Forged in Fire

by Michael A. Martin

  “Come along, then,” Kor sighed, as if talking to a child. Sulu was surprised that Kor had raised no objections to Dax’s idea.

  With no direct power — or good reason — to stop Dax, Sulu watched the quartet march down the corridor, preceded by a few of the security personnel that had been stationed outside the conference room door.

  Dax is planning something, he thought. And hiding something. And all his instincts told him that Kor was hiding something as well.

  I hope I haven’t just allowed Daniel to walk alone into the lion’s den, Sulu thought soberly.

  NINETEEN

  Stardate 9001.2 (New Year’s Day, 2290; the Year of

  Kahless 915, late in the month of Doqath)

  I.K.S. Klothos

  Curzon Dax was surprised to discover that even the cumulative experience of five previous hosts seemed to do little to blunt his initial impression of the Klingon ship. He found the place almost overwhelmingly alien. He was struck first by its too-warm, too-humid air, the omnipresence of its dim, reddish illumination, and the oppressive closeness of its cramped passages, which he didn’t consider wide enough to qualify to be called “corridors.” Given the width of most of the warriors on board, and the thickness of their heavy armor, Dax wondered how they managed to function at all during emergency situations.

  Then there was the farrago of intense odors that assailed him as the Klingon engineers and technicians led him from the transporter room through the various sections of the vessel that were already undergoing repairs under the ministrations of mixed teams of Klingon and Starfleet personnel. Many of the smells were intensely unpleasant, as one might expect after a damaged vessel’s internal atmosphere had been compromised with higher than trace amounts of coolant gases and acrid, nostril-singeing ozone. Even the sections that he was told housed the Klingon crew’s ascetic living quarters retained a strong aroma that hovered somewhere between the stench of spoiled food and the scent of the lilacs that Emony had encountered during her time on Earth. He didn’t even want to contemplate the horrors that probably awaited him when the time came for his first meal in the crew galley.

  But he quickly decided it was the sporadic salvoes of derisive Klingon laughter, which erupted behind him repeatedly as he followed Chief Engineer Q’Lujj around the Klothos on his inspection rounds that got under his skin the most. To the men and women who served aboard this ship, all of whom he had to assume were blooded warriors, Dax was simply not to be taken seriously. He was neither old enough nor Klingon enough for that, and there seemed to be little prospect of changing those perceptions any time soon.

  Especially not among the ranks of the Klothos’s lower-decks personnel, for whom no amount of evidence would suffice to prove that the Federation wasn’t to blame for the attacks on the Korvat colony and the Klingon vessels in orbit above it.

  Q’Lujj led the way into an unexpectedly large, high-ceilinged chamber that was the largest space aboard the Klothos that Dax had seen so far. Near the room’s center sat a complex bank of machinery that was tied into a two-story vertical cylinder that glowed with potent yet restrained energies. A small team of junior officers busied themselves around this tableau, monitoring various regulators, gauges, and displays. A pair of devices that lifetimes of cumulative experience helped him recognize as antimatter injectors lay in pieces on the deck while the engineers inspected the various disassembled components and engaged in guttural, desultory conversation about technical specifications and procedures.

  Dax needed recourse to neither Tobin’s nor Torias’s memories to recognize the entire assemblage before him as the vessel’s warp core. With those experiences at his disposal, however, the equipment and tools that lay spread across the deck nearby made it plain enough which tasks needed to be done most urgently to get the entire system back up and running.

  Finally, a chance to prove his worth to these people had presented itself. His spirits buoyed by this hopeful notion, he began striding straight toward the core.

  Q’Lujj’s large, unyielding form glided into his path with surprising speed, stopping him cold. At least a head taller than Dax, the dour chief engineer stared down at him with dilithium-hard eyes that looked as black as space and only half as forgiving.

  “Where do you think you’re going, toy’wI’?”

