DIPLOMATIC IMPLAUSIBILITY

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

“A week at Warp 6.”

  Worf nodded. That was something. “Compose a message to Minister T’Latrek. Suggest to her the possibility of the Federation relocating the al’Hmatti.”

  “To Koosbane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well.”

  “Let me see the message before you have it sent,” Worf said as they arrived at their quarters. Krevor took up her position outside while Wu and Worf entered.

  Wu made some notes on his padd, then said, “Also, I finished compiling the report on Kreel raids in this sector. There have been four attacks on Klingon ships in this area in the last six months.”

  “Any commonalities?”

  “Rather a big one, actually. Every single vessel they attacked, including this one, had either visited this star system or had it on their itinerary before they were attacked.”

  Worf looked up sharply at Wu.

  “Quite a coincidence, eh, sir?” Wu drawled.

  “Hardly,” Worf rumbled.

  Evidently, realizing his sarcasm was ill-timed, Wu cleared his throat and continued: “The encounter with the Gorkon was the first time the Kreel had the added defensive capability of the Breen shields, but the other three were freighters and cargo vessels that couldn’t put up quite the same fight that we did.”

  Worf nodded. “Very well. Have you sent the report to Starfleet Intelligence on the Kreel yet?”

  “Not yet. Commander Kurak is supposed to give me comm access later today.”

  “Good. Add this information to that report. Commander Drex should be sending a report on the refinery raid. I want to see it the moment it is ready.”

  “Of course. Is there anything else?”

  Feeling his stomachs growl, Worf realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. With an internal smile, he thought, Mother would be aghast. “Fetch me some food from the galley. I will be catching up on those correspondences.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Kurak headed to her quarters at the end of her shift in an even worse mood than usual. Lieutenant M’Rep had misaligned the warp coils during the last maintenance cycle and had nearly blown up the ship. She had killed M’Rep for his incompetence herself, which was responsible for worsening her mood—it would take weeks for Command to send a replacement.

  Then that imbecile human came mewling after communications access. She was in no mood to deal with one of his kind, so she sent him off with some excuse or other.

  Vall, at least, had been less irritating. He did what he was told—he had fixed M’Rep’s mistake in much less time than it would have taken the late engineer to do the job right the first time—and made no suggestions for improvement. Obviously, she thought, my threats had an impact.

  Now she just wanted to sleep.

  So she was particularly unreceptive to the dead lingta lying across her threshold.

  Long ago, the men of her province on Qo’noS would leave a game animal of some kind on the threshold of a woman they wanted to court. No one had indulged in the ludicrous practice in generations.

  A padd lay on top of the deceased animal. Its screen glowed with what appeared to be verse.

  To her horror, she realized it was a love poem.

  Leskit, she thought, it has to be. It seems he won’t take“keep away from me” for an answer.

  Then she read the poem.

  ’arlogh

  nga’chuq Leskit QongDaqDaq

  je’ Leskit

  Kurak Leskit nItebHa’

  Leskit malrachaI ngech

  tagh nga’chuq

  yIQ

  nga’chuq

  ’arlogh

  Do’Ha’ Leskit

  lo’laHbe’ghach Leskit

  Kurak couldn’t help herself.

  She laughed.

  She laughed long and hard.

  It was probably the worst piece of poetry ever written in all of Klingon history.

  “Now that was what I was hoping for.”

  Kurak whirled to see Leskit standing in the hallway.

  “Did you write this drivel?” she asked, trying to get her laughter under control and only partly succeeding.

  “No,” Leskit said with a smile. “My son wrote it.”

  “Your son? And his mother . . . ?”

  “Does not speak to me if she can possibly avoid it. But my son does, as often as he can. He’s two, and there’s a three-year-old he wants desperately to impress. Sadly, being two, he can’t even wrestle a glob fly, much less a proper animal, so he has to settle for poetry.”

  Kurak held up the padd. “If this is what he’s settling for, he’s in deep trouble. This isn’t even literate.”

  “I know. I can only hope that he’ll learn to spell—or learn to hunt, so he won’t have to spell.”

  “Speaking of hunting, I wasn’t aware that there were wild lingta on the Gorkon.”

  Leskit laughed. “I’m afraid you have your assistant to blame for that one. But I did order him to replicate the beast. It was the only way to get him to do it, as he expected you to react badly.” He considered. “You could still say I defeated a foe in order to lay this offering at your feet.”

  “This was an insane gesture, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s an insane universe, Commander. Besides, it did what it was supposed to do.”

