The Hand of Kahless

by John M. Ford

  Maktai withdrew. “I forgot the rule,” he said quietly.

  Dr. Tagore nodded. “No insult was assumed. But not every game is as friendly as this one.”

  One ship was waiting for them, at the far side of the Zone: a single saucer-fronted cruiser, the Savannah II. The first of that name, Krenn recalled, had taken them outbound from Earth, years ago. He wondered who had destroyed it.

  The Human in command was younger-looking than the other Human Admirals Krenn had seen. He had reddish hair, moderately pale skin by Human standards, and a remarkable, bushy growth of hair down the sides of his face and over his upper lip.

  “Captain Krenn,” he said, in reasonably good klingonaase without translating machine, “a pleasure to meet you. I’m Douglas Tancred Shepherd, commanding this Task Force, such as it is. Starfleet is spread somewhat thin just now, ferrying delegates.”

  Krenn wondered about that: would the Human so casually admit to a Klingon that the frontier patrols were stretched thin? Yet there were still the hunter-killer squadrons. So perhaps it was a challenge, however slight.

  Shepherd said, “Chief of Staff van Diemen sends his respects, Captain, and regrets that he could not meet you. And please give my regards to Dr. Tagore; I was once a student of his.”

  Krenn said, “And my respects to Admiral Luther Whitetree.”

  Admiral Shepherd said slowly, “Lou Whitetree…died two years ago, Captain.”

  Krenn wanted to ask if he had died well, but Shepherd already showed discomfort, and Humans had too many ideas about death to be all comprehended. Someday, he thought, I will meet you, Whitetree, in the Black Fleet, and kill you a thousand times laughing. And perhaps you will even kill me, for the glory of your son.

  What Krenn said was, “I regret to hear that. My Executive also is dead…I would have liked for the Admiral to meet his replacement.” He looked at the Communications station, but Ensign Kreg was in the seat.

  “My…sympathies,” Shepherd said, sounding very puzzled. “Your authorizations are fully in order, so if you’re ready, Captain Krenn…Warp 4?”

  “Warp 4, Admiral.”

  When the ships were under way, the Bridge-to-Bridge link broken, Krenn said, “Lieutenant Klimor, you have the conn,” and nodded to Maktai. They took the lift down eight decks within the pod, to the Intelligence Operations level.

  All doors here were heavily shielded. To Krenn’s left was the Interrogation Room, empty now. Krenn and Mak went right; Maktai inserted a key in the lock. Only Maktai’s personal key could open this door; those within could not even leave at will. The door opened. Within were three rows of consoles, each with an elaborate cluster of displays.

  In every other cruiser of the Navy, this was the Internal Surveillance Room, from which Security could monitor any part of the ship at will. Here the room was called Special Communications. Mirror did not in fact have continuous Internal Surveillance. Most of the crew did not know this, and would not have believed it if told. It was the least of the ship’s secrets.

  Kelly came around the consoles. “They’re sensing us, Captain. I’m maintaining the level of screens they expect; they’ve found the guns off and the hold empty…power level’s taking care of itself, and mechanical shielding covers the rest.”

  “Perfect, Kelly. What are you reading from them?”

  “Normal subspace traffic. Admiral Shepherd is pleased to report you courteous as described to him.”

  Krenn laughed. “Soon they’ll lose their fear of the Empire, and then what shall happen?…Nothing further to the Red File?”

  “Not since the Section Two confirming message several days ago.”

  Krenn nodded. “You should put in an appearance on the Bridge. I’ll be in quarters. Emanuel expects me for klin zha.”

  Dr. Tagore moved the Lancer on the Reflective board.

  Krenn examined the position, sat back, letting out a long breath. “You have also stayed in practice, Emanuel.”

  “Zha riest’n,” Dr. Tagore said. “And compliments indeed; in four years I do not think I found a finer opponent. Certainly not for the Reflective Game.”

  “I was well instructed.”

  “The name of Kethas was mentioned. A Thought Admiral, the epetai-Khemara.”

  Krenn said, “In what connection?”

