The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Of course, explaining that to a seven-year-old girl is a bit harder.

  Tapping his combadge in response to the call from the bridge, he said, “Go ahead.”

  “Report to Transporter Room 2, sir. Commander Vaughn’s ready to beam on board.”

  “Acknowledged.” Troi was grateful that Captain Haden had allowed him to perform this duty, which could just as easily have gone to the first officer, Commander Li, or the security chief.

  Instead, it was the second officer of the U.S.S. Carthage who entered the transporter room to greet Vaughn as he beamed on board.

  Vaughn had changed a bit in seven years: more lines to his face, more gray in his hair. Most notably, he’d grown a beard, which matched the brown and gray colors of his hair.

  On the other hand, the body language hadn’t changed at all. Troi had never known anyone who was quite as in control of himself as Elias Vaughn. Troi envied it in a lot of ways, though Troi had found that a lack of control had its appeal. He often wondered how someone as centered and as private as Vaughn would fare in a relationship with a telepath.

  Smiling slightly at the sight of his escort, Vaughn said, “Ian. Good to see you again.”

  “Same here. I like the beard.”

  Vaughn smirked at that. “Thanks.”

  Troi tapped his combadge. “Bridge, Commander Vaughn is on board.”

  Haden himself replied. “Acknowledged, Mr. Troi. We’ll be getting underway to Raknal V immediately. Escort the commander to my ready room.”

  “Yes, sir.” He looked at Vaughn and grinned. “If the commander will come this way.”

  “Be happy to.”

  As they proceeded to the turbolift, Vaughn asked, “How are things at home?”

  “Quite well. Deanna’s an incredibly bright child. After this little trip to Raknal’s over, I’ve got some leave coming, and I’m going to spend some time with them.” Remembering Lwaxana’s suggestion, he added, “You’re welcome to come along, if you want. It’d be nice to have you visit when there isn’t a funeral involved.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Vaughn said, which was a better answer than the “no” Troi had been expecting. “Let’s see how things go on Raknal V first.”

  They entered the turbolift. “Fair enough,” Troi said to Vaughn, then added to the computer, “Bridge,” causing the lift to head upward.

  Within moments, they arrived, and entered Haden’s lair. The captain’s wide eyes fell on Vaughn’s face, and he scowled. Troi tried to cover a smile. The last fifteen years had not been kind to Haden’s hairline, which had receded quite a bit, and he seemed to derive a certain irritation from the fact that Vaughn, who was older than Haden, not only still had a full head of hair, but had poured salt in the wound by growing a full beard.

  “Welcome back, Commander.”

  Vaughn nodded his head as he and Troi took their seats in the captain’s two guest chairs. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “It’s almost like a reunion. Pity we can’t divert Enterprise here, we’d have the whole Betreka gang back again.”

  Troi smiled. Commander—or, rather, Captain Garrett had been given command of the U.S.S. Enterprise four years after the Betreka Nebula incident, and had spent the last decade-plus doing everything she could to live up to the reputation that the name of her ship carried. Most of the crew complement from the Carthage’s last trip to the Betreka Sector had either been promoted—like Troi and Lin—or moved on to other assignments—like Phillips and Garrett. The captain and Mike Zipser at communications were the only ones still in the same position they were fifteen years earlier. And Zip’s close enough to retirement that he probably doesn’t care all that much about the lack of promotion.

  Haden leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his barrel chest, looking like a particularly cranky Buddha. “What’s your take on the Raknal situation, Commander?”

  “I don’t have a ‘take’ just yet, Captain. That’s part of what I’m taking this trip to find out. From what I do know, I think my feelings fifteen years ago that this was an incredibly bad idea were justified.”

  Snorting, Haden said, “That’s an understatement. The Cardassians and the Klingons have spent more time spitting on each other in space than they have actually exploiting the planet. They’ve both done lousy jobs of making use of Raknal’s resources, and half their equipment doesn’t work. You’d think that disaster with the Chut would’ve been a wake-up call, but it hasn’t improved a damn thing.”