  Dax understood the meaning of the engineer’s last word, which translated approximately to “servant” in Federation Standard. He swallowed hard and avoided breaking eye contact as though his very life depended on it — because he knew that it very well might.

  Why did I insist on coming here? he thought, his earlier ebullience suddenly dashed. He found himself wishing he hadn’t succeeded in persuading Captain Sulu not to keep him aboard Excelsior for security’s sake. I am in way, way over my head here.

  “I am here to assist you in getting this vessel under way, am I not?” he said, since he knew he had to say something. But what he had intended to come out like impressive Klingon bluster had instead sounded weak, even in his own ears, and probably merely served to confirm his toy’wI’ status in the chief engineer’s eyes.

  “So I am told,” Q’Lujj said, his deep voice nearly matching the low thrum of the partially disassembled warp core. “But your Earther captain has already lent me as many of his trained engineers as I can use, and you are hardly that. And it is my responsibility to protect my engines from being damaged by inexperienced hands.”

  Dax felt umbrage that more properly belonged to both Tobin and Torias, which was bound up tightly in the statesmanlike restraint that had always been the province of Lela, Dax’s first humanoid host.

  But the grin that spread across his face now belonged to no one other than Curzon. Klingons appreciate bold gestures, he told himself, restoking his confidence with a supreme act of will. Looks like now is as good a time as any to make one.

  “How much would you like to wager that I can cut your repair time in half?” he said, folding his arms across his chest in an unmistakable gesture of challenge.

  The Klingon engineers working around the warp core laughed dismissively. Dax fervently hoped Q’Lujj would answer his challenge with a spanner rather than with a knife.

  “Mevyap!” shouted the chief engineer, who stepped out of Dax’s way with a grace that Emony, the trained gymnast, might have envied. Apart from the background hum of the impulse engines, the engine room fell as silent as a tomb.

  Dax continued toward the partially disassembled warp core, hoping with every step that he hadn’t just confused “bold” with “foolhardy.”

  I.K.S. QaD

  Kang still could scarcely believe his ears. But since the story had come directly from Kor’s chief engineer, a veteran of three Romulan wars who had once overseen Kang’s own engine room, he had no choice other than to take it at face value.

  “Kor’s chief engineer told me that you have done well, Curzon Dax,” he said as soon as the oddly young-looking Trill reported to the QaD’s busy bridge immediately after completing his tasks aboard the Klothos.

  Kang was surprised to see a look of relief cross Dax’s smooth but spotted features.

  “I’m happy to hear that,” Dax said. “Q’Lujj seemed almost eager to get rid of me.”

  Kang chuckled. “Perhaps he feared he might have to kill you to prevent Kor from giving you his job.”

  “Anybody could have missed finding those microfractures in the starboard nacelle coupling,” Dax said.

  Kang nodded. “That’s true enough. But it was Q’Lujj and his men who missed them. And it was you who manually bypassed the damaged components in time to prevent a core breach.”

  “I’m impressed that Q’Lujj admitted that.”

  “Lies are dishonorable,” Kang said. “Besides, such things never remain hidden for long. Not with so many eager junior officers looking for an opportunity to find fault with a superior, and thereby advance in rank and status.”

  Dax looked relieved. “I wasn’t out to get anyone in trouble. I was just trying to
help get Captain Kor’s ship warp-ready again as quickly as possible.”

  “You have succeeded admirably. Now all three vessels will be under way within the kilaan.”

  “That’s good news. Maybe we stand a real chance of tracking down the hostile who attacked the Korvat conference and your fleet.”

  “Why are you so eager to help us catch the terrorist?” Kang wanted to know.

  The junior diplomat appeared surprised by the question. “I’m a diplomat by trade, Captain. My Federation and your Empire have finally begun making serious mutual peace overtures, something that hasn’t happened in over a century without the effective equivalent of divine intervention.”

  “You refer to the ’orghenya’ngan,” Kang said, sniffing in indignation. “They hardly qualify as gods, I should think.” Kang couldn’t help but wonder if that first encounter with the meddling energy-beings more than two decades ago might have turned out differently had he overseen it rather than his old friend Kor.

