The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Kravokh fixed his aide with a look. “I know why it is good for K’Tal, I am merely surprised that Ditagh chose him. I would have thought he’d choose B’alikk to guarantee that the choices were palatable to Ditagh.”

  “I don’t think any choices are palatable to Ditagh.” Ruuv walked over to Kravokh’s side, his boots clacking against the wooden floor. Kravokh, in the privacy of his home, had been wearing mok’bara shirt and pants, and had left his feet bare. “I believe that he has left the Empire in a state of disarray and would prefer the choice go to someone else.”

  “Of course he’s left the Empire in a state of disarray. The amazing thing is that he’s realized what the rest of us have been telling him for the past several years. The only concern now is who K’Tal will pick as the final two candidates.”

  “There is little doubt of your being one of them.”

  Kravokh shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “Definitely. The only successful programs that the High Council has put forth in the last year have come from you.”

  Ruuv was not one for unnecessary flattery—in fact, his brutal honesty was one of his best qualities. And in this case, he was right. Kravokh had pushed hard for a variety of programs and reforms, and all the ones he’d been able to slam through the Council—which were irritatingly few of them—had gone quite well.

  “I would suggest,” Ruuv said, “that you program that new hologram of yours with everything you can find about Grivak’s fighting style.”

  Again, Kravokh laughed. “You’re sure of this information?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Good. And you can be sure that my seat on the Council will go to you, Ruuv.”

  Ruuv smiled. “That has always been my goal, Kravokh. Out of curiosity, who will get the other one?”

  “Assuming the other candidate is Grivak, or someone else on the Council, once I kill them, their seat will go to Captain K’mpec.”

  At that, Ruuv’s eyes widened. “I’m not sure that is such a good idea. K’mpec disobeyed your orders at Donatu.”

  “And it has all worked out for the best. I have seen the record of battle for the engagement with the Boklar. K’mpec had no choice but to destroy the invaders. Besides,” and here Kravokh smiled viciously, “the promotion of the man responsible for the destruction of the Boklar will send a message to Cardassia.”

  Ruuv didn’t sound convinced. “I would think expelling all Cardassian citizens from the Empire would be message enough.”

  Kravokh waved him off. “That is a tiny gesture, and does nothing to get us Ch’gran back. We were a mighty Empire once. Now we are reduced to a third-rate power, letting the Federation broker competitions while Cardassians hold one of our sacred relics hostage. Meanwhile, our so-called ‘leader’ lets our shipyards remain closed because he refuses to bring our ties to the Federation closer! Look at this!” He activated the hologram. “We should be trading Raknal’s zenite for this technology, but instead we let it sit unused. We—”

  “Kravokh.”

  The councillor blinked.

  “I am not the one you need to convince,” Ruuv said with a smile. “Save this oratory for after you defeat Grivak.”

  This time, Kravokh’s laugh was a full-throated one that echoed off the high ceiling of the practice room. “Indeed! And when it is over, you and I—Councillor Ruuv—will share a drink to celebrate!”

  “I look forward to it.”

  Ditagh died the next morning.

  The Sonchi ceremony was held that afternoon in Council Chambers. The corpse of Ditagh sat on the large chair that was the chamber’s centerpiece. Five had petitioned to be considered for the chancellorship, and all five, as well as K’Tal—whose job was to reduce that list to two—stood around the chair, along with aides and other companions, as well as the remainder of the High Council. Ruuv stood by Kravokh’s side, holding his painstik.

  First K’Tal walked up to the chair holding his painstik, and issued the traditional challenge. “Face me if you dare!” Then he jabbed the corpse with the painstik, its red glow spreading across the chancellor’s chest.

  Ditagh did not move.

  The purpose of the ceremony was to verify for all to see that the old leader was truly dead. Like many old traditions, it served little purpose beyond the symbolic in this day and age. Indeed, many of the old rites had fallen away over time like the leaves off a dying tree, but this one remained.