  “Personally, sir, I’d rather wait until—”

  Whatever Vaughn wanted to wait until remained unsaid, interrupted as it was by the Klaxon of the ship going to red alert. Commander Lin’s voice came over the intercom. “Captain Haden to the bridge.”

  Troi looked up in shock, then all three of them immediately went through the door. “Report,” Haden barked at Lin, who was standing between the command center and the helm. Troi stepped into the bridge’s lower level to take his position at the operations console to the left of the helm even as Haden moved to sit in the command chair. Vaughn remained on the upper level, standing just to the right of the communications console.

  “We just received a distress call from Raknal V,” Lin said. “We’ve increased speed to warp eight.”

  Troi winced. Lin looked over at Zipser, who said, “According to the signal, a building in the Klingons’ capital city on the southern continent has been destroyed.” He cast a quick glance at Haden. “Governor Qaolin thinks it’s because of Cardassian sabotage.”

  “What kind of building?” Haden asked.

  “They didn’t say, but there was an indication that people were trapped.”

  Haden and Lin exchanged a glance, then the captain looked at Vaughn. “Looks like this just mutated into a damn rescue mission.”

  “So it would seem.” Vaughn, Troi noticed, spoke in a neutral tone.

  Zipser then said, “Sir, we’re being hailed directly by Governor Qaolin.”

  “This oughtta be good. On screen.”

  Troi blinked in surprise at the face that appeared on the forward viewer. Fifteen years ago, Qaolin had given the impression of a vibrant man, dark hair framing a fierce face. His voice had a deep, confident timbre to it.

  The voice that issued forth from the gray-haired wreck of a Klingon with several missing teeth had none of that confidence left. From the way he slurred his consonants, Troi’s best hypothesis was that he had drunk all the confidence away. “I demand the immediate arrest of Prefect Monor and the ceding of Raknal V to the Klingon Empire!”

  “Greetings, Governor Qaolin,” Haden said dryly. “This is Captain Haden. We’re on our way to assist you. Is there anything we can do—”

  “I don’t have any interest in your Federation politeness,” Qaolin said with a snarl. “There are Klingons dying and dead in that building, and Cardassian treachery has killed them, just like it did the good men and women who died on the Chut.”

  “Do you have any evidence to support this accusation?”

  Qaolin slammed his fist on his desk. “I need no evidence! I have lived on this mudball with Monor for fifteen years! I know his heart , Captain, and he will stop at nothing to keep Ch’gran from us!”

  Troi could hear Haden’s sigh. “So no evidence, then?”

  Before Qaolin could say anything in response, Zipser said, “Sir, we’re now being hailed by Prefect Monor.”

  That prompted a laugh from Qaolin. “The petaQ no doubt wishes to curry favor with you by spinning lies of his innocence.”

  “Split screen, Mr. Zipser,” Haden said. “Let’s all talk together.”

  Qaolin’s image shifted to the righthand side of the viewer, with the left side now taken up by Monor’s visage. The Cardassian showed less evidence of the passage of time to Troi. His face, hair, and bearing were much the same as they were. The only difference Troi could see was in the prefect’s eyes, which looked tired. Then he checked the library computer and discovered that, in the Cardassian capital city on the n
orthern continent, it was the middle of the night right now.

  Both leaders stared straight ahead, though Troi knew that they were each getting the same split-screen view that the Carthage had. “Greetings from Raknal V, Captain Haden. I’m sure Governor Qaolin has already laid the blame for this at my feet. As if the Foreheads need our help to construct buildings that fall down at the drop of a rock.”

  “Are the souls of the Chut not enough for you, Monor? Will you not rest until all the Klingons on this world cry out for vengeance against Cardassian treachery?”

  Monor made a dismissive noise that sounded like a leaky pipe. “You’re drunk.”

  “Of course I’m drunk! I drink to the souls of the dead—slain by Cardassian cowardice!”