  Dax shrugged. “Whatever they are, or were, they stopped two great nations from annihilating each other when those two great nations wouldn’t stop themselves.”

  Kang did not much care for the implied criticism of his “great nation,” though it did not escape his notice that Dax had waxed equally acerbic about his own Federation.

  “We need no such enforced guidance,” Kang said. “Whether it be from gods or superbeings or aliens. We Klingons slew our gods in ancient times for this very reason.”

  “I certainly hope you’re right, Captain. We’d both be pretty foolish if we were to count on the Organians — or anybody else, for that matter — to come to our rescue again the next time both our civilizations stray too close to the brink. We have to build our own peace, working together. And whoever attacked the Korvat conference is a direct threat to that effort — and, frankly, I want his head for that.”

  Kang grinned. “That is a remarkably Klingon sentiment, my young friend. For a man of peace, that is.”

  “Peacemaking is not a craft for the fainthearted,” Dax said solemnly.

  “I’ve always found it difficult to distinguish your Federation Standard words ‘peacemaker’ and ‘appeaser.’ ”

  Dax smiled, a mannerism that made him look both wistful and unaccountably older than his years. “Captain, I have encountered a number of officials in both the Federation government and in Starfleet who labor under the very same confusion.”

  Kang chuckled, realizing that he wasn’t quite sure how best to interpret Dax’s words. Very good. Was it possible that this whelp was really nowhere near so callow and inexperienced as he had first appeared?

  “You have been willing to go a good deal further in assisting us than has Captain Sulu,” Kang said. “Why?”

  “Captain Sulu provided you . . . provided us . . . with a nice, warm trail to follow.”

  “While Excelsior herself remains safe, undamaged, and immobile.”

  Dax rubbed his smooth chin in what Kang took to be a thoughtful gesture. “Captain Sulu’s hands are bound a bit more tightly than mine are,” said the Trill. “By Federation politics as well as Starfleet regulations. So I have a good deal less responsibility than he does.”

  “But, conversely, a good deal more freedom to act,” Kang said.

  “It appears to be one of the eternal paradoxes of interstellar diplomacy,” Dax said, nodding.

  Maybe he actually understands Klingon honor, Kang thought after Korod, his own chief engineer, had escorted the young Trill off the bridge for a technical consultation of his own. Was it possible that Dax was actually trying to earn some measure of honor on behalf of a Federation that had, at best, only scant appreciation of such things? Kang was more than a little nonplussed by the notion that a non-Klingon might somehow have achieved such a keen insight into the Klingon soul.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that the Trill diplomat was actually pursuing some private agenda of his own.

  TWENTY

  Stardate 9001.5 (New Year’s Day, 2290)

  U.S.S. Excelsior

  “I thought my previous orders were perfectly clear, Commander,” Admiral Harriman said, his scowling visage moving slightly closer on the comm screen. “Excelsior is not to leave the vicinity of Korvat. You are to guard against further attacks against the colonists there. You are not to proceed any farther into Klingon territory at this time. Does that remove any lingering ambiguity?”

  Seated at the desk in his quarters, Sulu hoped his cheeks hadn’t reddened as much as he felt his ears had. Harriman’s tone sounded better suited to addressing a recalcitrant child than the acting commander of Starfleet’s most advanced ship of the line.

  “I had hoped that there might have been some further word from the Klingon High Council,” Sulu finally said, keeping his low voice measured and even. “Or perhaps a reconsideration on Starfleet Command’s part.”

  “The Klingon High Council has not responded, except to note they are looking into the . . . situation,” Harriman said. “They want to launch a complete investigation into what went wrong at Korvat, which is precisely what you should be doing as well.”

