by David Mack
“Yes, sir,” Azernal said. “It’s the only way.”
“We should prepare for the inevitable, then,” Zife said. “If Picard fails, what options do we have left?”
“We can avert a war with the Klingons,” Azernal said, “or we can win a war with the Klingons.”
“I’d prefer to avert the war,” Zife said.
“As would I,” Azernal said. “We’d have to convince the Klingons that someone other than us put the guns on Tezwa…. A common enemy who would want to see our alliance shattered.”
“Such as the Tholians,” Zife said.
“Exactly,” Azernal said.
“How do we point the finger at the Tholians when all the evidence points to us?”
“Simple,” Azernal said. “We plant new evidence.”
Zife’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t serious.”
Azernal looked insulted. “Why not?” the Zakdorn said. He paced in front of Zife’s desk and mumbled to himself, shaping his plan in a stream-of-consciousness ramble, as he had done countless times during the Dominion War. “We frame the Tholians, then rattle some sabers with the Klingons. The Tholians deny everything, of course, which only makes them look more guilty.”
A look of inspired mischief flitted across his face as he continued. “Then, just as the Klingons gear up for revenge, we cast doubt on our own frame-up job! We say we think someone else might be trying to goad us into a war with the Tholians, to lower our defenses in other sectors.”
He nodded rapidly, his brow creased with intense thought. “We plant a few more clues to make it look like the Romulans framed the Tholians, tell the Klingons the Federation Council won’t go to war without hard evidence of who did what, then we bury the whole thing in diplomatic investigations,” he said. “Six months from now, we’re back to status quo.” He chuckled. “Simple, really. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
Zife knew he was being maneuvered into another of Azernal’s convoluted schemes, and that the solution couldn’t possibly be so simple as he’d made it sound. But if another lie on his conscience was the price of sparing billions of lives from the horrors of war, it was a burden he was willing to bear.
Chapter 30
Tezwa—Keelee-Kee
IT WAS THE FIRST Gatni war council Bilok had called in more than a decade, and convening it in the middle of the night only made it feel like what everyone present knew it was: a conspiracy.
In addition to himself, Neelo, Dasana, and Elazol, four of the Gatni Party’s senior ministers, had assembled in a remote and neglected research archive, in the Assembly Forum basement.
Itani, the minister of health, was a firebrand; at least once per day she could be trusted to unleash an apocalyptic vocal conflagration on the Assembly floor. In contrast, Edica, the minister of labor, spoke about as much as the granite statues that towered over the main entrance to the Forum—yet she managed to draft more pages of legislation than any other five ministers combined.
Unoro, the minister of justice, was regarded as a master dealmaker—which probably explained why he was the only Gatni other than Bilok who still occupied a senior seat in the Assembly. He’d undoubtedly fared better than Tawnakel, who still fumed over being forced to resign as minister of state; after being third in line of succession, being minister of the arts rankled.
Bilok had personally mentored all four of them, which was the only reason he trusted them enough to invite them here this evening. There was too much at stake to risk a larger gathering, which could easily fall prey to turncoats who would betray Bilok and his political brothers and sisters to Kinchawn’s ruthless Lacaam Coalition.
“Our first priority,” Bilok said in an urgent but hushed voice, “is to get me a new secure line of communication to the Federation. I’ve been informed that Kinchawn has placed a signal intercept on all transmissions from my home and office.”
“Before we do anything,” Unoro said, “we need to know more about your dealings with the Federation.” Most of the other ministers murmured in agreement. Bilok expected they would be quite angry with him, but that couldn’t be helped now.
“What I’m about to tell you must never leave this room,” he said. “The future of our world and the Alpha Quadrant hinges on it.” The other ministers nodded.
“Seven years ago,” he continued, “shortly after Kinchawn rose to power, he made a deal with the Federation. They needed a neutral planet on which to build a massive artillery system. It was designed as a trap for the forces of the Dominion, with whom they were at war. You saw today what those guns can do.