  “Reflective klin zha,” Dr. Tagore said, as if the question were unexpected. “I would mention the game to a potential opponent, and more than half the time the one would say ‘that was Kethas’s game.’ Did you know the one?”

  “I of course know of him. He died when I was young.”

  Dr. Tagore sighed. “I still have not lived among Klingons long enough. I still think of you as aging as we do…you must be, what, twenty-five?”

  “Nearly so.”

  “And I will be seventy-nine on my next birthday. And still we aren’t so far apart…we both have twenty or thirty years left, if we avoid violence.” Krenn was not insulted by that. “Maybe even longer. Coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “We work slowly on improving our genes, except for what we’ve borrowed from the Vulcans. Ever since the Eugenics Wars…” He shook his head. “Anyway, to return to the original point, Kethas had a reputation with Starfleet, I recall. They called him the Klingon Yamamoto, after a strategist of our history…the one was an extraordinary poker player. And he had three fingers on one hand.”

  “I’ll tell Mak.” Krenn was wondering if this discussion was about games.

  “He seems in an ill mood lately,” Dr. Tagore said. “Is the one well?”

  “He’s lost dreams. We both thought he should learn Federation.”

  “Ah. My sympathies.”

  Krenn said, “The Commander of our escort is an Admiral Douglas Tancred Shepherd. He mentioned your name.”

  “Doug Shepherd’s an Admiral now? Now that does make me feel old. Reminds me of when…” He paused. “Did you read the book about Arthur and Camelot? The long one?”

  “With the changing into animals.”

  “Yes. Well, when I was teaching boys like Doug Shepherd, I tended to think of myself as Lancelot…the terrible sinner, looking for a miracle, just one miracle of his own.” He touched one of the Reflective pieces. “I have spent a large part of the last four years with the Imperial Council. It became apparent long ago that I was not the only Ambassador to the Council from Federation worlds, though I was the only one with portfolio.”

  Quietly Dr. Tagore said, “Although I hope I will be returning to Klinzhai when the conference ends, still you could have saved a long voyage by transferring me to Admiral Shepherd’s ship at the Zone. Are you proceeding to Earth…” He paused. “Are you being allowed to proceed to Babel because I am aboard, or because you were yourselves invited?”

  “The Empire was asked by several to send an observer.”

  “Yes…I’d supposed that was it. You see, I gave up believing in miracles.

  “Shall we play again? I don’t know anyone on Earth who plays klin zha.”

  This arrival at Earth, there was no game with shuttlecraft. Krenn, Maktai, and Dr. Tagore beamed down directly to Federa-Terra. They were met at the stage by a heavily armed Security force, and an official wearing Babel Conference insignia who seemed in an extreme hurry.

  “Admiral van Diemen sends his regrets,” the functionary said. “He’s been delayed in San Francisco, but he’ll be sending a visual message tonight. We have rooms ready for you, Captain, and you, Commander…and, Doctor, you’ll be in the delegates’ quarters.”

  They were almost instantly separated. Krenn and Maktai were loaded, with several armed and uniformed Starfleet Military guards, into a small vehicle with curtained windows, and moved off at speed.

  The car stopped a few minutes later, and the guards practically leaped out; Admiral Shepherd entered, the door closed, and the car started moving again, at a somewhat lesser speed.

  Krenn understood now, as he had not six years ago, the term double-shuffle.

  “Welcome to Ear
th, truly this time, Captain Krenn,” Shepherd said. “I find I’ve been appointed as Marcus van Diemen’s deputy until he arrives, so I won’t be able to spend as much time with you as I’d hoped. I suppose you’re aware that you’re the most in demand of all the non-Federation observers?”

  He produced several sheets of computer printing. “These are the delegates who have asked for interviews.”

  Krenn flipped through the listing. “How many names are here?”

  “One hundred thirty-one.”

  Maktai said, “And how many members has the Federation?”

  “Five hundred forty,” Shepherd said, with just the right klingonaase inflection for irony.

  Krenn said, “This is an impossible number.”

  Shepherd said, “In several senses I agree. It’s entirely your decision whom you wish actually to see, if anyone. The delegates’ worlds are listed there; if you need more data, there’ll be a computer terminal in your hotel suite.”