  Next was Grivak. Like Ditagh, he was a large, muscular warrior, with enough canniness to make up for an appalling lack of intelligence. His record in battle was excellent; his record in politics unspectacular. In fact, his career was similar to that of Ditagh’s when he ascended, which no doubt accounted for the strength of his petition to succeed him.

  “Face me if you dare,” Grivak said, sounding bored. He barely touched Ditagh with the painstik.

  A woman named Altrom then approached. She had no aide, and carried her own painstik. Kravokh knew her as an agitator who mainly wished to reverse Kaarg’s decree that women could not serve on the Council.

  “Face me,” she cried, “if you dare!” She practically shoved the painstik through Ditagh’s belly.

  The other two petitioners took their turn, then, finally, it was down to Kravokh. Ruuv handed him the painstik, and he approached the corpse, now smoking with the remnants of five painstik bursts.

  The erstwhile chancellor looked much older in death than he had in life. Yet part of him seemed almost—relieved? As if the burden of the chancellorship was too much for him, Kravokh thought. Certainly I would not argue that point. Ditagh had succeeded Kaarg, a reactionary chancellor whose entire platform consisted of not being Azetbur, but with no plan beyond that. The Ditagh regime was more of the same. Kravokh vowed that he would be remembered as more than the idiotic footnote that was, he hoped, the only fate that awaited Kaarg and Ditagh in the future.

  “Face me if you dare,” Kravokh said, and applied the painstik. And of course, Ditagh did not face him, nor anyone else. The Sonchi was especially fitting for a chancellor whose regime would be known as an era of doing nothing.

  K’Tal then once again approached the chair, this time without the painstik, and spoke the phrase for which the ceremony was named. “He is dead.”

  Then the young man turned to face the five petitioners. “I will now choose the final candidates to succeed Ditagh, as laid down in the traditions of our people.” K’Tal paused, letting the moment stretch. If someone with more of a sense of humor than he credited K’Tal with having were Arbiter, Kravokh would have half expected him to choose Altrom as one of the candidates. But K’Tal was in no position to make so radical a choice without dire consequences to his burgeoning career.

  Several seconds passed. The politician in Kravokh admired the delaying tactic, though the warrior in him cried out for blood. Kravokh had worked his whole life for this moment, and he did not want it delayed because some boy wanted the spotlight on him for a few extra seconds.

  “Kravokh, Grivak, come forward!”

  It took all of Kravokh’s willpower to keep from smiling.

  The fight did not last very long. Kravokh had been up all the night, spending half of it researching Grivak’s fighting style and programming it into his holographic sparring partner and the other half engaging the hologram in combat. Grivak’s thrusts and parries were all from above—if Kravokh emphasized strokes that came from below, Grivak would have a harder time defending or moving to the offensive. Although the real Grivak proved more adaptable than the hologram—the latter was limited by the short timeframe and its programming—Kravokh still made relatively short work of his competitor.

  His bat’leth firmly lodged in Grivak’s chest, Kravokh now stood over his fallen foe. I’ve done it, he thought. I lead the Empire.

  It almost didn’t seem real. He still remembered the day he set himself on this course: it was when Kaarg announced that no women would serve on the Council shortly after he ascended. It was then that the simple thought e
ntered his head: I can run the Empire better than this fool. He spent the next two decades consolidating his support, making a name for himself, gaining a seat on the High Council. Then, when the Ch’gran colony was at last found, he stepped up his efforts. The remains of Ch’gran had to be retrieved at all costs, and he knew that Ditagh would not—indeed could not—be the one to do it.

  Now he had succeeded. The battle was won. He was chancellor.

  Before him, the entire High Council, the other petitioners and their aides, all stood. Several of them cheered his name, as they had been doing since the tide of victory started to stem his way during the fight with Grivak.

  The first order of business was to honor his fallen foe. Though Grivak was an unworthy fool, he died a good death, and deserved all considerations due him for that. Kravokh knelt down, pried open the warrior’s eyes, and then screamed to the heavens. Around him, the other Klingons did likewise, warning the Black Fleet that another Klingon warrior was crossing the River of Blood to Sto-Vo-Kor. Their screams echoed throughout the high-ceilinged chamber for several seconds after the screams themselves ceased.

