The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Backing toward the wall, she grabbed her victim’s disruptor and started firing. But the other three fired as well. While two of the shots hit the dead Romulan, one struck Kaasin’s leg.

  Pain seared through her shin, clad as it was only in mok’bara pants, and she found herself sprawled on the floor, her Romulan shield in front of her. She tried to raise the disruptor to fire it, but another Romulan, a female centurion, did as her comrade had, and knocked it from her grip. Kaasin’s attempt to grab her in a hold did not succeed, as she simply brushed it off.

  Instead she leapt backward in what might have been an excellent flip were she not burdened by an injured leg. Still, even though she landed awkwardly, it got her out of reach of the Romulan and the pain only served to focus her rage.

  “You will not take me, Romulan,” she hissed.

  “A pity,” one of the antecenturions, a male, said, his eyes scanning the shape of Kaasin’s body. “You might actually be worth taking.”

  Nausea spread through both of Kaasin’s stomachs at the very thought. “I’d rather die.”

  “That can be arranged,” the female centurion said as she shot Kaasin.

  Fire spread through her veins as the disruptor did its work. Her penultimate thoughts were glee that she had, at least, killed the traitor, as well as one of those Romulan petaQ.

  Her final thoughts were of Mogh and her son Worf, and of Kurn, whom she would never see again…

  As he materialized in what was left of the research outpost on Khitomer, Chief Sergey Rozhenko’s entire face scrunched as horrible odors assaulted his nostrils.

  Not all the smells bothered him. As a Starfleet engineer of many years’ standing, he was well used to the olfactory clues pointing to melted conduits, burnt chips, and fried consoles. That only bothered him insofar as the stench generally led to his having to put together a repair detail.

  No, what caused his nostril hairs to scream in protest was the smell of burning flesh.

  Rozhenko remembered stories that his aunt Lilya told growing up on Gault, about their ancestors back on Earth in the days before the Federation—indeed, before first contact, before the planet was even united—who had been hunted down and slaughtered, or put in work camps and then slaughtered after they had been worked almost to death. Uncle Isaac would usually then interrupt the story and say, “For God’s sake, Lilya, that was four hundred years ago on another planet! Things are different. That couldn’t happen now.”

  To which Aunt Lilya would always reply: “That’s because we remember what happened then. The only way to avoid it is to never forget.”

  Right now, Rozhenko wasn’t particularly heartened by the knowledge that something a twenty-fourth-century human like Uncle Isaac could dismiss so easily was happening literally under his nose in the Klingon Empire. It made him think that his decision not to re-enlist when his term was up in a month’s time and return home to Gault—and to his wife Helena and their son Nikolai—was most definitely the right one. The only massacres we have on Gault are of the vegetables during the harvest.

  “I’m picking up transporter traces. They’re not Federation or Klingon,” said Lieutenant Tobias, the chief engineer of the Intrepid, Rozhenko’s commanding officer, and leader of this damage-control team. Captain Deighan had sent down several teams to different parts of the base to assess the damage and look for survivors. Given that the Intrepid’s sensor readings indicated no life signs, this second was a vain hope, but the captain was not about to rule out the possibility that somebody survived this mess.

  Besides, based on the damage, it was quite possible that some life signs were unreadable. That, Rozhenko thought grimly, is, at least, as good a rationalization as any.

  For his part, the chief went over to look at the generators to see if he could coax some life into them. It wasn’t quite his specialty, but Tobias, the chief engineer, had made it clear that everyone was to pitch in on this one. The attack on Khitomer was even worse than the one on Narendra III two years earlier—totally unprovoked, and leaving an estimated four thousand dead. I think I like Romulans better when they are quiet, Rozhenko thought.

  He examined one of the consoles, stepping over the bodies of two Klingons, a man and a woman. The man was missing most of his head; the woman was wearing something that looked to Rozhenko like a martial arts gi. A third corpse lay on the ground across the room. All three were obviously the victims of gunfire.

