’s name did Calhoun get his hands on that kind of technology?”
“That’s the next fact of interest,” Goluk said. “This attack was led by the Defiant—and supported by ships of a kind none of our people have seen before. The same kind of ships that participated in the Excalibur’s attack on Earth.”
“There was an attack on Earth?”
“Yes, My Lord. At the exact same moment as the attack on the shipyard.”
Dread churned sour bile from Klag’s gut up his throat into his mouth. “Let me guess. They, too, appeared without warning from a wormhole.”
Goluk nodded. “Correct. The fact that both forces are using the same previously unknown technology suggests that one of our worst-case scenarios has come to pass: The two rebel factions have joined forces and become exponentially stronger as a result.” He tapped commands into a data slate and shifted the display beneath them to a long-range scan of the Terran system. “Earth’s orbital defenses have been wiped out, and its surface artillery has been captured. We’ve also received reports that Intendant Miral deserted her post during the battle.”
“Have her executed immediately.”
“She’s already been murdered by her slaves.”
Klag frowned at the missed opportunity. “Pity.” Seeing several other star systems ringed in flashing white symbols of distress, he asked, “I presume you’re far from done giving me bad news.”
“Unfortunately correct, My Lord. In addition to losing the fleet yards, we’ve also lost the prototype for the recently captured Romulan cloaking device, as well as all its specifications.”
“What about the backup copies? The ones in the lab on Ty’Gokor.”
The general’s face darkened with shame. “Erased—by accident, or so the research team claims.”
That news stank of a betrayal. “Have them executed immediately.”
“Yes, My Lord.” He switched the hologram to the Tiburon system.
Dreading the answer, Klag asked, “What’s happening there?”
“Slave uprising. The first of many, on several worlds across the Empire.” Widening the scope of the star map, he added, “There have been revolts and riots on Ajilon, Korinar, Krios, and Cambra.”
If there was a connection, Klag didn’t see it. “Those worlds are all dozens of light-years apart. How can they all suddenly become madhouses at once?”
“We don’t know,” Goluk confessed.
“Never mind the cause, then. Focus on the solution. How long until we bring those worlds back under control?”
Embarrassed, Goluk averted his eyes as he answered, “We’re unable to say at this time, Regent. Infighting has slowed our military response to the crisis.”
The scenario unfolding before Klag started to sound ominously familiar. “What sort of infighting are you referring to?”
“Irrational violence,” Goluk said. “Regiments plunging into battle frenzies for no reason and going on blood-drunk rampages, slaughtering civilians and one another. Starship crews opening fire on one another. Utter madness.”
Klag nodded. “Yes, General. I think that’s exactly the right word: madness.” The grand-scale picture of what was transpiring became clear to him, and it troubled him greatly. There seemed to be no unifying element to all the reports of chaos engulfing the Empire, but there was no mistaking its pedigree. The Cardassians had figured it out, Klag realized, but only after it was too late.
It was all about the slaves.
He wasn’t sure how the slaves were involved, whether they were the cause or merely the impetus for an external political actor’s intervention, but he no longer cared about that distinction. If the slaves were the problem, he knew the solution, and it was one he was more than happy to implement. Klag had never liked the Empire’s institutions of domestic slavery—not because he thought it immoral but because he believed it made strong warriors soft. Slaves made life too easy, too comfortable, and those were the kinds of sins that Kahless had long ago warned would dull any warrior’s fighting edge. Having spent his life as a soldier, Klag had never been able to afford a personal slave until he became a general, and by then he’d had no wish for one. Sadly, the same could not be said for many of his peers; he had known far too many members of the Klingon elite who had succumbed to the temptation of enhancing their social standing by adorning their household with a Vulcan slave or a Terran eunuch.
Now fate had given Klag a chance to purge the Empire of that abominable vice, and he resolved not to waste the opportunity. He filled the massive chamber with his voice. “This is how the troubles began inside the Cardassian Union. It cost them entire worlds, whole fleets. I won’t see us suffer the same fate.”
Goluk and several other officers inside the command center exchanged worried glances. The general asked warily, “What do you propose, My Lord?”
“We’ll solve this problem the same way the Cardassians did.” He flashed a malevolent smile. “We just won’t wait so long to do it.”