  Then Kravokh rose and walked over to the chair on which Ditagh’s corpse still sat. As he did so, the assembled Klingons rumbled in anticipation of Kravokh’s first words as the new Klingon supreme commander.

  “Centuries ago, Ch’gran ventured forth into the black sky to bring greatness to our people after the Hur’q left us ravaged. The destruction of Praxis left us ravaged again, and we have let the Empire flounder and grow weak. We have even let the remains of Ch’gran—found after all these turns—lie fallow in the hands of outsiders.”

  He walked back to Grivak’s corpse and yanked his bat’leth from his fallen foe’s chest. Holding it aloft, the blade dripping Grivak’s blood onto the chamber floor, he continued. “Today dawns a new day for the Empire. No longer will we sit while the Federation and the Cardassians grow stronger! No longer shall we allow outsiders to sully our sacred relics! Cardassians will remain pariahs on our worlds! Any Cardassian ship that violates our borders will meet the same fate as the Boklar! And Raknal V will be ours! The Klingon Empire will once again be a force to be reckoned with! We will be strong! We are Klingons, and we will achieve our destiny!”

  All of those present cheered his words, even those who, Kravokh knew, were his enemies, for none could deny the heart of what he said. Even Ditagh’s most fervent supporters knew that it was time for a change.

  Kravokh would bring about that change. And he would bring Ch’gran home to Qo’noS. That was the most important thing of all…

  Part 3

  Fierce Flames

  Burnt Round the

  Heavens

  2343—2346

  Chapter 19

  Shuttlecraft Woodlawn

  “Have you found her yet?”

  Lieutenant Elias Vaughn—or, rather, Lieutenant Commander Elias Vaughn; he still wasn’t used to the new rank—spoke through gritted teeth as he piloted the shuttlepod through the turbulent storm that was ravaging the northern continent of Devniad, the restraining straps cutting into his chest. The Woodlawn was a small craft, with only room for four people to sit, and at that it was cramped. All remaining space was given over to the experimental warp engine—and why they felt the need to field-test the new miniature propulsion system on this mission is a question I will probably never get an adequate answer to, Vaughn thought as he compensated for yet another updraft. The staccato pounding of the rain against the hull and viewport combined with the difficult maneuvering to give him a sharp pain behind his right eye that he knew would be a full-blown headache in about five minutes.

  Next to him, Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn manipulated her console, a receiver protruding from her pointed left ear. “I am still registering neither a human life sign, nor any signal that can be identified as Federation.” She looked over at Vaughn. “We have now scanned the entire continent. Logic suggests that we expand our search.”

  “If nothing else, the weather’s probably better.” Vaughn set a new course. “Can’t imagine how a Federation special emissary would get to another continent while a hostile military takeover’s going on around her, but you’re right—it is the most logical course of action.”

  One of T’Prynn’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead. “Do you not believe that Special Emissary Tartovsky is capable of fending for herself?”

  “If she is, she’s unique among the diplomats that I’ve known.” Gunning the thrusters, Vaughn took the shuttle southward—the next nearest continent on Devniad was to the south—and keeping an eye on the sensors for Cardassian ships. So far, their tiny shuttle had evaded detection, but that couldn’t possibly last. Damn you, Tartovsky, why couldn’t you stay put so we could have found you and gotten you out?

  But that was hardly fair. All Vaughn knew for sure was that the Cardassians had suddenly, and violently, taken over this planet in neutral space while Raisa Tartovsky was in the process of negotiating a trade agreement with the natives. According to the gul in the fancy new ship of a type that Starfleet Intelligence had thought was still on the drawing board, Federation citizens were permitted to remain on-planet but would be subject to Cardassian law.

  Relations with the Cardassians and the Klingons deteriorating, while both powers are engaged in a massive military buildup. Relations with the Romulans nonexistent. Relations with the Tholians and the Tzenkethi never all that great to begin with. We do live in interesting times. The Federation was on the brink of four potential wars—five, if you counted the Romulans, which Vaughn generally did. True, they’d been withdrawn since Tomed, but Vaughn was there for Tomed, and he knew that the Romulans’ isolationism would not be permanent.