  “Where may we meet…such of these persons as we decide on?”

  “Your suite is electronically scrambled. If that’s not sufficient, we can arrange a secured conference room at Starfleet Headquarters.” He paused, said delicately, “The hotel will be shielded against transport, of course….”

  “This need not be said.” Krenn read through the names of planets. Contacts Branch knew most of them. Some they knew very well indeed. Krenn mentally crossed those off at once. He said, “You are being very cooperative with us, Admiral.”

  Shepherd put his hands together on his lap. “I’m against dissolution, Captain Krenn. And I know perfectly well that the beings on that list are for it, a little or a long way. But I can’t think of a better way to guarantee their votes than to put pressure on them, or even give the appearance of pressure.” He reached out, tapped the paper. “If Starfleet tried to tamper with the vote…the Federation wouldn’t deserve to exist.”

  Acutely reminded that Dr. Tagore had taught this Human, Krenn looked up; Shepherd’s look was quite intent, but there was nothing of a threat in it.

  Krenn and Maktai walked into the hotel suite. A uniformed Human shifted their traveling bags from an antigrav carrier to the deep carpeting, went silently around the room indicating closets, lights, and environmental controls, opening the heavy drape across the windows: the fiftieth-floor view of the city and the sea was dramatic. The porter stood by the door for a moment, as if expecting something, then gave a small quick bow and went out.

  “Humanai kuvest’?” Maktai said.

  “A paid worker,” Krenn said, though he had been thinking of Odise, in his father’s house so long ago. “Tokhest—I don’t know.”

  Maktai grunted. “They have anything that passes for a bath here?” He disappeared into the next room.

  “I saw some good ones, last time…they call them ‘Roman,’ after an Empire from their history.”

  Mak stuck his head back around the corner. “A what?”

  “Komerex Romaan.”

  Mak made a hands-up gesture and turned around again. Krenn followed him, into a room with two enormous beds.

  “I’ve been on ships smaller than these quarters,” Maktai was saying. “This must be the—Maskan’s liver, Captain….”

  The Security officer stood in a doorway that opened on a circular room, the size of a small ship’s Bridge; it was decorated with columns of veined white stone, mirrors around the walls and on the ceiling. Green vines trailed down from a wooden lattice that diffused the overhead light. In the center of the floor was a sunken bath wider than the span of Maktai’s arms, with golden taps and sprays in bizarre shapes.

  “We’ve got to meet those delegates, Mak….” Krenn heard his mouth saying, and wondered why his mouth was saying such a stupid thing.

  Maktai had a wildly dreamy grin. “But you really ought to relax before then, Captain. And I’ve got to check this thing out first. Security rules.”

  “Captains put up with a lot,” Krenn said. “All right, make sure it isn’t a Romulan trap. I’ll find the computer…we’ll see who wants us badly enough to wait a little while for the privilege.”

  “When the Federation was incorporated, ninety standard years ago,” the Rigellian delegate said, “we requested the sum of eight billion credits to cover the administrative and other costs of in-federation. This sum was, however, never paid; instead, crude threats of Andorian reprisal were used to coerce our signature to the Articles of Federation.”

  The Rigellian brushed the fur on its nose, and curled its silver-ornamented tail across its shoulders. “The original amount, invested at four percent annual interest compounded annually—a modest rate of appreciation, you must agree—would now equal…” The delegate consulted a wrist computer. “…two hundred and seventy-three billion credits. Unfortunately, the membership as a whole still shows no understanding of our position, and in fact has reverted to its original approach—except that now we are threatened with Klingon devils instead of Andorian ones.”

  “Klingons do not believe in devils,” Krenn said.

  “A very pragmatic approach.”

  “Klingons also do not believe in bribery.”

  “That’s a terrible word to use for—administrative expenses.”

  “In our experience it is the most accurate one.”

  “Perhaps…the interest could be discounted for risk.”

  Krenn showed the points of his side teeth.