“In exchange for helping them build their secret weapons, Kinchawn and the Lacaam Coalition received material aid meant to improve the standard of living for our people. Instead, Kinchawn sold those goods on the black market, through the Orion Syndicate. The money that he raised then bankrolled the Lacaam’i candidates’ slander campaigns against us—and his new fleet.
“Four years ago, I was contacted by Koll Azernal, the senior advisor to the Federation president. He had come to believe that Kinchawn was unstable, and feared he might strike a bargain with the Dominion—betraying the Federation and its allies if and when they came looking to spring their trap. My charge was to ensure that Kinchawn didn’t break his pact with the Federation. But—as you also saw today—I failed.”
“A dangerous game you’ve committed us to,” Itani said.
“I’d hardly call it a game,” Tawnakel said. “Kinchawn’s been signing pacts and making executive decisions without consulting the Assembly. I’d call that a dictatorship—and you knew about it, Bilok. But you said nothing.”
“I apologize,” Bilok said. “But it was necessary. I had to take a long-term view of the matter.”
Neelo let out a derisive snort. “Did your ‘long-term view’ include Kinchawn dragging us to war? Or did it end just before millions of innocent people were killed in a tragedy you could have prevented?”
“Exposing Kinchawn would not have been a simple matter,” Bilok said. “Its consequences would have stretched far beyond our world.” He moved slowly around the room, addressing each of the ministers, delivering his points fast and hard, like knife jabs. “I expose Kinchawn, the Assembly erupts. Kinchawn moves to protect himself and suppresses dissent by force.
“Meanwhile, the Klingons accuse the Federation of violating the Khitomer Accords by putting heavy weapons so close to their shared border.
“We wage a civil war here on Tezwa, while the Klingons and the Federation fight a war of attrition all around us. In all likelihood they fight to a stalemate, then both collapse.
“Without the two great powers on either side of us, our once-neutral corner of space becomes a target of opportunity. One week the Tholians invade; the next, the Romulans become our masters.
“Or, I can choose to keep my own counsel and bide my time,” Bilok said, returning to his original position at the head of the group. “I can win the trust of the Federation, and set the stage for Kinchawn’s removal by convincing them that the Gatni Party can provide a more reliable, less militant ally.”
Dasana wore a skeptical frown. “I concede that alienating the Federation serves no positive end, nor does sparking a war between them and the Klingons,” she said. “But why seek out their alliance? Why not remain neutral?”
Several of the other ministers grumbled similar sentiments while Bilok formulated a reply.
“I’ve considered that question at length,” the deputy prime minister said. “I’ve weighed the potential gains against the risks. And each time, I have concluded that we stand to gain more by becoming part of the Federation than we do by remaining outside of it.”
Elazol looked unconvinced. “Such as?”
“A mutual-defense pact with hundreds of other worlds,” Bilok said. “Massive improvements to physical infrastructure, including housing, transportation, and communications. Better medicine. Superior wildlife conservation. Better educational facilities. Access to advanced manufactu
ring techniques. I’d continue, but I think you get the point.”
“Of course, you also become embroiled in their conflicts,” Unoro said. “And they do seem to have a lot of them, for a people who preach the value of peace. Wars against the Cardassians, the Borg, the Dominion—and those are only in the past two decades.”
“We’re digressing,” Bilok said. “The issue of Federation membership is a debate for another time. Right now we need to focus on the two most immediate threats to our security: the Klingons, and the prime minister himself.”
“Well, we certainly have the means to repel the Klingons,” Dasana said.
Elazol shook his head. “Just what we need—more violence.”
“Minister Elazol is right,” Bilok said. “We cannot defuse this crisis by escalating the war. We must not give in to fear—and we must not let Kinchawn use those guns again.”
Itani’s neck feathers ruffled with high dudgeon. “Are you suggesting we let those barbarians invade our world without a fight?”
“Of course not,” Bilok said. “I’m saying we need to give them a better reason not to invade.”
