“Tell the Partners that that is precisely why we must continue,” Vabion told her, his cool, haughty manner restored now that he had a challenge to focus him. “This bioneural interface will give us the same root access that Mister Mayweather had when I installed him into the Pebru system.” Tucker suppressed a grimace at the reminder. “It will enable us, or the Partnership, to modify the Ware’s kernel functions and overcome the limitations of its drones’ combat strategies. That will do more for the Partnership’s defense than adding another handful of starships to the border fleet.”
T’Pol looked to Tucker. “Do you agree with his assessment, Mister Collier?”
Tucker could see the reasoning for her question. Root-user access to the Ware’s core programming had been Vabion’s Holy Grail, and now it was within his reach. Had the revelations on the Ware origin world really cured him of his craving for power and profit at all costs, or was he falling back into his old patterns?
Vabion noted Tucker’s gaze on him. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’d do anything to solve this problem. And you’re right—I’m not doing this out of compassion, though I agree that the conquest of this civilization by Klingons would be unfortunate, if the rest of them are anything like Mister Lokog and his crew. But I have nothing at stake here except the intellectual challenge. I have been pursuing the answer to this question for five years, and it has eluded me. All I want is the satisfaction of perfecting the solution. So I have nothing to gain here unless that solution is valid. I have no incentive to mislead you about our chances of success.”
“I think we can do it,” Akomo said. “The bioneural replication worked like a charm. We’ve got viable neural circuitry and the kernel’s accepting its root privileges. It’s just a matter of working out the programming to make the process self-sustaining—to enable the Ware to repair and replenish its own bioneural tissues.”
“After all,” Banerji added, “the replication of live tissue does require enormous processing power. It would take something as intricate as the neural tissue itself to replicate the tissue itself on a sustainable basis. Really rather elegant, wouldn’t you say?”
“And the delivery system?” T’Pol asked him. “In order to upgrade the combat drones, we would need the capability to broadcast the necessary modifications remotely.”
Banerji chuckled. “Don’t you worry, Captain T’Pol. I have some ideas about that.”
“Tell the Partners we’ll make it work,” Tucker told her. “We just need time to put the pieces together.”
She held his gaze coolly. “The Partnership has little time to spare. I will do what I can to persuade them. But I recommend you work quickly.”
Tucker smiled. “You know me. I always work best under pressure.”
October 10, 2165
Qam-Chee, the First City, Qo’noS
Khorkal stormed into the High Council chamber with unwonted fury. Other councillors used such histrionics as a matter of routine, but Khorkal was generally a bastion of discipline and reserve, saving his bursts of rage for when they were truly needed. So his rage immediately drew the attention of the full Council. “The Menvoq system has fallen to the rebels and their drones!” Khorkal roared. “They are now within two days’ warp of the homeworld itself!”
Councillor Ramnok strode forth to confront him on the debate floor. “The QuchHa’ will never penetrate the home system’s defenses.”
“They should never have penetrated as far as Menvoq! But you and B’orel have spread out the fleet in too many directions, leaving our core worlds vulnerable. Now the rebels control one of our key manufacturing hubs! They will only grow stronger so long as they hold it, and we will grow weaker.”
B’orel loped forward, acting unconcerned. “The half-breeds are nothing without their robot ships. Ja’rod’s fleet is dealing with the source of that annoyance even now.”
“And our warriors have the measure of the machines,” Ramnok added. “They are limited, predictable. Distract the drones sufficiently and the command ships fall.”
“And how many ships and warriors do we sacrifice for every ‘distraction’?” asked Khorkal. “Victory over the drones is achievable, but it is costly, and they are many.”
Khorkal’s ally, Councillor Alejdar, glided forth to join him. “And do not underestimate the QuchHa’,” she advised. “Generals K’Vagh and Kor were acclaimed as fine strategists before their mutation. They have not lost their wits along with their beauty. They use the drones to create their own distractions, then strike at our weakest points with their battleships. That is how Menvoq fell.”
“If we wish to fight the drones both here and at their source,” Khorkal intoned, “we must concentrate our efforts. We have already lost one ship and its crew to this premature war with the Federation, and now you divert dozens more from where they are most needed! The Federation can wait.”
“Wait?” Ramnok cried. “When we are on the verge of tearing a hole in their defenses? Their own fleet is divided; we expect to engage and destroy their ships in Ware space any day now. We must be ready to strike at their borders at the same time, before they can gather themselves.”
“Do you not hear your own folly?” Khorkal demanded. “You call their division a fatal weakness, yet deny it is a weakness in our own fleet!”
“Because we are Klingons! Our strength is measured not in numbers, but in will! Four thousand throats—”
“May be slit in one night, yes,” Alejdar interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “But the key word is ‘night.’ Krim bided his time and waited to begin his run until he had the advantage. Tygrak failed before him because he attempted to overpower the citadel’s defenses by main force.”
“The Second Precept says to strike quickly or strike not!”
“Quickly, yes, but at the right moment. The Precept teaches decisiveness, not reckless haste.”