  “Make a horrible stench in my quarters?”

  Again, Leskit laughed. “No, keep you in your doorway while you read the poem, so the door would stay open and I could savor your laughter. You have a beautiful laugh, Kurak. You should employ it more often.”

  “I seem to recall, Lieutenant, telling you that you would cease your attempts to befriend or seduce me.”

  Leskit grinned. “You did say something like that. As predictions go, I thought it fairly poor.”

  Kurak took Leskit in. He was definitely attractive. He smelled of sweat and grime. The presence of neckbones that Leskit had himself removed from Cardassian corpses sent a thrill through her. She even imagined that he had slain the lingta himself.

  She looked into his eyes. “I don’t know whether to kill you now or make you dispose of the lingta first.”

  “Dispose? And waste a perfectly good piece of meat? With your assistant’s facility for replicating food, it would make a glorious meal.”

  “It would if lingta didn’t make me ill,” Kurak said.

  “Ah.” Leskit unholstered his hand disruptor, aimed, and fired. The lingta disintegrated in a red glow. “Problem solved, then. I believe this is the part where you kill me.”

  Kurak walked inside her quarters. “Perhaps later.” She turned around. Leskit still stood in the doorway. “Don’t just stand there, Lieutenant, come in. A man who disposes of a lingta on the threshold deserves at least a drink.”

  Leskit grinned, holstered his disruptor, and entered. The door behind him ground shut.

  What are you doing, Kurak? she asked herself. Youswore you wouldn’t get involved with anyone. Serve untilyour nephews get old enough then get as far away fromthe Defense Force as possible. Form no attachments,make no impression, simply serve and get out.

  But then she thought about how long it had been since she had laughed.

  She asked the replicator for a pitcher of chech’tluth and two mugs.

  Klag killed the last Jem’Hadar soldier with his mek’leth and screamed to the heavens.

  Or, in this case, to the ceiling of the Gorkon’s holodeck.

  Defense Force vessels had only recently been equipped with holodecks. But where Starfleet used them for a multitude of recreational and professional purposes, and the Ferengi used them for that race’s two favorite pastimes, profit and sex, the Defense Force employed them solely for military training.

  Of course, technically, Klag wasn’t reliving the Battle of Marcan V as a military exercise. He was reliving it because he enjoyed it, and because he was in a bad mood and needed cheering up.

  He was the captain. He could do that.

  Right now, he really needed to kill something.


  And what better way than by reliving his greatest battle?

  “Computer,” he said, “restart program.”

  He stood once again on the arid plains of Marcan V, near the wreckage of the Pagh. He did not need a scanner to know precisely where he would find the crashed Jem’Hadar ship.

  Klag was not happy. He was a hero of the empire. He had been fortunate enough to receive a top-of-the-line ship for his first command—a rarity for a newly promoted captain—due in part to his heroism, in part to the shortage of captains, postwar. Soon, he would be inducted into the Order of the Bat’leth.

  But he was making a targ’s ear of his first mission.

  A Jem’Hadar materialized six feet to Klag’s left, charging toward him. With a slash of his mek’leth, Klag cut the creature’s supply of the addictive ketracel-white drug and slit its throat.

  It had all seemed so reasonable. After all, jeghpu’wI’ were attacking on taD. Governor Tiral had no support. It was an intolerable situation, but the governor seemed powerless to do anything about it. Klag had thought he could.

  Two Jem’Hadar charged at him. Klag took one down, but the other knocked him to the ground, driving the mek’leth from Klag’s hand.

  However, Klag was starting to wonder how much of taD’s difficulties were truly due to High Council recalcitrance, and how much was the fat governor’s own damn fault. The captain began to believe that Worf’s accusation of gubernatorial incompetence was completely accurate.

  Klag unholstered his hand disruptor and fired on the Jem’Hadar. It disintegrated in a red glow.

  Then there was Worf. For Klag to have his command undermined by that—that—

  What is he, really? Klag asked himself. He claims thathe got his position legitimately, not as a member of thechancellor’s House. Riker claimed the same. But Riker ishuman, and Worf was raised by humans. Can they trulybe trusted?

  He picked up his mek’leth and killed the remaining Jem’Hadar, then killed their Vorta.

  It left him unsatisfied. He’d done this too many times. He knew what to expect.

  It was too easy.

  “Computer, end program.”