  “Approaching the southern continent.” Vaughn noted with relief that the rainstorm did not extend southward, and the weather was clearer. Unfortunately, that also meant that the shuttle was not masked by cloud and rain cover, which made their being seen by the Cardassians a greater likelihood. He deliberately did not mention this to T’Prynn, as her quoting the odds of same would just add to his headache.

  “I am receiving a Federation signal,” T’Prynn said. She adjusted her console. “Computer verifies that it is the frequency and code assigned to Special Emissary Tartovsky. However—” She hesitated. “I am receiving no readings from that position.”

  T’Prynn had transferred the coordinates of the signal to Vaughn’s display. “No life signs means she may be dead.” Dammit.

  “I did not say there were no life signs, Commander, but that I am receiving no readings. However, scans indicate a cave system at those coordinates, and the initial planetary geological survey of Devniad indicated a high fistrium content in the crust.”

  “So Tartovsky could be alive and hiding where she can’t be scanned. Luckily, her transmitter can penetrate the fistrium.”

  Again, T’Prynn’s eyebrow raised. “Fistrium only interferes with the signals from sensors and transporters. There is no evidence that it has ever impaired subspace transmissions.”

  Vaughn smiled through his recently grown salt-and-pepper beard. “Isn’t that what I said? I’m going to bring her in for a landing.”

  “Acknowledged. And, of course, the fistrium has also rendered moot your objection to this vehicle.”

  I guess I should have expected that, Vaughn thought, holding in a sigh. He found a clearing about ten meters from the source of the signal where he could put down the Woodlawn. When he and T’Prynn had been given this assignment, Vaughn had objected to their being issued an experimental shuttle with no transporters. After all, transporters were a most valuable tool in an extraction. However, they needed a warp-capable craft small enough to avoid easy detection by the Cardassian conquerors. The fresh-out-of-the-shipyards Woodlawn fit the bill, but it was too small to be equipped with a transporter.

  Ever since Ian Troi saved his life with a shuttle transporter in the Betreka Nebula, Vaughn had come to appreciate shuttles that were so equipped.

  As he
brought the pod down, he thought about Ian. When Rachel Garrett was given the Enterprise, Ian had been promoted to second officer of the Carthage, and he was likely to become first officer any day now. Vaughn hadn’t seen him since Kestra’s funeral. The thought of that poor child drowning at such a young age made the sixty-eight-year-old Vaughn grateful that he’d had as much life as he did—and, at the same time, feel deeply sorry for Ian and Lwaxana that their oldest daughter would not have that opportunity.

  Good Lord, that was seven years ago. Deanna’s the same age now that Kestra was when she died. Time’s slipping away too damn fast. He made a mental note to send a letter to Ian on the Carthage when he got back to the starbase.

  But first, he thought as he touched the Woodlawn down on the dirt of Devniad’s southern continent, to business.

  Just as Vaughn unbuckled himself from his seat, T’Prynn said, “Picking up several Cardassian life signs—one-point-three kilometers away and closing.” She looked over at him. “It is likely that they also detected Special Emissary Tartovsky’s signal and are tracking it. You must move with dispatch.”

  Smiling grimly, Vaughn grabbed a tricorder from the small supply cabinet under the console. “I wasn’t planning to dawdle, believe me.”

  Opening the hatch, he stepped out into the warm air. A stiff breeze blew through his graying hair, and he had to hold up his hand to shield his eyes from the bright, red sun.

  Gazing down at the tricorder, he confirmed that Tartovsky’s signal was coming from a position nine-and-a-half meters from where he stood. He was also picking up a human life sign. How the hell—? Then he realized—from the ground, he could detect Tartovsky through the mouth of the cave in which she hid. But that also meant that those Cardassians—who were now just one kilometer away and closing awfully fast—could also detect that life sign. Not to mention Vaughn, T’Prynn, and the shuttlepod…