Star Trek: Seven Deadly Sins

by Margaret Clark (Editor)

  “Despite the generally constructive nature of my meeting with the Klingon ambassador on Nimbus III,” D’tran offered, “I am forced to agree with you, Levok. That said, perhaps there is an opportunity here for us to gain even a temporary advantage, which we can then exploit for further, lasting value.” Turning to Vrax, he added, “My Praetor, you know my stance with regard to the Federation. While I believe there is potential to build an enduring peace, I do not expect it will happen in our lifetimes. There simply is too much resentment and distrust on both sides to be ignored. With that in mind, it is in our best interests to continue developing effective measures should we find ourselves once again on a war footing with our old adversaries.”

  Vrax nodded toward his old friend. “Agreed, and now seems the perfect time to test the goodwill fostered by your efforts at Nimbus III.” To Toqel, he said, “Very well, Proconsul. Let’s see where this curious notion of yours takes us.”

  As the other senators nodded and spoke to one another in subdued tones, Toqel was able to sense their general agreement. Some of that consensus naturally was offered with no small measure of hesitation or doubt, but Toqel would not concern herself with such negativity. She had all the approval she required.

  Once more standing before Vrax, Toqel bowed as she took her leave. “Understood. Good day, my Praetor.” Nodding to Ditrius for him to accompany her, the two of them departed the Senate chamber. As she exited the room, she was unable to suppress the rush of anticipation she felt as her mind began reviewing and refining the next steps she already had plotted days earlier. Unusual though it might be, her proposal stood poised to solidify the security of the Romulan people.

  “You are not worried about dealing with the Klingons?” Ditrius asked once they had emerged into the hallway and allowed the doors to close behind them. Not for the first time since she had shared her ideas with him, the vice proconsul sounded skeptical.

  Toqel replied, “To a point. However, they’ve repeatedly shown themselves incapable of employing anything resembling an adequate grasp of subterfuge, which lies at the heart of all successful negotiations. It is this weakness that we will exploit, Ditrius. Once the Klingons no longer are a viable concern, I will be ready to show the Senate how best to deal with the Federation, once and for all.”

  And if, along the way, she was able to do something that might at least reduce the chances of another’s child suffering the same fate as her beloved Sarith, that also would be satisfactory.

  3

  Toqel inhaled crisp, cold air as the transporter beam released her. A low, steady wind rocked the barren branches of the trees towering overhead as she squinted against sunlight reflecting from the snow-covered ground. She shoved her bare hands into the deep pockets of her protective thermal coat, blinking as minuscule pellets of ice carried by the wind prickled her cheeks. Turning to Ditrius, she asked in a low voice, “Readings?”

  The vice proconsul removed a handheld scanner from the pocket of his own heavy coat. His boots crunching in the ice-coated snow pack, he stepped toward her as he studied the portable device’s display readout. “Two Klingon life-forms, located inside that structure.” He gestured with his free hand toward a small, one-story building nestled among the trees. White smoke curled from a chimney on one side of the weathered, stone-walled cabin, and Toqel was able to make out two sets of footprints through the snow, both of which terminated at the cabin’s only visible door.

  She nodded in approval. “Just as we agreed. Anything else?”

  “Nothing,” Ditrius replied. “With the exception of indigenous animal life, we are alone here, Proconsul.”

  Excellent, Toqel mused. Given the evening’s agenda, privacy would most certainly be preferred. “Then let’s proceed,” she said as she started toward the cabin.

  The soles of their boots punched through the slick crust of the snow, white powder coating the leggings of their thermal trousers as they approached the building. Toqel could not recall the last time she had found herself in such weather conditions, as she rarely left her home planet and her travels into the subarctic regions of Romulus were infrequent at best. She would have preferred this first clandestine meeting be held elsewhere, but after weeks of negotiations conducted via encrypted subspace communications, Grodak, her Klingon counterpart for tonight’s activities, had been immovable as to the choice of location. It would be held here, at Grodak’s remote residence deep in the forests of Narendra III, a Klingon colony planet located near the Romulan border, or not at all. Toqel finally had relented, deciding she could endure the world’s inhospitable climate if it facilitated matters with the reclusive Klingon official.

