by David Mack
All they would see is a world without honor that massacred the pride of the Klingon fleet. And next to it they would see the so-called ally that gave Tezwa’s treacherous petaQpu the weapons with which to commit these rash and bloody deeds.
Azernal keyed another text message to Zife, who scanned it quickly before answering Martok. “Chancellor,” Zife said, “there may yet be diplomatic alternatives that we could—”
“Diplomacy! They nearly destroyed your flagship! And all you want to do is talk?”
“If we can resolve this without further bloodshed,” Zife said, “we might—”
“No,” Martok said. “This is a dangerous time for the Empire. We cannot be seen as weak.” Azernal knew what Martok really meant: that his position as chancellor was politically vulnerable, and that he could not afford to be seen as weak.
Azernal transmitted a trio of text messages to Zife, who looked flustered by the speed with which he was being inundated by information. Azernal reminded himself to be patient, that the president wasn’t quite as quick to absorb new facts and ideas as he himself was—but then, few humanoid species were capable of operating on the same mental level as the Zakdorn.
“Chancellor,” Zife said as soon as he caught up with Azernal’s sub-rosa suggestions, “if we’re to aid you, it will take at least three days for our nearest five ships to reach Tezwa. Delay your attack until we can regroup and join you.”
“Unacceptable,” Martok said. “Tezwa is preparing to launch its fleet. Better to attack while they’re still in spacedock, before they can threaten our colonies.”
Azernal was running out of options for Zife to propose. He tried one last idea. “Give us thirty-six hours,” Zife said. “By then, the Enterprise will be able to give you an analysis of Tezwa’s weapons and defensive systems, to guide your attack.”
“We’ll accept the Enterprise’s report,” Martok said. Then he quickly added: “If it’s ready in precisely four hours. Because that’s when our invasion begins.” His proclamation was met by several seconds of shocked silence. “If you have nothing more to add, Mr. President…?”
Azernal signaled Zife that he did not. Zife shook his head. “No, Chancellor,” Zife said. “Qapla’, Martok, son of Urthog.”
Martok grimaced, seemingly pained by the sound of a Klingon valediction issuing from the mouth of a spindly Bolian. “Martok out.” The channel from Qo’noS closed. Zife and Azernal sat alone in their respective chateaus, quiet in the deepest hours of the night, staring at one another on their computer monitors.
Several agonized seconds passed without comment.
The harsh monitor-light deepened the dark half-circles beneath Zife’s tired gray eyes. “Best authority?” he said.
The remark caught Azernal off-guard. “Sir?”
“You told me that you had it ‘on the best authority’ that Kinchawn wouldn’t fire.”
Azernal swallowed, then coughed a few times—not because he was nervous but to buy time to formulate an answer. He considered how reliable Bilok had been in the past, then ran through scenarios that might account for this sudden reversal of fortune. He quickly settled on the most likely answer. “I now think that the line of communication to my source on Tezwa was compromised, most likely within the last three weeks.”
“That’s as good an explanation as any,” Zife said. “But it doesn’t benefit the thousands of Klingons or countless numbers of Tezwans who were killed today.”
“No, Mr. President, it doesn’t. I’m sorry.”
“We need to move on this, Koll. In four hours the Klingons will march into a disaster of epic proportions. In addition to my concern for their potential losses, I’m worried that they’ll inflict millions of civilian casualties.”
“Actually, sir,” Azernal said with caution, “I estimate civilian casualties will be roughly forty-three percent of the total population—approximately two-point-one billion people.”
Zife stared at him in shock for a moment, then closed his eyes, let out a pained sigh, and planted his face in his hands. When he looked up again at Azernal, his look was one of dread. “And when they secure the artillery installations…?”
“They’ll link them to us within a matter of hours. A few days from now, we’ll be at war with the Klingon Empire.”
Zife snorted. “I suppose you have a wargame scenario for that, as well.”