  The console was functioning, barely. Rozhenko examined it, and saw that several key components had been destroyed—and several more had been removed altogether. A saboteur, perhaps? Or the work of whoever killed these three? Many of the interfaces were also burned with what the tricorder identified as residue from an energy weapon—specifically a disruptor. That meant Klingon—unlikely, given that it was their base—Breen—unlikely due to Khitomer’s rather distant location from the Breen Confederacy—or Romulan—extremely likely, since the Intrepid’s sensors picked up ships whose configuration matched those of the ships that attacked Narendra III. To Tobias, he said, “Sir, it would seem that the Romulans beamed down ground troops.”

  “To finish the job, maybe?” one of the other engineers said with disgust. “Can’t believe that even the Romulans would do this.”

  “Unfortunately,” Tobias said with a long sigh, “the evidence is pointing that way. Hell, that’s all we need.” He looked at Rozhenko. “What about the generator?”

  “It is functioning at minimal output. There is no way to repair it without replacement parts, and there is little we have on the Intrepid that would do the job. I doubt it will function for much longer.”

  “How long?”

  Rozhenko considered. “Two hours.”

  “Enough time for us to search for survivors, then. With luck, some actual Klingons will show up by then, and they can figure out whether to salvage the base or scrap it.” He looked at the rest of the team. “Scan for life signs. We’re not leaving anyone behind to die here.”

  Adjusting his tricorder to scan solely for Klingon life signs, Rozhenko was surprised to find two indications. “Lieutenant! I am picking up two Klingons, directly below us!”

  “You two, stay here,” Tobias said to the rest of the team as he ran toward the exit. “You’re with me, Chief.”

  They went into the hallway and searched for some kind of access to anything that might be below them. Setting his tricorder to examine the signs on the doors and translate them, Rozhenko found that one of them said SUB-BASEMENT right over a rectangular seam in the wall that could easily have been a hatch. “Sir, over here.”

  Despite their years of training, the two engineers found themselves unable to determine which of the assorted buttons, levers, and switches on the door next to the sign actually would open the hatch—if hatch it truly was, as it had no handhold of any sort.

  “This is ridiculous.” Tobias sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. “Let’s see if we can find another way down.”

  Instead of responding, Rozhenko decided to test a theory. He placed his hand against the hatch.

  It started to roll inward and then down, revealing a small vertical tubular shaft, just wide enough to accommodate one person, with a ladder on the back part.

  Tobias regarded Rozhenko. “Chief, remind me, why did I bother spending four years at the Academy?”

  Rozhenko smiled for the first time since beaming down to this charnel house. “That, Lieutenant, is one of many questions I ask myself every day. As soon as I have an answer, I promise to let you know.”

  Shaking his head, Tobias climbed into the shaft and started down the ladder. Rozhenko followed the officer a moment later.

  The ladder emptied into a relatively small room whose nature Rozhenko found himself unable to properly determine, as most of the floor was covered with parts of the ceiling—the latter had broken and fallen in many pieces, large and small, to the floor.

  Panic welling in his gut, Rozhenko did a quick structural scan of the room, which verified w
hat his eyes were telling him.

  Before he could voice his concerns, Tobias said, “This room’s gonna collapse and take half the building with it in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Twelve, according to the tricorder, sir.”

  Tobias smirked. “That’s why I went to the Academy, Chief—I’m not so dependent on gadgets. Trust me, this room’ll hold for three more minutes. Still, I’d rather not risk it. Let’s find our life signs and—”

  He was interrupted by the sound of something moving. Rozhenko followed the noise to a small pile of rubble.

  Then he noticed the tiny hand sticking out.

  It must be a child! Rozhenko thought as he and Tobias ran over and started throwing pieces of debris off the hand, which soon revealed an arm, and then an entire body.

  It was indeed a child, who clutched one of those Klingon swords for dear life. He was only a little bigger than Nikolai…

  Tobias practically beat his chest, he hit his combadge so hard. “Tobias to Intrepid.” He then removed the combadge and placed it on the boy. “Medical emergency. Lock onto my signal, and beam directly to sickbay!”