  “The only coward I see is an old wreck who should be embarrassed to let himself be seen like that! Look at you—inebriated, unkempt. You wouldn’t last an hour on a Cardassian ship. That’s why you Foreheads will always—”

  “That’s enough!” Haden barked, which came as a great relief to Troi. “Both of you shut the hell up. Mr. Troi, what’s our ETA?”

  Troi double-checked the navigational computer. “Thirty-five minutes at this speed.”

  “When we arrive, the Carthage will aid in any rescue endeavors, and our sickbay will be at your disposal as well.”

  “That is appreciated, Captain.” Qaolin spoke in a more subdued tone. “The Federation, at least, has always been honorable.”

  “‘Honorable.’” Monor made the leaky pipe noise again. “That’s your catch-all word for everything, isn’t it?”

  “Worry not, Monor,” Qaolin said with a wide, half-toothless grin, “it will never be applied to you.”

  Haden continued as if the two men had not spoken. “After that, as per the agreement signed at the Betreka Nebula by both your governments, we will investigate the destruction of the building, and report our findings to both of you—and to your respective governments, and to Ambassador Dax and the Federation Council.” He turned toward the communications console to look at Vaughn. “Lieutenant Commander Vaughn, you will lead the investigation.” Then he turned back to the screen. “I expect both of you to cooperate fully with Commander Vaughn and his team. If you don’t—well, that will go in our report, as well.”

  Monor scowled. “I can’t imagine what help we can provide, Captain, since the incident had nothing to do with me or anyone from—”

  “Do you fear that the Federation will learn what I have known for fifteen years, Monor?”

  “What, that you’re a pathetic drunken—”

  “Screen off,” Haden muttered, and Zipser quickly cut off the communication, returning the main viewer to the image of the distorted starfield that signified the Carthage’s warp-speed travel. Then the captain rose from his chair and moved toward the turbolift. “Commander Li, let me know when we arrive, and have the transporter chief prepare for multiple transports. And put all shuttlecraft on standby, just in case.”

  As Wai-Lin Li sat in the command chair she said, “Should I alert sickbay also?”

  “I’ll do that. I’m going there now to do something about this headache I just acquired.” As he passed Vaughn, Haden added, “Mr. Vaughn, feel free to use whatever Carthage personnel you need, but get to the bottom of this thing quickly, understood?”

  Vaughn nodded. “Yes, sir. With your permission, I’d like Lieutenant Commander Troi to assist me.”

  “Permission granted.” As the turbolift doors opened, he said, “You have the bridge, Number One.”

  Chapter 24

  Raknal V

  By the time the Carthage arrived, there was comparatively little rescuing to be done. The building in question held several residences as well as three merchants. Most of the debris had been cleared by Klingon rescue workers. Fifty-three people were in the building when it collapsed, of whom twelve were dead. At Commander Li’s insistence, the remaining forty-one were transported to the Carthage rather than brought to the local hospital, on the logic that a starship sickbay was better equipped than any Klingon hospital, a point no one could truly argue.

  Once that was done, all that was left was the wreckage—and twelve dead bodies. Troi stood before what was left of the building as the last of the rescue workers started to leave. A semipermeable force field was keeping all but the workers and Starfleet personnel away from the site. The field would allow those with a particular transponder to pass through it, one held by all the workers and by Vaughn, Troi, and the other Carthage personnel on-planet.

  At the sight of the twelve corpses being left on the ground, Troi grabbed one of the departing rescue workers by the arm. The worker looked at Troi’s hand like it was diseased. Troi quickly removed it.

  “What’s to be done with the bodies?”

  The worker shrugged. “Disposed of in some manner.”

  “Don’t you have any—well, funerary rites?”

  Again, he shrugged. “They are not warriors. If they lived dishonorable lives, then Fek’lhr will escort their spirits to the Barge of the Dead, which will take them to Gre’thor.”

  Troi knew that that was the Klingon equivalent of hell. “What if they lived honorable lives?”

  At that, the worker scowled. “Then they deserved better deaths than this.”