“Yes, sir.” He paused and wondered whether Zife really wanted to hear it. Then he decided that the president had to hear it. “The Federation suffers more than ninety billion civilian casualties. The Klingon Empire limits its civilian casualties to just under forty billion. The imperial armada defeats Starfleet in just under a year, but its own losses are near-total. The Federation fragments into unaligned systems. The Tholians conquer the Klingon Empire within four years, while the Romulan Star Empire annexes up to seventy-eight percent of former Federation worlds within a decade.”
“Bolarus?” Zife said, his thoughts clearly turning homeward.
“More than likely it’s destroyed by the Klingons. If it survives, the Tholians move to block the Romulans from seizing it…. They fail.” Zife seemed to retreat into himself, sinking into his worst nightmare of a galactic doomsday scenario. Azernal snapped him back to the present. “Mr. President, we can’t let the Klingons land on Tezwa.”
Zife seemed punch-drunk. “How do we stop them?”
“That’s where the Enterprise comes into play,” Azernal said. “They’re the only Starfleet vessel close enough to do what has to be done.”
“And what, exactly, is that?”
“There’s only one way to stop the Klingons from conquering Tezwa,” Azernal said. “We have to conquer it first.”
Chapter 12
U.S.S. Enterprise-E
PICARD MASSAGED HIS WRIST as he, Data, and La Forge studied the scanner information scrolling across the wall console in his ready room. It had been over an hour since an engineer in transporter room four had removed the Tezwan manacles from the captain’s hands. The rough metal had left Picard’s skin chafed and raw. He hadn’t yet made time to go to sickbay—partly because he knew many members of his crew needed medical attention far more than he did, and also because he wasn’t interested in another awkward nonconversation with Dr. Crusher.
“We’ve put together a fairly detailed picture of what hit us,” La Forge said. He tapped a few commands into the system and called up a schematic of an enormous spherical shell, inside of which was a massive energy cannon. “It’s a rapid-frequency nadion-pulse cannon, twice as powerful as anything I’ve ever seen.” La Forge pointed to the bottom of the diagram. “Here’s the power-transfer node.” The chief engineer nodded to Data, who changed the image on the display to a topographical map of Tezwa. Webs of incandescent red lines radiated across the surface from six points, each sixty degrees’ latitude apart.
“The guns are powered by six remote generators,” Data said. He magnified a scan of a node that joined six separate power lines. “Based on detailed scans I made during our low-altitude flyover, I have concluded that the power-generating facilities also serve as fire-control centers.”
Picard frowned. “Even against that much power, our shields should have lasted longer.”
“I have a theory about that,” La Forge said. He handed his padd to Picard, who skimmed it as the engineer spoke. “Based on feedback patterns we recorded as the shields collapsed, I’d say the cannons are using a rotating pulse frequency. Each shot is actually millions of separate pulses, each at a slightly different nutation.”
Picard shot a quizzical look at both officers. “Which has what effect?”
“The rapid cycling of the pulse frequency,” Data said, “coupled with the high power level, turns the shield into a resonant harmonic field. The resulting feedback overloads the shield emitters.”
“Can we compensate for the effect?” Picard said. “Cancel it out, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid not, Captain,” La Forge said. “We’d have to rep
lace all our shield emitters—assuming Starfleet can design some that can take the heat.”
The more Picard heard, the more suspicious he became. He’d read all the briefing materials on Tezwa, but not one item in any of those voluminous reports had led him to suspect the Tezwans possessed this level of armament. He turned toward the map of Tezwa. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the image and tried to divine its secrets.
“This doesn’t add up,” he said. “None of their other technologies are anywhere near so sophisticated.” He replaced the image with a local starmap. “Look how isolated they are. Why would they need such overpowering defenses?”
Data cocked his head slightly. “Perhaps for the same reason that Starfleet originally designed them,” he said.
Picard turned and stared with a shocked expression at the android second officer. “These are Federation weapons?”
“That’s the other bad news,” La Forge said.