“Such as Kinchawn’s head on a spear,” Tawnakel quipped.
“You jest,” Bilok said. “But you’re right. Kinchawn created this mess. He alone gave the order to fire the artillery. We need to convince the Klingons that he can be held individually responsible for this atrocity, so that the rest of us don’t need to be held collectively accountable.”
“And we need to do it before the Klingons vaporize us,” Neelo added.
“Preferably, we would act within the law,” Bilok said. “An open vote of no confidence, followed by his arrest on thousands of charges of murder, for the Klingon soldiers he killed, and countless charges of negligence, for the millions of our people who were slain by the Klingons’ counterattack.”
“Neither of those charges addresses his subversion of the Assembly’s authority,” Unoro said. “He deserves to be charged with high treason.”
“And so do I,” Bilok retorted. “But there’s no way to bring such a charge without exposing the Federation’s complicity, and that brings us back to the very tragedy we’re seeking to avert.”
“Oh, I see,” Unoro said. “So, in the name of political expediency, we’ve decided to run roughshod over justice?”
“Our goals are to remove Kinchawn and make amends with the Klingons,” Bilok said. “Justice has nothing to do with it.”
“Deposing him in an open vote will be nearly impossible,” Neelo said. “Especially this soon after the battle.”
“I know,” Bilok said. “But we need to appease the Klingons before it’s too late. If we have to resort to extralegal means to do so, that is a choice I can accept.”
Itani looked horrified. “You’re not advocating that we…” She apparently couldn’t say the word. “But that’s madness! What happened to principles? To ethics? To the rule of law?”
A voice like a groaning floorboard answered her. “Kinchawn abolished them long ago,” Edica said, breaking her stony silence at last. “Just say the word, Bilok…and I’ll assassinate that treacherous piece of filth myself.”
Chapter 31
Qo’noS
DAYBREAK WAS HOURS AWAY, but the corridors of the Great Hall in the First City susurrated with the ominous undertones of a government preparing for war.
Worf noticed that security at the inner gate was tighter than usual. He was certain that the heightened state of alert was in force because of the impending invasion of Tezwa. The two guards who scanned him required that he empty the pockets and folds of his robes. They sifted brusquely through his effects. They eyed his identification card with suspicion, even though he knew the men recognized him from his many previous visits.
The taller of the two soldiers pointed to the diplomatic pouch slung at Worf’s side. “Open it,” the guard said.
“I will not,” Worf said. Behind his shoulder he heard the other guard scrambling to lift his rifle. Worf maintained eye contact with the soldier in front of him. “It is a diplomatic pouch. Its contents are protected under the Khitomer Accords.”
The first warrior backed away and raised his own weapon. Eyes were beginning to turn toward the conflict at the gate.
“Open it,” the guard said again.
A guttural voice interrupted the confrontation. “The diplomatic privilege will be honored,” said an older, gray-maned warrior, whom Worf recognized as General Goluk. The grizzled veteran pushed through the crowd of onlookers. He placed his hand on top of the guard’s weapon and firmly lowered its barrel away from Worf. “He will not be searched. That is the law.” He looked at Worf. “Apologies, Ambassador Worf, son of Mogh, House of Martok.” Worf understood that the excessively formal greeting was Goluk’s subtle way of rebuking the two overzealous guards.
Worf plucked his identification card from the hand of the guard behind him, then turned back to his benefactor and fellow member of the Order of the Bat’leth. “Apology accepted, General Goluk,” Worf said. “I have urgent business with the chancellor.”
“Of course, Mr. Ambassador,” Goluk said. He turned and marched into the midst of the throng that stood between Worf and the private turbolift to the High Council chamber. “Move!” he bellowed, and his voice resounded off the distant arches of the ceiling, whose shape reminded Worf of a carbonized skeleton covered by a swath of blackened skin. The crowd parted, and Goluk marched through the gap and across the cavernous hall in long strides. Worf followed close behind him.