  “No…” That was the boy, who had somehow found the strength to speak. “Must…protect…Kahlest…”

  Then the transporter beam took him to the Intrepid.

  “Kahlest is probably the other life sign,” Rozhenko said.

  “Let’s find her, then. We’ve only got ten minutes…”

  Chapter 34

  B’alda’ar Base

  “There I was, on a planet full of grishnar cats. The only two of any consequence were a fierce one named Baroner and a Vulcan trader.”

  Several of the Klingons listening to Captain Kor tell his tale in the midst of the dark, crowded bar made their disdain for Vulcans quite clear. From his seat at a table halfway across the bar, Dax smiled as his old friend silenced their grumbles. “Do not underestimate Vulcans! They can be a fierce and powerful force when provoked. They lull you into a false sense of security by being so insipidly bland,” the captain said with a grin, “but they have their moments.”

  Kor, a mug of chech’tluth in one hand, started pacing in front of the bar. It, as well as the stools, railing, tables, and mugs, were all made of the same solid wood that derived from a tree native to this world. The wood had a complex grain and was as solid as many metals. The wood scent, combined with the alcohol, gave the bar a natural feel that most modern bars could not achieve—especially, Dax noted with a smile, in the Federation, where “antiseptic” was all too often the order of the day.

  “I soon learned that Baroner and his Vulcan ally were none other than Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Commander Spock of the Enterprise. The honor of killing Kirk would have been great, but it was war, and prisoners had their uses. So I put them in a prison—but the other Organians freed them. I killed two hundred of them for this effrontery, yet they seemed utterly unconcerned. I was prepared to kill more, when Kirk and Spock themselves burst into my office.”

  Laughing as he poured his chech’tluth toward his face—some of it, Dax noted, even actually making it into his mouth—Kor then went on. “Truly they were worthy foes.” He cocked his head. “More or less. Humans tend to be sentimental, even in war, and Kirk was no different. But when it came time to fight, he fought—or tried to. That was when the Organians stepped in and forced us to cease hostilities.”

  The Klingons present had less love for the Organians than they did the Vulcans, but the captain shushed them. “Believe me, no one hates the Organians more than I. They claim to have evolved beyond us, yet they have no joy, no passion, no lusts!” To accentuate this last point, Kor grabbed an attractive Caitian female—who was about a quarter of old razorbeast’s age, Dax knew—and gave her a friendly snarl. The woman purred back, and everyone around them laughed. “Besides, if not for what the Organians did that day, I doubt we would have been in a position to gain the Federation’s assistance when Praxis was lost to us.”

  Several grumbled at that—nobody liked being reminded of Praxis—but then Kor laughed. “Of course, that was not my last chance to face Kirk in battle! No, we fought again later, at the legendary Delta Triangle!” He gulped down the rest of his drink. “But that is a tale for another day.”

  Some were disappointed at this postponement, others were relieved, others simply went back to whatever they were doing before the aged captain enthralled them with his words. Most were Klingons, and therefore had no trouble finding someone to wrestle or head-butt or drink copious amounts with. I think that’s what I like best about these people—they know how to have a party.

  The storyteller himself, though, went straight for the small wooden table where Dax sat, nursing a beer. Dax had no idea how or why a bar located on a base deep in the heart of the Klingon Empire served Earth beer, but he hadn’t had any in years, and he found he missed it.

  “Now there is a face I didn’t expect to see here,” the old Klingon said.

  “I, on the other hand, fully expected to find your face here as soon as I learned that the Klothos was in orbit here at B’Alda’ar. Speaking of your face, you’ve got chech’tluth in your beard.”

  Kor laughed. “I’m saving it for later.” He fell more than sat into the seat opposite Dax. “So—if you were seeking out the Klothos, it stands to reason that you were seeking out its captain.”

  Holding up his beer in tribute, Dax said, “Your powers of observation remain keen as ever, Kor. A colleague and I have been spending the last several weeks doing some—research into the head of the High Council.”

  Kor frowned. “Why do you wish to investigate Kravokh? He is a good man, from all accounts, and he has made us strong once again.”

