The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “You are no doubt aware that the Klingons have ceded Raknal V to us and allowed Cardassians back inside their borders. We have done the same for their people—which,” he added with a smile, “is probably the only drawback to the whole thing.”

  Although he did not find the comment especially humorous, Entek was sensible enough to return the smile.

  “Negotiations to restore that silly pile of wreckage to them have commenced. And we owe it all to you. I doubt we’d be at this point if the Romulans hadn’t obligingly attacked Khitomer when they did. Your manufactured ‘confession’ played right into the Romulans’ paranoid hands.”

  Manufactured? “To give credit where it is due, sir,” Entek said respectfully, “it was the operative you assigned to leak the confession to the Tal Shiar who fed the paranoia. He did good work in convincing the Romulans of its veracity. I simply provided the documentation.”

  “True, but the documentation itself was an exquisite piece of work.”

  Entek smiled. He doesn’t know. For a moment, he debated not telling Tain—but no, if the head of the Obsidian Order learned that Entek held back such information, it could damage Entek’s chances. His career was at too important a turning point right now for him to take that risk, especially since the usefulness of the intelligence had now passed. “For that, you must credit the Klingon we captured. After all, he only spoke the truth.”

  Tain’s mouth actually fell open at that. It took all of Entek’s training to keep the look of joy off his face. I have actually surprised Enabran Tain! “You didn’t know?” Entek asked innocently.

  To his credit, Tain composed himself quickly. “I had simply assumed that the confession was false.”

  “Not at all. However,” he added before Tain could react further, “it was an isolated incident.”

  Frowning, Tain said, “Explain.”

  “The Klingon Empire has no intention of developing biogenic weapons. Leaving aside their cultural biases, they have no interest in violating interstellar treaties.” He allowed himself a small smile. “But the Klingon Empire wasn’t developing those weapons on Khitomer—Chancellor Kravokh was, without the knowledge of the High Council or anyone else aside from the development team. I don’t think their Imperial Intelligence even knew of it. Aside from Kravokh, all those associated with the project were either members of the House of Kultan or loyal to it—that House has produced several prominent Klingon scientists.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the reports regarding that House. You suspect Kravokh intended to use that weapon against us?”

  Entek nodded. “Oh, the prisoner said as much, though I did not include that in the recording that the Tal Shiar received, nor that the operation wasn’t sanctioned by the High Council. Your man provided a forger who did fine editing work that kept the recording seeming authentic. However, all evidence of the research—and all those who knew of it—are quite dead. The only ones who weren’t on Khitomer were my prisoner and Kravokh himself.”

  Tain nodded several times—so much so that Entek wondered if the older man’s head would fall off. “That makes what you’ve done that much more important, my friend. You may well have saved us all from the actions of a madman by setting his assassination in motion.”

  Deciding not to point out that Kravokh’s death was not, strictly speaking, an assassination, Entek instead simply said, “I merely serve Cardassia.”

  “And your own desire for promotion, of course.” Entek was about to object, but Tain held up a hand. “Now now, it’s only to be expected. And besides, the two aren’t mutually exclusive goals. In fact, as long as they remain that way, you should do quite well. That’s why I’ve decided to reward your efforts by putting you in charge of Order operations on Bajor.”

  Now it was Tain’s turn to surprise Entek. He had all but given up hope of getting the Bajor assignment after so many years of frustration.

  “We have learned that Central Command plans to build a space station in orbit around Bajor. It’s still awaiting a final vote, but I’m confident that Legate Kell will get the support he needs for it. While it will do much to streamline the uridium processing, it will also serve as a very nice orbital target for that tiresome resistance movement. I want an Order agent who can get things done in charge over there, before that resistance gets out of hand. Central Command’s efforts to curtail them could charitably be called poor.”

  “I agree,” Entek said, “and I’m sure that you will find my efforts to be beneficial to Cardassia.”

  Tain smiled. “Good.” He handed Entek a padd. “This contains a list of your staff. Feel free to make any amendments to the team that you feel are necessary.”