Damar politely acknowledged the Cardassian handmaiden who removed his empty dinner plate and then moved on to clear the setting to Damar’s left. Though he had always loathed the picayune details of decorum that governed formal dinners with the senior members of the Detapa Council, his inh
erited role as its Supreme Legate made his attendance at the state function a necessity rather than a formality.
He sat with his back to the window and feigned an air of polite regard for his three dining companions. To his left was Councillor Rajak, a blunt-faced man of middling years whose girth was exceeded only by his bluster. Opposite Damar sat Gulal, who at the age of thirty-nine was the youngest of the three senior members and was also the only woman currently serving on the council. Seated on Damar’s right was Councillor Menaar, the tall and gaunt elder statesman of the group. As was customary, they waited for the servants to leave before resuming any talk of sensitive matters of state. When the last server had exited, Rajak was the first to pick up the conversational baton and run with it. “Quelling the slave revolts was only the first step to security,” he said. “You’ve seen the latest briefings, yes?”
“Of course,” Damar said.
Gulal leaned forward, her mien conspiratorial. “Then you must see what’s happening. Prominent council members disappearing. Captains of industry and major executives being assassinated by unknown professionals.” She cast knowing glances at Menaar and Rajak. “It’s the Obsidian Order.”
“We don’t know that,” Menaar cautioned.
Indignation animated Rajak’s fleshy face. “Of course we know that, you old fool! Who else would it be? Who could it be?” He looked at Damar, as if expecting support or at least affirmation. “It’s a coup in the making! You see that, yes?”
“I see unsolved crimes that are still under investigation.” Damar picked up his glass of kanar and affected an air of nonchalance. “I think it would be imprudent to leap to conclusions in the absence of evidence.”
Menaar raised his own glass in salute to Damar. “Wise counsel.”
Gulal seemed poised to make a counterargument when two servants returned from the kitchen carrying the evening’s desserts. Conversation halted while the young female server set plates of huseka, a traditional and decadent dessert, before the four politicians, and her male colleague refilled everyone’s glasses with kanar. Afforded a moment to collect his thoughts, Damar reminded himself to err on the side of caution and discretion in conversations such as this. One never knew when or where the Obsidian Order might be listening, or who might be acting as their agent. For all he knew, Gulal might be spouting her conspiracy theories as a lure, seeking to entrap Damar into uttering a seditious remark. Of course, what troubled him most about her line of inquiry was that he feared she might be right—that the Obsidian Order was moving in the shadows to assert control over the Union during its moment of weakness and confusion. All the same, no good would come of talking about it.
As the servants returned to the kitchen, Damar decided another change of subject was in order. “I think we can all agree that recent events present us with more pressing challenges. After months of eluding us, the rebels have struck two decisive blows at once. I can’t recall them ever being so bold before.”
“The bad news,” Menaar said, “is that the two rebel factions have united into one, and wield new technologies of unknown origin. The good news is that both attacks hurt the Klingons far more than they hurt us.” He shoveled a heaping spoonful of huseka into his mouth.
Gulal looked offended by the elder politician’s remark. “You speak as if the Klingons were our enemies instead of our allies.”
Rajak looked askance at her. “Look at the latest intelligence from the border. The Klingons are gearing up to invade our space and turn us into a protectorate. If it weren’t for the new insurgency by the Talarians, we’d already be at war.” He pushed away his untouched dessert. “The Klingons think we’re weak and ripe for conquest.”
Menaar cast a hard look across the table at Rajak. “We are weak.”
Sensing an opportunity, Damar said, “Which is exactly why we should be consolidating our strength. It’s time to regroup and choose our battles with greater care. I agree with both of you—the Klingons know they have us at a disadvantage, and they hope to reinforce their own weakened position by destabilizing ours.”
“Let’s say you’re correct,” Rajak said. “What do you propose we do?”
All eyes fell upon Damar, who set down his spoon and folded his hands on his lap as he leaned back, attempting to appear relaxed and thoughtful. “Clearly, the rebels have made significant advances in their technology and numbers, and the new political axis of the Taurus Pact has left us on the defensive. If we had the support of the Klingons, these threats might be surmountable. But if our allies betray us, we can’t prevail against such odds. One of these conflicts needs to be resolved—or at least postponed—by political means rather than military force.”
“Half the legates in the Central Command want to make a preemptive assault on the Taurus Pact,” Menaar said. “The other half want to launch a sneak attack against the Klingons. Which would you choose, Damar? If you had to.”