  Despite her best efforts, she had been unable to collect much in the way of meaningful information about Grodak. His name had been given to her by D’tran himself, and according to the senator he was a minor official within whatever association of worn-out or failed warriors passed for a diplomatic corps so far as Klingons were concerned. His military career was undistinguished, and his service as a politician appeared to carry no distinction among his peers. If not for D’tran’s recommendation, Toqel would have believed that Grodak carried nothing approaching the influence needed among actual decision-makers to make him worth her effort.

  We shall soon see if D’tran’s judgment remains untarnished.

  Drawing closer to the cabin, Toqel could now hear bursts of raucous laughter amid pseudo-melodic shrieks and stringed musical instruments that grew louder as they approached. She looked over her shoulder at Ditrius.

  “Is someone in pain?” she asked.

  “It’s Klingon music,” the vice proconsul replied, shaking his head. “If Circassian plague cats could sing, they too would find such disharmony most unpleasant.”

  Bracing herself for the coming auditory onslaught, Toqel proceeded to the cabin’s only apparent entrance. The door was constructed of heavy wooden planks cross-braced with metal bands, and once Ditrius stood beside her, she pounded loudly upon it with her fist.

  “nuqneH!” A gruff voice she thought she recognized as Grodak’s called over the music, which quickly decreased in volume.

  Toqel understood the Klingon greeting and grasped the door’s metal handle, feeling its sharp chill against her bare hand. Pushing the door open, Toqel felt a rush of heated air against her face.

  “Proconsul Toqel, I presume?” bellowed a portly Klingon with short-cropped graying hair and a matching beard as he rose from his seat at a rather expansive wooden dining table. “Welcome to my humble domicile.” Grodak waddled toward them, illuminated only by an oil lamp on the table as well as the flames of a fireplace along the cabin’s far wall. Stepping through the doorway, Toqel schooled her features so as not to display her reaction as her nose detected a displeasing combination of old grease, wood rot, and Klingon sweat polluting the air inside the cabin.

  “Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Toqel said, making an earnest attempt at sincerity as she stepped aside and allowed Ditrius to enter. This was the Klingon who could obtain what she sought? He seemed ill-equipped to carry out any action that did not involve lifting food to his face. A quick glance at Ditrius told her that the vice proconsul was harboring similar thoughts, but he fortunately had elected to keep his doubts and any related observations to himself.

  Gesturing toward the table and indicating the other chairs situated around it, Grodak replied, “Merely my home away from home, if you will. I come here to hunt, and to rediscover what it means to be a true warrior.”

  “I see,” Toqel said, masking her lack of interest.

  Grodak laughed, clapping his hand on Ditrius’s shoulder as they gathered around the table. “Perhaps you understand,” he said. “The need to hunt alone and kill to survive. You against the world.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Ditrius said, his near-mocking tone prompting a quick scowl from Toqel. The vice proconsul offered a slight nod in return, communicating that he comprehended her desire to temper his responses.

  Detecting
movement from the corner of her eye, Toqel turned to see another Klingon, this one decidedly younger and more physically fit than Grodak. He emerged through a doorway, beyond which Toqel saw the familiar trappings of a lavatory. A most unwelcome odor assailed her nostrils, and she once more forced herself not to wince.

  “Kopok,” Grodak called to the other Klingon, “the cold appears to disagree with our guests. Bring something to warm their bones.”

  “That’s hardly necessary,” Toqel said, her eyes widening as Kopok moved to the fireplace and retrieved a large metal bowl. Wondering idly if the Klingon had even bothered to wash his hands prior to exiting the lavatory, she watched him lower the bowl into a small cauldron suspended over the flames, lifting it away as chunks of some unidentified substance smeared paths down its sides and onto the floor. He repeated the move with a second bowl before turning and walking to the table, upon which he unceremoniously sloshed portions of the concoction onto its pitted, stained surface.