  Happily, Entek took the padd. At last, a supervisor, and in the assignment I have longed for.

  For the third time, Corbin Entek left Enabran Tain’s office with his life and his career intact. This he considered a sign of skill and success in his chosen field. He felt confident in his ability to continue that success.

  It had been many years since Legate Zarin had been invited to Legate Kell’s office on Cardassia. The view from the picture window in the north wall was, if anything, more impressive, as this section of the capital city had been built up quite a bit over the past few years. The spoils of conquest, he thought. Cardassia was strong, and growing stronger every day.

  To Zarin’s relief, Kell had apparently gotten over his Lissepian phase. The paintings that now decorated the west wall were primarily Bajoran. In addition to making fine laborers, Bajorans drew very pretty pictures. Perhaps when I take over this office, Zarin thought wistfully, I will keep the artwork.

  Kell’s old urall-skin couch had long since been replaced by a much more comfortable one made of keres hide from Chin’toka VI. Zarin sat on it now, with Kell sitting in the same conformer chair he’d had for over twenty years.

  Holding up his glass of kanar in toast, Kell said, “To victory over the Klingons.”

  “To victory.”

  After gulping down his kanar in as boorish a manner as Zarin would have expected from him, Kell set down the glass. “Of course, that victory was a long time coming. Longer than it should have been.”

  Zarin didn’t like the sound of that.

  Kell smiled. “Don’t look so concerned, Zarin. I know you and Monor did your best. And Raknal V will make a fine addition to the Cardassian Union. Such a pity that all your efforts went to waste.”

  “We did all that we could within Ambassador Dax’s constraints to—”

  “That’s not what I’m referring to, Legate. And you know it.” Kell leaned on the table that sat between them and tossed a padd at Zarin. The younger legate frowned as he keyed the display. It showed a transcript of a conversation Zarin had with Monor regarding the sabotage of the communications systems on the Klingon vessel Chut. Thanks to the catastrophe on the Gratok, the sabotage wound up having a somewhat different effect—to wit, preventing the Chut from hearing the panic signal—from what was intended, though the end result of killing the entire complement of the Chut was the same.

  “What of it?” Zarin asked. “You told Monor and me to do whatever it took to ensure that we secured our claim to Raknal V.”

  Kell stood up. “Legate Zarin, I am appalled! Do you truly believe that I would authorize actions that would lead to the deaths of a hundred Klingons?”

  Staring coldly up at Kell, Zarin said, “Yes, I do believe that you would.”

  Laughing, Kell sat back down. “Perhaps, but I’m not the one on the transcript—which, by the way, is also in the hands of the Obsidian Order.”

  Zarin wondered if it was the Order who provided Kell with the transcript or the other way around. The fact that Kell was nonspecific led Zarin to think it was the former. Kell would never admit to being beholden to the Order for anything.

  “What is it you want, Kell? Obviously, you don’t intend to release this publicly.”

  “Why would I release it publicly?” Kell finished off his kanar. “Much better, I think, to re
lease it to the Klingons. I’m sure the descendants of the Chut victims would love to know who was responsible for their deaths.”

  Rolling his eyes, Zarin said, “You haven’t answered my question, Kell.” These threats were pointless. If Kell wanted Zarin humiliated or dead, the padd would be in the hands of the Detapa Council or the Klingons already.

  “You opposed the construction of Terok Nor over Bajor, and convinced several other legates to join that opposition. You will change your position. We need Terok Nor to facilitate the uridium processing.”

  Zarin was about to point out what a colossal waste of money constructing an orbital station would be—but there was no point. Kell had already heard these arguments when the subject was debated. If Zarin couldn’t convince him then, he wouldn’t convince him now—especially when Kell had blackmail material.

  After several moments, Zarin finally answered. “I cannot guarantee that all the legates who supported my nay vote will switch.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Zarin, just the fact that you have switched your vote will be more than sufficient to convince enough of them.” Kell stood up. “Now get out of my office. And Zarin?”