  “We are doing that, sir,” Sulu said. “We’ve already learned how the saboteur got past both our security protocols and those of the Klingons, and how his bombs were constructed. We’ve even uncovered genetic material that identifies who the bomber is, and traced his ship after he made his follow-up attack run against us and the Klingon vessels. His residual warp trail is steadily dissipating, and our sensors are far better able to follow it than the equipment the Klingons are using.”

  Harriman frowned, peering down at something on his desk. “Given that both the saboteur and his vessel were cloaked or otherwise hidden initially, you have no way to be certain that the Korvat colony isn’t at risk of further attacks, do you?”

  “Sir, the attacks weren’t against the colonists,” Sulu said. “They were specifically targeted at the peace talks. Just as the warnings we received beforehand predicted. No other locations on Korvat were targeted. And the saboteur’s ship went on to attack the Klingon vessels, and even destroyed Ambassador Kamarag’s diplomatic ship. That tells us pretty clearly that the Klingons and the peace talks were the target. Not the Korvat colony. Not the colonists. In my opinion, further attacks here are highly unlikely.”

  “But you can’t rule it out, can you?” Harriman asked, his eyes glinting a steely gray that closely matched the color of his severe crew cut.

  Sulu clenched his fists so hard he thought his knuckle-bones might pop through the skin. “No, sir, we can’t.” He wanted to pursue the albino’s ship along with Kang, Koloth, and Kor, and not for merely political or diplomatic reasons; no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he couldn’t deny that his business with the chalk-white pirate was personal.

  He decided to try a different argument. “Have you considered, sir, that by not helping to pursue the person who attacked our peace conference, we may create an even bigger diplomatic problem with the Klingons than any technical violation of their border might cause? After all, the Klingons are the product of a warrior culture. Kang and the other Klingon captains clearly feel disdain toward us for our decision not to pursue the albino alongside them. Aren’t you concerned about the Federation looking weak in the eyes of the High Council?”

  Harriman settled back in his chair, clearly giving Sulu’s words some thoughtful consideration. But his gaze hardened again almost as quickly as whatever internal debate the admiral had undertaken resolved itself. “I will have the matter brought up with the High Council again, Commander. But we cannot afford to try to force their hand if they have decided on their own not to allow Excelsior to join the pursuit. And if the ball is in their court, we cannot override their wishes. If we were to do that, they wouldn’t see it as an act of cowardice or weakness — they would call it an act of naked aggression on our part.”

  The admiral leaned forward again, his eyes boring into Sulu’s from across the light-years. “Let me once ag
ain try to make myself perfectly clear, Commander Sulu. The chain of command is in place for a reason, regardless of how you or I might feel about particular command decisions at times. Your previous captain on the Enterprise may have delighted in flouting Starfleet regs — and he may have even gotten away with doing so — but make no mistake here: your command career will be an exceptionally brief one should you violate your orders to stay out of the Klingon territory beyond Korvat prior to obtaining the High Council’s explicit authorization to do so.”

  Letting his breath out evenly through nearly gritted teeth, Sulu worked hard to keep his face blank, devoid of emotion. “Understood, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  Harriman looked down at his desk again, then directed his hard gaze back to the screen. “Yes, actually. I trust that you’re already aware that Captain Styles did not wish to have his body committed to space.”

  Sulu nodded. “I am, sir. I had planned to transport his remains to Earth, after we hold our memorial services aboard Excelsior, and finish up any remaining business related to the Korvat attack.”

  “Very good, Commander. In fact, Starfleet Medical may wish to examine the remains of all personnel lost in this horrible attack.”

  Sulu wasn’t thrilled with any second-guessing of Excelsior’s crew, whether it was being done by “Blackjack” Harriman or Starfleet Medical. But he understood how to follow orders, despite what the admiral might think of his regard for military discipline. The shipboard memorials for the dead would go forward as scheduled for the sake of crew morale, but there would be no burials in space.

  “Understood, Admiral,” Sulu said.

  “Assuming you require no further clarifications about your orders, Commander, I have other matters to attend to,” Harriman said. “And one of those involves sending another request to the Klingon High Council.”