“The designs are very similar,” Data said, answering Picard’s question. “The rapid-frequency nadion-pulse cannon was first proposed in 2366, as a possible defensive countermeasure against the Borg. Two prototypes were built, but it was deemed too complex for rapid, widespread deployment.”
Picard looked to La Forge for confirmation. “Geordi,” the captain said, “have you compared the original prototypes to the weapons on Tezwa?” The engineer nodded grimly, his metallic eyes hidden in the shadow of his brow. “How similar are they?”
“Almost identical,” La Forge said. “The main differences are the power supply and the safety systems.” He gestured with a tilt of his head toward the schematic on the wall console. “If you ask me, I’d say they stole our designs and put those guns together in a big hurry.”
“Is there any way the Tezwans could have developed this technology independently?” Picard said.
“Ten years ago, they didn’t have any of the components of that defense system,” La Forge said. “Five years ago, they were still making the transition to type-six antimatter reactors. It would take a miracle for them to make a jump like that.”
Data wore a doubtful expression. “It is…unlikely.”
Picard hoped La Forge and Data were wrong, but he knew from experience that when they agreed on technical matters such as this, they were very likely right. If that was the case today, then an already tragic failure of diplomacy had just escalated into a full-blown interstellar incident, complete with espionage against the Federation. Picard wondered whether this would cause President Zife to support the Klingons’ march to war.
The com sounded, followed by Security Chief Vale’s voice. “Bridge to Captain Picard,” she said.
Picard turned away from La Forge and Data, more for his own concentration than for any expectation of privacy. “Go ahead.”
“You have an incoming transmission from Earth, on an encrypted channel,” Vale said. There was a brief pause. “It’s the president,” she added.
“I’ll take it here in my ready room.” He looked at Data and La Forge. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” The two officers nodded and exited to the bridge.
Picard sat down at his desk, activated his monitor, and entered his security code. The stars-and-double-laurel emblem of the United Federation of Planets appeared. Seconds later, the blue-and-white crest was replaced by four faces. In the upper left-hand corner was President Zife, the Bolian chief executive of the Federation. To Zife’s right was Admiral Kathryn Janeway, who had, of late, begun taking a greater role in shaping Starfleet’s political agenda. In the lower left-hand corner was Picard’s supervising officer Admiral Alynna Nechayev, and beside her was Admiral William Ross.
“Mr. President,” Picard said.
“Captain Picard,” Zife said.
“Admirals,” Picard said.
Janeway, Nechayev, and Ross overlapped one another with their one-word replies of “Captain.” Picard took a breath and adopted his most polite expression, because he fully expected the conversation to go downhill from there.
Chapter 13
Tezwa
KINCHAWN INCREASED THE VOLUME of his holographic signal interception. He wanted to be sure he heard every word clearly as he eavesdropped on another clandestine subspace communication between his deputy prime minister and the Federation president’s top advisor. Bilok looked frazzled by the day’s events. Azernal, on the other hand, was slightly red in the face, like a naka root that had been dipped in boiling water just long enough to acquire some color.
“You said he wouldn’t fire,” Azernal said. The Zakdorn’s anger was unmasked, and Kinchawn preferred it that way. It was easier to goad a person into exposing their feelings than it was to intuit them, especially when that person was an alien.
“I can’t explain it,” Bilok said. “He’s gone mad.” Kinchawn smirked. It amused him to see Bilok so off balance.
“Well, I have worse news,” Azernal said. “Worse for you, in any event. Kinchawn was right—the Klingons are backing down.”
Kinchawn leaned forward at this news.
“You can’t be serious,” Bilok protested. “How can they do nothing after such a betrayal?”
“The Klingons are in no better condition to fight a war right now than we are,” Azernal said. “So if I were you, I’d start looking for a way off that rock—because there won’t be anybody coming to your rescue. You’re on your own.”