The turbolift ride to the top of the majestic structure was quiet. Worf had not had many dealings with General Goluk, but he found him to be more agreeable than most members of the Klingon elite with whom he’d dealt since assuming his diplomatic post at the Federation Embassy—mostly because Goluk hated small talk.
The turbolift door opened to reveal a shadowy corridor. Its sparse lighting was a soothing dark crimson hue, like the standard duty lighting aboard a Klingon warship. Councillors’ attachés and military advisors choked the corridor, moving from room to room, or scurrying toward the High Council chamber. A trio of young women, garbed in the robes of apprentice lawyers—and all from noble Houses, judging by the ancient family crests embroidered on their ceremonial white stoles—pushed past Worf as he stepped off the turbolift.
He heard the turbolift door hiss closed. Looking back, he saw that Goluk was no longer accompanying him.
He walked quickly and dodged through the slalom of bodies toward Martok’s private chambers. Worf hadn’t seen such manic goings-on in the Great Hall since the encounter with the Elabrej two years ago. It made sense, of course, that Martok would have summoned an emergency session of the High Council and marshaled every resource at his disposal. Unfortunately for Worf, the mass of people now crowding the Great Hall was going to make it difficult for him to accomplish his mission with any kind of discretion.
He arrived at the entrance to Martok’s chambers. The huge double doors were cut from black granite and reinforced with duranium edge banding. The outer faces of the doors were engraved with a single, enormous gilded outline of the imperial trefoil inside a circle. Two warriors stood guard, one in front of each door. One kept his disruptor rifle slung low but clearly primed for action; the other stood in a classic ready position, feet apart, his bat’leth gripped in both hands and held horizontally, cutting edge down, in front of his waist.
The two guards pressed together to block Worf’s path as he stepped toward the doors. “I have business with the chancellor,” he said. The guards did not answer him. “Let me pass.”
“He’s not here,” said the guard with the bat’leth.
“Council’s in session,” the other guard said.
Martok’s voice resounded from the far end of the corridor behind Worf. “Mr. Ambassador!” Worf turned to see Martok stomping toward him with his usual bravado.
“Chancellor,” Worf said. “I require a moment of your time.”
“A moment is all I have,
” Martok said.
Worf stepped aside to let him pass. The two guards also moved out of Martok’s path. At the chancellor’s approach, the doors to his chambers swung inward. “Come in,” Martok said to Worf as he marched past the ambassador, into his inner sanctum. Worf shot withering stares at the two guards, who made a point of avoiding eye contact with him. He followed Martok inside. The massive doors silently closed behind him.
Martok’s chambers were well appointed, but not opulent. The amalgamation of ancient weapons, modest comforts, and one of the newest House crests in the Empire reflected the chancellor’s rise from common-born soldier to imperial head of state.
The floor, walls, and ceiling were rough, gray stone. The walls on either side of the main door were draped with six enormous war banners. The colorful flags—which were replete with rips, burned edges, bloodstains, and the dust of battlefields light-years away—were testaments to Martok’s distinguished decades of service.
Eight broad, hard armchairs surrounded a low, octagonal stone table, which sat atop a huge Kryonian tiger-skin rug in the middle of the room, between four wide pillars. On the pillars, two meters above the floor, were black iron sconces, inside of which danced licks of bright orange flame.
At the far end of the room was a broad desk. Its shape was irregular—organic, like an amoeba. The desktop was composed of immaculately polished petrified wood, and was utterly bare and pristine. At the desk was a high-backed, hardwood seat that Martok simply called a chair, but which Worf thought looked more like a throne. The wall behind the desk was dominated by a huge, multipanel window shaped like the Klingon trefoil.
To the left was a door that led to the chancellor’s private wardrobe. On the right was the room’s single extravagance: a well-stocked liquor cabinet, including onyx bloodwine goblets and polished-steel steins for ale and warnog.
Martok moved past his desk. “I have to get back soon,” the chancellor said as he opened the door to his wardrobe and stepped inside. “What do you need?”