B’orel growled, perhaps disturbed to see how many councillors appeared to be swayed by Khorkal’s and Alejdar’s words. “This endless debate is a waste of time!” he exclaimed. “It is the lack of a firm hand leading the Empire that is the true source of our troubles.” He strode over to Councillor Deqan, who had stood watching the debate silently, as he always did. “This ja’chuq has dragged out for two jar with no resolution in sight! It is your indecisiveness, scholar, that has left us vulnerable to dissent from within and attack from without.” The other councillors in his faction voiced their support for his charge. “I say it is time! We have all recited our deeds to prove our worthiness to lead. We prove it even now as we wage war for the survival and purity of the Empire. It is long past time to choose! Pick the two worthiest and let us fight for the chancellor’s robes at long last!”
Even many of Khorkal’s supporters joined in the cheering at his words, no doubt believing that their candidate would surely win. Deqan considered the situation carefully. Khorkal had long been a powerful warrior, true, but B’orel and Ramnok were younger, hungrier. And Deqan did not share the warrior caste’s conviction that the best fighter was automatically the best leader.
But he had studied the rules of arbitership carefully, and they gave him an option. “Very well,” he declared. “I will now choose the final candidates to succeed M’Rek, as laid down in the traditions of our people.” A hush fell over the Council chamber. “Khorkal, Ramnok, come forward!”
B’orel looked frustrated not to be chosen himself. Deqan would have preferred to choose him; his main asset was fanatical bigotry, which was not enough to assure his victory over Khorkal’s experience and judgment. But Deqan could only permit himself to bend the rules so far; he was compelled to choose the two worthiest candidates, and Ramnok had done more to distinguish himself in battle and in politics—enough to pose a serious challenge to Khorkal.
Yet there was one last card Deqan could play, and he used it as the two named challengers stepped toward him . . . and as a frustrated B’o
rel slinked back into the watching crowd. “Wait!” he intoned before the challengers began to attack each other. “As Arbiter of Succession, I am empowered to choose the nature of the final challenge.” The councillors muttered uneasily, surprised at this turn of events. “And my choice,” Deqan continued, loudly enough to override them, “is that the chancellor’s mantle shall go to whichever of these men succeeds in ending the QuchHa’ uprising and the threat of the Ware!”
“What?” Ramnok cried while the councillors roared in outrage. “The Rite of Succession has ended with mortal combat ever since the warrior caste came to power! Do not think you can turn back history so easily, man of books.”
“We are in a state of mortal combat already,” Deqan told him. “We fight for the life of the Klingon Empire. As Councillor B’orel just said, that is how the contenders truly prove their worth. And he is right. Whether you or Khorkal can wield a bat’leth is not in dispute; you have both proven yourselves as great warriors. But it is the blade of leadership that will decide this combat and the future of the Klingon people. So that is the weapon you must prove yourselves worthy to wield.” He was grateful to B’orel for his choice of words. By granting him the credit for the suggestion, Deqan made it more difficult for B’orel’s faction, or Ramnok’s equally militant one, to reject his choice.
Still, Ramnok protested. “How is that different from the state we were in before?”
“The difference, Councillor, is that the battle lines have now been clearly drawn. The endgame has begun. Will you complain at the shape of the battlefield, or will you act? That is your first test of leadership.”
Ramnok glared at him murderously. Khorkal merely stood by, as stalwart and silent as the statues in the Hall of Warriors. Seeing this, Ramnok schooled himself to calm acceptance. “Very well,” he replied. “Soon my fleets will triumph against our external foes, and then we will root out the cancer of rebellion within. What does Khorkal have to offer save words of warning and disapproval, and the philosophy of a female? My actions will prove my leadership.”
“Now who relies on words?” Khorkal asked. “Let the final combat begin.” And he turned and strode from the chamber, Alejdar in his wake. Not wishing to seem less decisive, Ramnok hastened to follow him out, barking orders at his supporters.
Deqan sighed heavily as he watched them leave. Were these the Empire’s only choices? A disciplined warrior and a reckless warrior? How long could a nation endure when dedicated entirely to war?
Still, the lesser of two evils was plain to see. Deqan had done all he could, even sacrificed the honor of his own kinsman, to give reason a fighting chance. The rest was out of his hands.
15
October 11, 2165
Capital Metrocomplex, Antar
IT WAS A RELIEF for Phlox to stand in the offices of Antar’s Central Investigation Bureau at last. The Interspecies Medical Exchange had been most cooperative in permitting him to divert the medical vessel Ronuas to transport him to Antar, but it had still taken substantially longer than he had become accustomed to aboard Endeavour. During the trip, Phlox had experienced a rare bout of impatience, despite his efforts to reassure himself that the Antaran renegades’ ship was probably even slower than Ronuas. He hoped he would still have at least a modest headstart over them.