  Zarin stood up. “Yes?”

  Kell indicated the picture window. “Don’t get used to that view. You won’t be taking over this office for a long time yet.”

  We’ll see, Zarin thought angrily as he left.

  Chapter 39

  Raknal V

  “Governor, the Wo’bortas has arrived to pick us up.”

  Qaolin almost choked on his bloodwine at that. Once again, fortune sees fit to spit in my drink. The final indignity in a lifetime of indignities: the very vessel whose command he had to give up to take over this shipwreck of an assignment was the one that would take him away from it.

  He looked around at the run-down office that had been his home for eighteen years. The weapons and artwork and furniture had all been packed up and would be transferred to the Wo’bortas cargo bay. Knowing the Cardassians, they would probably condemn all the Klingon construction and replace it with their own hideous architecture. Good. The idea of any of those lifeless cowards making use of Klingon buildings is revolting.

  Taking another gulp of bloodwine, Qaolin laughed. So this is what it’s come to. I had hoped that the deaths on the Chut or the collapse of that building would finally end this battle. Even the Cardassians transplanting those damned fish of theirs might have finally led the Great Curzon to declare a victor in this tiresome little war we have been fighting. Instead, it was a simple change in power. A battle that should have been won is instead ended by politics. He drank more bloodwine, emptying the bottle. How I hate politics.

  Qaolin had no idea what he was going to do next. After giving it a great deal of consideration, he was seriously tempted to just go home—or perhaps not even that, but take his share of the holdings of his House and purchase some land on a distant world of the Empire. I can spend my days hunting and my nights drinking. That might not be a bad way to occupy the rest of my life.

  Then he opened the drawer of the empty desk and retrieved the one item he had not packed up.

  A vintage bottle of bloodwine from the Ozhpri vintner. I’ve been saving this for when I was victorious over Monor and had restored Ch’gran to our people.

  Of course, he had lost to Monor, and Ch’gran’s restoration would be at the hands of diplomats and politicians. Damn Monor, he beat me. What was worst was that the Cardassian had not shown any signs of weakening. Qaolin had arrived at Raknal V swearing he would not let Monor take Ch’gran from him. A vibrant young man, he was fresh from his first command, with a good life and career ahead of him. He had proven himself to be quick-witted, strong, and one who could thrive in the volatile atmosphere of the Defense Force. Now, he was leaving Raknal V, Monor having succeeded in taking Ch’gran. A drunken wreck with a broken spirit and few prospects, Qaolin was dull-witted, weak, and wouldn’t last a minute on a Defense Force ship.

  But Monor? He arrived at Raknal V an insufferable clod and he was now taking over Raknal V as the same insufferable clod. It was maddening.

  Qaolin stared at the bottle of bloodwine.

  Then he smiled.

  Prefect Monor stared at the view of his planet from his office. The sun was starting to set behind the solid, Cardassian-constructed buildings that would now serve as the focal point of Cardassia’s colony on this world. Monor’s World.

  “I like the sound of that,” he said aloud.

  “The sound of what, sir?”

  Monor turned to see that Ekron had entered. The years had been kind to Monor’s aide. For one thing, age had softened his ridges, so they didn’t quite make his face look so craterlike. For another, after a rocky start, he took quite well to living planetside. Monor suspected that change mostly came about when the prefect finally gave in and let him pursue that imbecilic hevrit project of his—though even Monor had to admit that the transplanting had been a success, for all the difference it made to the price of kanar. Still, it kept Ekron happy, and as long as he was happy, he was efficient, which was what mattered to Monor. He’d have been lost in this post without Ekron’s efficiency.