  “We have serious business to discuss this evening,” Grodak said, offering a wide smile, “and it simply wouldn’t do for you to begin with such a disadvantage.” Toqel paused, holding her response long enough that the Klingon seemingly recognized she might be considering his choice of words. “I mean, we’ve already eaten.”

  “Ah,” Toqel said, examining the bowl before her and its unappetizing mixture of what appeared to be brown animal flesh and orange vegetables stewed in a thick, grayish stock. “We are here to discuss our proposition, not impose upon your … hospitality.”

  “You eat. Then we talk,” he said, his voice less jovial and more insistent. “I did not demand that you cross the Neutral Zone or risk my superiors’ discovery of our new friendship just to kill you with my cooking. You honor me when you share a meal in my home.” To emphasize his point, Grodak leaned over the table and plunged two fingers into her bowl. Toqel forced herself not to recoil as he hoisted several dripping chunks from the bowl and stuck his fingers into his mouth. Loudly smacking his lips on the morsels, he wiped a line of gray gravy from his bearded chin and lowered his hand out of view, seemingly to rub it against his pants leg.

  “That was hardly necessary,” Toqel said. “I trust you when you say you have not poisoned this food.” In truth, she had considered the possibility, though she found herself forced to agree with the Klingon’s dismissal of the notion.

  Grodak laughed. “Then eat.” He offered a mischievous grin as he repeated his two-fingered scooping gesture. “You’ll never have to prove your courage in any other way.”

  Seated to her right, Ditrius refrained from mimicking the Klingon’s method, opting instead for the large spoon resting on the table next to his bowl. Using the oversized implement, he sampled his meal before leaning back in his chair and regarding her with a bemused expression.

  “I am not certain, Proconsul, but I believe the addition of a nerve toxin might well enhance the flavor.”

  Throwing back his head, Grodak released a laugh so boisterous that Toqel was certain the cabin’s windows might shatter. “Well played, Romulan. I appreciate a sense of humor.”

  Shrugging, Toqel brandished her own spoon. If Ditrius could stomach the foul brew, so too could she. She retrieved a portion of the stew and brought it to her mouth, ignoring the unsavory odor as she chewed in a controlled manner. The gravy’s slimy texture coated what tasted like vinegar-soaked roots and meat much spicier than she was used to eating. It took physical effort not to gag. How had Ditrius so easily managed his own reaction? The foul concoction tasted as though Grodak had attempted to duplicate t’lea’checha, but with ingredients long soured and spoiled. She finally was able to swallow, after which she realized she had no drink with which to cleanse her palate.

  “Some bloodwine?” Grodak asked, offering a self-satisfied smirk.

  Toqel shook her head. “Thank you, but no.” It was obvious that the Klingon was playing with her, hoping to elicit reactions of disgust and perhaps even frustration. Unwilling to allow him even the smallest victory, Toqel continued to eat her meal as though nothing were amiss. “Shall we proceed with the purpose of our being here?” she asked before chewing on another mouthful of the mystery stew.

  “Ah yes,” Grodak replied, nodding. “This proposal of yours. You’re serious.”

  “Completely. I also have the support of the Romulan Senate,” Toqel said. Her statement was not altogether true, of course, but nor was it wholly a lie. She ate another spoonful of her meal. Was it her imagination, or was she getting used to it? “What about your people?”

  Grodak released another bout of unrestrained laughter. “Do you believe for even a single moment that the High Council would respond to this outlandish fantasy of yours with anything other than disdain? Offer a sworn enemy access to some of our fleet’s most powerful vessels?”