Damar hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so blatantly, but the deed was done. He sipped his kanar as a stalling tactic while he considered his answer. “The Klingons,” he said, setting down his glass. “Facing them will entail fighting on a single front. Engaging the Taurus Pact would mean establishing three fronts nearly a hundred light-years from one another.”
Gulal shook her head. “You’re forgetting something, Legate. The people overwhelmingly favor the invasion and conquest of Bajor. They see its secession and the defeat of the Ninth Order as a slap in the face of all Cardassians.”
“That’s because they’ve been brainwashed by Obsidian Order propaganda,” Damar said. “The Order wants us to overextend ourselves and be humiliated on Bajor so that they’ll have an excuse to seize power.” Reining in his contempt for the easily manipulated masses, he continued in a calmer vein. “I won’t rule out a future retribution against Bajor, but this is not the time. Our first priority has to be preparing for war with the Klingons. To that end, we need to broker a truce with the Taurus Pact.”
Rajak asked, “Why them? Why not with the rebels?”
“That’s a terrible idea,” scolded Menaar. “We can’t afford to legitimize the rebels as political actors. Besides, even if we wanted to do something so ridiculous, we don’t have any trusted diplomatic channels to the rebellion.”
Gulal pressed her palms on the tabletop and leaned forward to harangue Menaar. “As if your way is any less insane? Negotiating our own peace with the Taurus Pact would abrogate our treaty with the Klingons. The Alliance would be dissolved, and the Klingons could rightly lay the blame at our feet. Then their attack would be seen as reactive rather than preemptive.”
Damar was baffled by her reasoning. “So what? To whom would such a distinction make the least bit of difference? The point in all of this, Gulal, is that our fight with the Klingons is inevitable. If we’re to survive it, much less emerge triumphant, we need to avoid splitting our focus. We must fight one war at a time.”
Her frown was unyielding. “The conquest of Bajor can’t be sidelined so casually, Supreme Legate. The people want revenge—and if they don’t get it, incumbents such as ourselves will face serious consequences in the next election.”
“If we lose our war with the Klingons, there won’t be a next election.”
Gulal broke eye contact and poked distractedly at her dessert. “I hope you can be so cavalier when the people go to the polls to vote us out.”
“Relax, Gulal. The Obsidian Order rigs the results, anyway.” Damar looked at Rajak. “Contact your friends in the foreign service and have a covert diplomatic mission sent to the Taurus Pact. I want a cease-fire in place before the Klingons cross the border.” He turned toward Menaar. “Talk to Legate Temar at Central Command. Tell him I want to see new invasion plans for Bajor immediately, and make sure that request gets leaked to the press. That should keep the people and the Obsidian Order placated while we negotiate with the Taurus Pact.”
Menaar downed the last of his kanar and swallowed with a gratified exhalation. “And if the Central Command
should play its part too well and actually launch an invasion of Bajor? What then?”
Lifting his own glass to take a desperately needed drink, Damar said, “Hope the Terrans choose that moment to hit the Klingons again.”
Regent Klag had entered the shadowy swelter of the High Council’s chamber inside the Great Hall expecting to be assailed by a storm of self-righteous outrage, and the councillors did not disappoint him. They surrounded his throne in a dense knot, so that no matter what way he turned he was met by a wall of angry faces.
Declarations of “You had no right!” overlapped with cries of “How dare you make such a decision without the council!” Klag let the waves of fury wash over him, paying them no heed. He had done what he’d known was right, and he had no regrets. He could have endured the council’s rebuke for hours—until K’mpar, the young hothead, made the mistake of grabbing Klag’s ceremonial stole.
“Who are you to order the executions of millions?”
Klag seized K’mpar’s hand, twisted it till the wrist snapped, and stood from his throne, forcing the young councillor to the floor. “Who am I? I am the Regent of the Klingon Empire! I am He Who Holds the Throne for Him Who Shall Return! I am the agent of Kahless in this world!” He let go of the younger man’s wrist and kicked him in the face. Teeth and fuchsia spittle flecked the robes of the councillors nearest K’mpar, who crumpled in a stunned heap. Meeting the stares of the council with his own unwavering gaze, Klag addressed them in a voice of pride and power. “I had the Empire’s slaves put to death as a matter of imperial security. I had reason to suspect they were acting as a fifth column inside our civilization, providing aid and comfort to our enemies, and fomenting chaos and violence among our people. For the good of all Klingons, I had these disruptive elements neutralized.”