  Troi found he couldn’t argue with that either way.

  After the last of the rescue workers departed, Troi was alone with the building. Vaughn was interviewing people who were nearby when the building collapsed, and had asked the Carthage security chief to do the same with the survivors in sickbay.

  Troi, meanwhile, was tasked with examining the site itself. He looked up at the building. It had been made from plasti-form over a metal frame. Parts of the frame—which looked to be an alloy of rodinium, iron, and a metal the tricorder couldn’t identify—remained intact. A preliminary scan with the tricorder indicated that the frame had weakened and collapsed in the southwest quadrant of the foundation. When that gave way, a large chunk of the building went down.

  Troi proceeded, as Vaughn had instructed him, to go over every millimeter of the building. All the evidence pointed to a simple structural collapse, which would make Monor happy, if not Qaolin. Wonder what that third metal in the alloy is, he thought. That may have been responsible. Iron and rodinium are pretty tough, but that third metal’s an x-factor.

  It took two hours to do most of the job. The items he found in various states of repair ranged from the obviously personal—clothes, furniture, pictures, artwork, padds labeled in the angled Klingon script, well-worn weaponry, cooking implements, food—to the assorted items that were for sale in the stores.

  When he came across a small figurine that was vaguely in the shape of a targ, Troi felt a lump in his throat. Up until this point, he had managed not to think about what it had been like going through Kestra’s things seven years ago—a task that had been left to Troi alone, since Lwaxana had already started her campaign to eradicate Kestra’s very existence—until he came across this toy targ which, despite looking nothing like Kestra’s teddy bear, reminded Troi almost painfully of My Bear. Troi had given Kestra the stuffed black bear when his daughter turned four. It had floppy arms and legs, a tiny smile, wide brown eyes, and a sufficiently soft interior to make him eminently huggable—a feature Kestra employed often. Kestra had never come up with a name for the bear, insisting on simply referring to the toy as “my bear!” The name stuck.

  After Kestra’s death, Troi had given My Bear to Commander Li for her daughter.

  He set the toy targ back down amid the wreckage. Once he and Vaughn were through, someone was supposed to come and sort through all this. Troi was grateful that his assignment to Vaughn’s detail meant he would be spared that duty. Once was more than enough.

  The one part of his job he hadn’t done was to do a full check of the southwest quadrant. He clambered over pieces of plasti-form and shards of blades and precious stones—the store over the collapsed part of the building sold weapons and jewelry; bot
h proprietors and one customer were among the dozen dead—to see if he could better determine the cause.

  Unfortunately, the weakened beams in question were under more material than he could move safely, because of both the weight and the number of items with sharp edges. Besides, it was only a matter of time before the building collapsed the rest of the way—the remains of the foundation couldn’t bear the added concentration of mass for much longer.

  Luckily, Troi didn’t have to move it himself. He trained his tricorder’s sensors on the broken beams under the wreckage, then tapped his combadge. “Troi to Sulma.”

  “Sulma here.”

  “Chief, I need some help here. Can you tie in to my tricorder?”

  “Hang on.” A pause. “Yeah, okay, got it.”

  “Can you lock onto the pieces of metal I’m scanning and beam them to a position about three meters to my left?”

  “Don’t see why not. Hang on.” Another pause. “Got it.”

  “Thanks, Shawn. That’s a big help.”

  The transporter chief laughed. “No big deal. It’s not like I’m doing anything difficult. Not like that time Commander Li needed me to beam that funky alien gourd off her arm. Anyhow, energizing.”

  Seconds later, several bent, broken, and shattered fragments of metal materialized three meters to Ian Troi’s left.

  “Thanks again, Shawn. I owe you lunch. Troi out.”

  Now Troi did an in-depth scan of the beams. The tri-corder still couldn’t identify the third metal in the alloy—but it did identify some resonance traces that matched a similar investigation they’d done in the Barradas system near the Romulan border a few months earlier. “Oh, this isn’t good.”