  “Perhaps, but he’s also obsessed with Ch’gran. And I’ve learned why. He—”

  “He is the descendant of one of the original colonists, of course.”

  Dax stared at Kor for several seconds. “My colleague and I—neither of whom are without resources—took weeks to dig that up. The least you could’ve done, old friend, was let me gloat over our work.”

  Kor’s laughter echoed off the ceiling. “Ah, Dax, I’ve missed you so. It’s not as if you were ignorant of my knowledge, or you would not have sought me out in this lovely establishment.” He gestured, taking in the entire dark, high-ceilinged bar. “You know that I served with Kravokh’s father, and I suppose now you wish me to provide you with insight into the chancellor’s mind.”

  Dax grinned. “And they say you’re getting forgetful with age, Kor.”

  “Nonsense! No one says that!” He spoke with mock outrage that only lasted about half a second before he, too, grinned. “They say I’m getting forgetful with drink!” And, as if to prove those words prophetic, he gulped down the rest of his chech’tluth. “Now, then, where was I?”

  “Kravokh.”

  “No, Kravokh’s father. Yes, J’Doq and I served together years ago. I remember once, after we defeated Tholian raiders, we came to a bar—rather like this one, actually—and spoke of glories past. He went on at some length about the great deeds his family had committed—it was quite tiresome, to be honest.”

  Dax pointedly made no comment.

  “Then I remember him saying, ‘And of course, there was Ch’gran.’” Kor smiled. “This was something of a surprise, since I had no idea that his House descended from those heroes. I said as much.” Kor frowned. “The next part was peculiar, for J’Doq said, ‘Bah! Klartak may have been my ancestor, but he was no hero. I know the truth. The whole family knows the truth, and if it ever got out it would destroy the Empire.’”

  Now Dax leaned forward. This is even more than I’d hoped for. “So what was the truth?”

  Kor seemed distracted. “Hm?”

  “The truth about Ch’gran, what was it?”

  “How should I know?” Kor shrugged, took a dry sip of his drink, realized it was empty, then tossed the wooden mug aside. “Right after J’Doq said that, he passed out. We never spoke of it again.”

 
Incredulous, Dax asked, “You didn’t question him further?”

  “Listen carefully, Dax. I said, we never spoke of it again. I certainly did, but the toDSaH wouldn’t say a word after he sobered up—and he never got drunk in my presence again.” Kor snorted. “He became very dull after that. But enough of this!” He got up, grabbing Dax by the arm as he did so. “Dax and Kor are together again! We must celebrate!”

  “Who am I to argue with the hero of Klach D’Kel Bracht?”

  Slamming Dax on the back, which caused the Trill to stumble forward toward the bar, Kor laughed and said, “Have I told you the story of how I massacred the Romulans on that day, my old friend?”

  “Not for several years, no,” Dax said dryly.

  “Then you must hear it again, for I tell it much better now. There I was…”

  The beeping seemed to echo in the Trill’s skull.

  He tried to remember where he was. Then he tried to remember his name. After several seconds, that came to him: he was Curzon Dax, a Federation ambassador.

  And he had the mother of all hangovers.

  Then he recalled the first thing: he was on his private transport, a small Trill craft that had an exquisitely comfortable bed—which made the feeling of metal against his cheek rather confusing. He opened his eyes to discover that he had fallen asleep about a meter from that bed on the cold, hard deck.

  Ah, well. At least I had the presence of mind to make it back to the ship. “Computer, turn off that damned beeping!”

  “Please repeat request.”

  Dax sighed. Although he had intended to enunciate those words, looking back, it came out more like, “Kapooer, tnoffat dameepng!” So instead, he gathered every ounce of strength he had and sat up.

  This was a mistake. The interior of the ship proceeded to leap about, jump up and down, and generally act quite silly. Dax closed his eyes—which served to give him a burst of color inside his eyelids—then opened them again. The ship had, blessedly, calmed down.

  Finally, he focused on the fact that the beeping was the comm system. He managed to crawl over to the workstation and activate the viewer.