  “Or even waived,” the Rigellian said. It tugged at its tail, which had somehow become wrapped around its throat. “Or perhaps a certain positive consideration—”

  “I have only a single diplomatic cruiser,” Krenn said. “I doubt there is room in its holds for two hundred seventy-three billion credits.” He stood up, bowed slightly. “This concludes the interview.”

  “Of course,” the Rigellian whispered, and left with its tail around its neck.

  Krenn went into the suite’s bedroom, Maktai was watching a monitor; the pictures were of delegates arriving at Babel, with extra tape allotted to those of particularly non-humanoid forms. Mak said, “I’m glad now I learned the language. They showed a tape of the g’dayt ugliest Klingon I’d ever seen, all fangs and scars, and were talking about him as if he was just run of the Imperial Race. Then I saw it was me.”

  “Have you tried the entertainment channels?”

  “What’s this?”

  “News.”

  “I thought it was the entertainment channel. The others all look like children’s indoctrination tapes.”

  The picture changed again. A crowd of Humans was seated on a hillside. There were long banners stretched above them, reading ONLY ONE SPACESHIP: EARTH and LOOK HOMEWARD HUMAN. Balloons, painted to resemble the Earth, floated on strings.

  “In major cities on all points of the globe,” a disembodied voice said, “members of the Back-to-Earth Movement met peacefully to protest…”

  “Points?” Maktai said.

  “They don’t like to go into space.”

  Maktai had his tongue between his teeth, watching the crowd of Humans. “There must be thousands of them, all there together.”

  “They turned out a quarter million for just two Klingons.”

  “I remember ’Khil…you saying that…but…” he shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen ten thousand of anything in one place before. Not even kuve.” He pointed at the blue sky above the crowd. “A few fliers with weapon pods, and a cordon force around them…not fifty would get away. But they don’t…and that mob doesn’t even look like they’ve thought of it.” Maktai looked up at Krenn. “Is that what you meant, when you said we weren’t afraid of the same things?”

  “Partly.”

  The picture changed again, to an old building against a sky of glass, with a blue-domed disc on its roof. “In Atlanta,” the announcer said, “Maxwell Grandisson III, leader of the well-supported Homeworld faction of Back-to-Earth, was unavailable for comment. But a tapetext release to the press, signed by Grandisson, include
d the phrases ‘a major development is near’ and ‘years of faith are about to be vindicated in action.’ ” The words appeared on the screen. “Speculation on—”

  Krenn struck the monitor’s off switch. Maktai was silent for a few moments, then said, “How did it play, with the Rigellian?”

  “Well enough. We wouldn’t buy and we wouldn’t sell, so they don’t know what to do about us; they’re off balance, and it won’t take much to push them over.” He looked at the curtained window; it was fully dark outside. The clock beside the bed read 22:36. “I think it’s time.”

  Maktai nodded, began unfastening his tunic.

  Krenn said, “There are two more interviews set for tonight, and three tomorrow morning. Think you’re ready?”

  “I think I’ll enjoy it.” Mak gestured toward the monitor. “If any of them saw those tapes, the real me ought to scare them to death.”

  Krenn laughed. “Don’t do that, or they won’t be able to vote.”

  Mak reached inside his loosened clothing, drew out a flat black display panel, then a small keyboard, and finally a metal box that unfolded itself in four stages to become a meter-wide antenna array. Cables linked all the devices together: indicators came to life, and the display screen showed first noise, then a data line.

  Maktai worked at the keyboard, then said, “Shepherd gave me the key to shut off the spy screens.”

  “How convenient,” Krenn said. “I’m sure someone’s waiting for us to use it. Besides, Kelly’d be insulted.”

  “She’s the proudest female I…um.”

  Krenn laughed.

  “They’re answering,” Maktai said. “Decrypting the shields now…. Mirror has lock-on. At least, as locked as we can expect.”

  “Have them energize,” Krenn said.

  “Captain…” Mak said, “I think one gets only so much luck with transporters, this side of the Black Fleet. You understand?”

  “I understand, Mak. Action.”

  “Acting.”

  The golden flicker was very slow, and pulsed much brighter than normal, as the warp-accelerated transport signal found the dead oscillations of the standing shield wave, and cycled through them.