But that was contingent on the cooperation of Golouv Ruehn, the heavyset, middle-aged Antaran woman who led the CIB. When Phlox was shown into her spare, wood-paneled office, he found her conferring with a lighter-haired, somewhat older man. “Doctor Phlox,” Ruehn greeted him, rising and folding her hands in welcome, a gesture the man matched. Phlox returned it himself, grateful that Antarans did not insist on physical contact in their greetings. “Welcome. This is Mathas Kajel, our Undersecretary for External Affairs.”
“Doctor,” Kajel said. “Let me just express my appreciation for all the Interspecies Medical Exchange has done for Antar.”
“Thank you, Undersecretary, Director. But I trust you’ll understand that my business is rather urgent and I have little time for the usual niceties.”
“Of course,” Ruehn said, seeming more comfortable with his preference for efficiency than Kajel was. “Have a seat.”
She resumed her place behind her desk and Phlox took the offered chair before it, with the undersecretary then taking the adjacent seat. “Yes, the attack upon Denobulan soil by this group of traditionalist extremists was simply unconscionable,” Kajel said. “Naturally the government of Antar condemns it in the strongest possible terms.”
“Yes, thank you, but my interest is not in what they have already done, but in what they plan to do next. The captured raider said they intend to put my son Mettus on trial, with his execution already predetermined. I presume the trial will be held once they bring Mettus onto Antar, which could be any day now.”
Ruehn and Kajel exchanged a look. “That fits with the chatter we’ve been hearing from the True Sons of Antar,” Ruehn said.
“Their name, not ours,” Kajel added, earning an annoyed glance from the director.
“They’ve been promoting this so-called trial on some of the darker channels of our data network,” Ruehn continued. “They intend to broadcast it publicly so, in their words, the whole of Antar will see the true crimes of the Denobulan people.”
Kajel grimaced. “As if we didn’t already feel the pain of what that man did. Sohon Retab was a good friend of mine. I grew up with his wife in the Vemton District.”
“Your grief is entirely understandable,” Phlox said, a bit tensely. “But I trust you do not endorse this group’s actions in any way.”
“Of course not,” Kajel said. “They’re relics of the past—ideologues who still buy into the destructive lies of the old corporate regime. And of course we want to make it very clear that the government does not support renewed hostility toward Denobula.”
“We are strongly motivated to bring them to justice,” Ruehn put in.
“That’s excellent,” said Phlox. “May I ask what plans you have in place to ensure the rescue of their captive?”
Again, the officials exchanged an uneasy look. “Doctor,” Ruehn began, “it was our understanding that you had repudiated Mettus and his actions.”
“Of course I repudiate his actions. But whatever he has done, he is my son. I cannot disregard the obligation that creates.”
Her features grew harder, more withdrawn. “I understand, Doctor. But we have our own obligations to consider—our own priorities.”
“All due respect to your family ties, Doctor,” Kajel said. “I’m a father myself. But your son murdered one of our most admired leaders. He turned one of my oldest and dearest friends into a widow. He can’t be a priority in this operation. Not his rescue—not even his safety.”
Phlox looked back and forth at them, sensing something between the lines. “What are you saying? As Mettus’s father, I’m entitled to know.”
Ruehn folded her hands. “Doctor, these people are elusive, insidious. They rarely emerge from hiding, making them difficult to track down. You have to understand that the impending trial offers a rare opportunity. No doubt the trial and . . . sentencing . . . will be recorded and released online. It will be broadcast more widely than any of their prior communications. And that will give us an unprecedented chance to trace the source of the upload and track down the True Sons’ leadership.”
The doctor was aghast. “You say it’ll be recorded. You mean that by the time they release the broadcast . . . Mettus will have been executed already.”
“We have little choice, Doctor. There is much more at stake here than Mettus. The True Sons’ leader will surely want to release and preface this broadcast himself. Waiting for its release will give us an opportunity to bring down the very head of the group, not just the cell that’s bringing in your son.”
Phlox jumped on that. “Does that mean that you could locate and raid that cell be
fore Mettus is executed? That you’re choosing not to?”
“In order to strike a larger blow,” Kajel insisted, confirming Phlox’s guess. “I understand your concern for your son—but frankly, he doesn’t deserve it. Our consideration is for the countless other sons and daughters who would suffer if the so-called True Sons further undermine the peace between Antar and Denobula—or inflame the traditionalists who want to undo the Great Reform. I hope you can set aside your personal feelings enough to recognize the importance of averting that kind of violence.”
Phlox examined the man silently for a long moment before speaking. “Director Kajel. I am a medical man. I am well-trained in setting aside personal considerations in the name of my professional responsibilities.” Kajel looked pleased—until the doctor continued. “And it is in my professional capacity as a representative of the Interspecies Medical Exchange that I must protest this plan. The IME would not look kindly on using any sapient being, even a convicted criminal, as a sacrificial victim in a political game. Knowingly throwing away a life that you have the ability to save is callous and unethical in the extreme, regardless of the desirability of the ends. It runs counter to the principles on which the IME was founded.
“So I caution you: If you proceed with this plan, and Mettus dies, I can guarantee that it will earn you a negative report from the IME’s sentient rights panel. Such a report could have an unwelcome impact on your future trade relations with other IME signatories, such as the Federation.”
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