  “I was just admiring the view of my planet,” he said in answer to Ekron’s query. “And it is, you know. Mine. Make a note for me to send a message to Central Command seeing if they can name the planet after me. Least they can do after saddling me with those damned Foreheads for eighteen years. It’ll be good to see the last of them, let me tell you. Don’t know what it took for one of them to see sense, but I’m glad that K’mpec person at least has a brain. He’s probably some kind of mutant—the only Forehead with an actually measurable cranial capacity. Hard to believe, really, that people with such massive heads can have such tiny brains. Make a note of that, Ekron, we should do some kind of study.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ekron said. “Ah, you have a package, sir. It was just delivered from the southern continent.”

  “What!?” Monor turned around. “Dammit, man, do I have to do all the thinking around here? That could be—”

  “It’s already been thoroughly scanned, sir,” Ekron interrupted.

  Of course it has, you old fool, Ekron’s no idiot. “And what is it?”

  “It’s a bottle of bloodwine, sir.” Ekron handed a box to Monor.

  Gingerly, half expecting it to explode, Ekron’s scan notwithstanding, Monor opened the box.

  Inside was a bottle with some kind of Forehead logo on it, along with that scrawl they insisted was a language. Also inside was an optical chip.

  He handed the latter to Ekron. “I’m going to regret this, but put it in the viewer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ekron did so, and the viewer on Monor’s office wall lit up with the hideous face of Qaolin.

  “Greetings, my old enemy. Eighteen years ago, we faced each other in combat worthy of song, and one that intertwined our destinies on this forsaken ball of rock. Today, we part, with victory in your grasp. I must admit, this was not the ending I had in mind for our battle when our ships first engaged over this world, but I cannot deny that you have been a worthy foe. Therefore I give you this parting gift—the finest bottle of the finest bloodwine from our finest vintner. I salute you, Prefect Monor—you have been a worthy foe. Qapla’!”

  The message then ended. “At least he wasn’t slurring,” Monor muttered. Then he handed Ekron the bottle. “Destroy it.”

  “Sir? It was a gift.”

  Monor’s lips curled in distaste. “Please. It’s a Forehead abomination. I want all traces of those creatures abolished from my world, starting with this blood vinegar of theirs and finishing with that filthy Ch’gran wreck. That’s what started this whole mess, you know. I tell you, Ekron, I wish you’d never found that damned relic. If you hadn’t, we’d have just colonized this place eighteen years ago and I could’ve retired.”

  Taking the bottle from Monor, Ekron said, “As you say, sir.”

  “I want that bottle vaporized, Ekron. Hell
, I want it atomized. I don’t even want there to be microscopic traces of that damned Forehead swill on my world, is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

  Ekron took his leave. Monor went back to the window and watched the rest of the sunset on his world.

  Chapter 40

  Betazed

  Elias Vaughn sipped his single-malt Scotch as he stood on the periphery of the crowd. He saw several familiar faces at the reception, but thankfully no one he knew well enough to actually talk to. Some nodded their heads at him, others ignored him. None came to talk to him, which suited him fine. He was just marking time until the transport arrived in any case. The reception was unusually quiet, as most of those present were telepaths, and so defaulted to talking among themselves psionically.

  Finagling the invitation to this reception was the only way Vaughn could justify the trip to Betazed without it getting in the way of the mission he and T’Prynn were about to go on in the Arvada system. But it was something he felt the need to do now, before Arvada III, in case that mission went bad.

  Vaughn wasn’t even sure what the reception was for—all he knew was that Uhura got him on the guest list.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s here.”

  Closing his eyes, Vaughn thought, Not him. Why did he have to be here?

  Giving in to the inevitable, he turned to see the familiar smug face, irritating smile, shock of white hair, and black spots of Curzon Dax. He was dressed in an ankle-length blue jacket decorated with some kind of sun-and-moon pattern over a white shirt and black pants.

  “Ambassador,” he said with a minimal inclination of his head. As Dax approached, Vaughn caught a whiff of allira punch. Wistfully, Vaughn remembered that Ian Troi was rather fond of that stuff—in fact, it was at the reception on the Carthage eighteen years ago that he introduced Vaughn to the beverage. Seeing Dax drink it now seemed wrong to Vaughn.