  “Most powerful? Come now, Grodak, we both know that’s not at all what I’ve proposed.” Reaching for a stone carafe at the center of the table, Toqel peered inside and saw that it contained water. As there were no drinking vessels in plain view, she decided to play the Klingon’s game and drank straight from the pitcher before handing it off to Ditrius, who repeated her technique. “I know that the Council as an entity would have to voice opposition to such a notion, but surely you know of at least one member with some authority who might see the benefit of what we propose. After all, I’m told you’re someone of great influence.”

  Her words were having the desired effect, as Toqel watched Grodak frown, then emit a low grunt of irritation. He obviously was not someone accustomed to having his status questioned, which Toqel knew in Klingon circles might earn her a ritual challenge to the death.

  “Perhaps,” Grodak said after a moment, punctuating his reply with a long pull from his goblet of bloodwine.

  Toqel nodded. “We know that development is under way for a new class of battle cruiser to replace the D7s you currently employ.” Romulan intelligence agents working within Klingon territory had confirmed the effort to design and construct a test flotilla of twelve new ships, named K’t’inga class by her creators, which eventually would replace the stalwart D7 class of cruisers within ten fvheisn. This naturally troubled higher officials within the Romulan government, but Toqel saw it merely as another opportunity. After all, the Klingons would not be so quick to deploy their new warships against Romulan targets if it could be decided that the two powers had a mutual enemy in the Federation, and even more reason to pool their resources and their efforts.

  Focus, she reminded herself. Those are not your concerns now.

  His eyebrows twitching as he regarded her, Grodak replied, “I do not have access to information on military developments such as those you suggest.” Shifting forward in his chair, he leaned his large, flabby arms on the table, and Toqel noted that his left sleeve tracked through whatever sauce he had used to dress the meat on his plate. “Even so, D7 battle cruisers remain superior in every regard to the vessels you possess.”

  Toqel shrugged. “Offensively, you have some minor advantages. Upon that much, we can agree, but defensively? Our cloaking devices give us the tactical edge.”

  “va!” Grodak sneered and held up the palm of his hand to her. “Cloaks are for cowards and taHqeqmey. No commander with the slightest shred of honor would ever allow the installation of such a loathsome construct aboard his ship.”

  Instead of replying, Toqel turned her attention to the remainder of her meal. By the time she was skimming the sides of the bowl with her spoon, Grodak was studying her with an expression of both grudging respect and anticipation at whatever she might say next.

  Now, she thought as she pushed aside the empty bowl, if only it will stay down. As she reached once more for the carafe, she saw the expectant look on Ditrius’s face. Knowing that Grodak was again trying to bait her and curious as to what the vice proconsul might add at this juncture, she nodded for Ditrius to proceed.

  “Grodak,” he said, setting his spoon down on the table and folding his hands before hi
m, “we have no wish to impugn the honor of any Klingon warrior. However, would such formidable commanders not want to study the technology, perhaps in the hope of gaining some measure of tactical advantage? If not how best to utilize the field aboard his own vessel, then at least how to go about penetrating a cloak being employed by an enemy ship?”

  “We can already do that,” Grodak replied, waving the words aside with a nonchalant brush of his hand and appearing pleased with himself for revealing that bit of information.

  Toqel leaned forward, glaring at the Klingon. “Yes, we know the limitations of our technology, but that will soon be resolved.” Of course, telling him that such a resolution might entail the use of Klingon vessels, at least until such time as a Romulan vessel of comparable power completed construction, was neither an option nor a sound negotiating strategy.

  “Perhaps that’s true,” Grodak replied, reaching up to stroke his beard. “Shall we be honest here, my friend?”

  “I have endeavored to do so from the beginning,” Toqel replied without a moment’s hesitation. After all, lying came so very effortlessly to politicians. Scrutinizing his face with a practiced ease, she decided that he was the sort who could be persuaded to offer up more information than might be considered wise in discussions such as this, owing to nothing more than a desire to be perceived as important or powerful. Grodak did not strike her as one to act in such a manner without sufficient coaxing, but for the first time since her arrival, Toqel was sensing that she finally was beginning to take charge of the situation.