Bilok’s crown feathers ruffled, betraying his alarm. “But Kinchawn is—”
“In control,” Azernal interrupted. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
“You can’t just abandon us,” Bilok said. “We might be able to help you. Plans are in motion. We simply need—”
“More time?” Azernal shook his head. “Time’s up…. The path of least resistance has been closed.”
Bilok fell silent and seemed to weigh the Zakdorn’s words for several long seconds. “I understand,” he said finally.
“Good luck,” Azernal said. Then he terminated his transmission. Bilok closed his subspace channel a moment later, leaving Kinchawn alone in the comfort of his office atop the Ilanatava. The prime minister stood and walked to his balcony. The nighttime cityscape of Keelee-Kee was abuzz. Air traffic of all kinds, from hovercars to transport shuttles, swarmed like glowing insects around the spires of the capital city.
Kinchawn doubted the Klingons would really back down so easily. He had expected at least one attempt at large-scale retaliation, an assault that he could pummel with his cannons. No doubt the civilian population would suffer a few million casualties, and those who survived would be terrified. But fear inspired patriotism, and patriotism guaranteed loyalty. Of course, he knew he could count on the people’s quiet acquiescence even without a Klingon orbital bombardment to soften their cynicism; it would just make Tezwa’s transition to a fully military government a more gradual process.
But the idea nagged at him: Why wouldn’t the Klingons strike back? He considered the possibility that Azernal and his president had brokered a deal with the Klingons, made some kind of unspoken arrangement to keep the peace—all to prevent the Klingons from learning the truth. To hide the origin of the nadion-pulse cannons dotting the equatorial and tropical latitudes of a planet situated along a border they shared with the United Federation of Planets. To keep the Klingons from learning that it was the Federation president himself who arranged to have the guns put there, at a time when he expected his people to face the Klingons on the battlefield.
Certainly, a desire to avert a cataclysmic war was more than sufficient motivation to make the Federation get involved. But Kinchawn couldn’t imagine what the Federation might offer as a sop to slake the Klingons’ unquenchable thirst for war. What did the Federation have that would be enough to convince the Klingons to silence their cries for vengeance?
Weapons? The Klingons had more than enough armaments. Ships? Starfleet barely kept itself in operation these days; certainly it had no vessels to spare. Money? Last Kinchawn had heard, the Federation had no hard c
urrency to trade, and its economy was esoteric to the point of being almost hypothetical. Territory? The Federation was struggling to hold itself together in the wake of the Dominion War, and the threat of one world’s departure during the previous year had nearly triggered a political brushfire. Surrendering valuable worlds and shipping lanes was not likely to be a viable strategy for them.
Perhaps it was exactly as Azernal had told Bilok; maybe the Klingons had finally overextended their reach and now had chosen to cut their losses early. Kinchawn’s only problem with this theory was that it would require taking Azernal at his word, a practice that in his experience was a precursor to betrayal.
That thought led him to a third possibility, one that seemed to be the most likely of all. He concluded that Azernal was lying to Bilok, and that a Klingon attack fleet was, in fact, en route to Tezwa at that very moment.
He returned to his desk and looked over the casualty projections his generals had forwarded to him. The estimates for his home city of Odina-Keh were grim, at best. If the Klingons mounted an even moderately competent assault, most of Odina-Keh’s population would be killed in the first barrage. His wife, Sorokala, and his children, Lokowon and Rodoko, would not survive. He considered having them moved now to a shielded facility outside Arbosa-Lo, but he knew that the trinae would trumpet his family’s flight and use it to spark a panic. Then he imagined the political leverage he would have in the aftermath of the attack, when no one would dare to question a prime minister whose own family lay counted among the slain.
Kinchawn vowed to mourn his kin with sorrow-songs. He knew he would be haunted by the memory of their faces long after their ashes had cooled and their names had been inscribed on his family’s ancestral tava. But the prime minister had long since accepted that when it came time to pay the price for absolute power, he would not count the cost—however dear it proved to be.