  The holodeck returned to its normal grid. It occurred to Klag that he hadn’t programmed the right smells. The thing he remembered most about his fight against the Jem’Hadar was the oddly appealing smell of their blood mixed with the white. The holodeck hadn’t re-created that to Klag’s satisfaction.

  “Computer, call up image of M’Raq, son of K’Ton, from his last Defense Force service record.”

  An image of Klag’s father appeared before the captain. It was M’Raq as Klag preferred to remember him: tall, broad-shouldered, thick beard, a proud warrior, a commander, first officer on the K’mqar.

  As opposed to the image of M’Raq that Klag would always remember, whether he wanted to or not: stooped-over, patchy white beard, dying, old, weak. Broken.

  Fifteen years ago, the K’mqar had gone into battle against the Romulans. M’Raq was captured, and not allowed to die. The Romulans had tortured him, but he did not succumb. Eventually, he escaped and returned home. Since he had not actually given up any intelligence, he was given the opportunity to reclaim his honor by rejoining the Defense Force.

  Instead, he had chosen to return to Qo’noS and live out his days like an invalid old woman. The very idea made Klag ill.

  For over a decade M’Raq had lingered, his body slowly deteriorating, but the old man had refused to take the final step.

  And for over a decade, M’Raq would not say why he chose this. Not that Klag ever really cared much. He had neither visited nor spoken to his father since he was first posted to the Pagh.

  But he knew that his father was supposed to be a great warrior.

  Kargan was supposed to be a good captain.

  Tiral was supposed to be a competent governor.

  Worf was supposed to be qualified to do his job.

  “Toq to Klag.”

  “Klag.”

  “Sir, Commander Drex is reporting from GovernorTiral’s satellite.”

  “Put him through.”

  “Captain,” Drex’s voice said, “request permission toreturn to the Gorkon. I think I may have found a way tolocate the rebels, but I’ll need the ship’s sensors to doit.”

  “Granted. Meet me and the ambassador in my office,” Klag said.

  “Yes, sir. Out.”

  “Klag to Worf.”

  “Go ahead,” came Worf’s deep voice a moment later.

  “Report to my office, immediately.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Klag was surprised. He had expected the ambassador to at least ask why.

  But no, Worf expects that the ship’s captain has a reason for such a summons, and that he will explain it soonenough.

  That annoying voice in the back of Klag’s head chose that moment to speak up again: So why don’t you give Worf the same courtesy?

  “Computer, remove image and exit.”

  The image of Commander M’Raq, great soldier of the empire, disappeared.

  The image of M’Raq, the old man on his deathbed, remained in Klag’s mind.

  Worf was already waiting for him as he entered his office. “Drex,” Klag said, “has a report regarding the rebels.”

  “Good.”

  Drex entered a moment later. “Report,” Klag and Worf both said simultaneously. Klag glowered at Worf. Worf didn’t even return the captain’s gaze.

  Handing Worf a padd, Drex said, “I have examined the visual and sensor records made during the attack. I noticed a similarity to something that happened during the war—specifically, on Dralnok.”

  “That is a Cardassian planet,” Worf said.

  Drex nodded. “We took the planet, but one Cardassian garrison eluded our patrols for days. The planet had underground tunnels that we were unaware of, and its crust was lined with a previously unknown element that our scanners couldn’t penetrate. The pattern of the rebel movements is very close to what the Cardassians did on Dralnok. And taD is similar to Dralnok geologically.”

  “You suspect that this element is in taD’s crust as well?” Worf asked, looking up from the padd.

  “Possibly. The element was simply given a number. But this planet has prewar sensor equipment.”

  Klag nodded. “The Gorkon should be able to detect this new element?”

  “Yes, sir. Any sensor array built after Dralnok was taken, as the Gorkon’s was, would be able to.”

  “Do it,” Klag said, getting up. He, Worf, and Drex adjourned to the bridge.

  “Lieutenant Toq,” Drex said as they entered, “adjust the sensors to penetrate Element 604.”

  Toq blinked. “Ah, yes, sir.”

  “Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. I was simply under the impression that there were only six hundred and three elements.”

  “This one is new,” Drex said slowly.

  “Yes, sir,” Toq said, operating his console.

  The bridge guard let out a bark of laughter, as did several others. Klag had to admit to being mildly amused himself. Toq had proven to be an excellent second officer, but he was still quite young.

  “Adjustments made, Commander,” Toq said. “Preliminary surface scan indicates that the element is present throughout the planet’s crust.”

  “As I suspected,” Drex said. “Scan the area around the topaline refinery that was recently attacked.”

  “Yes, sir.” After several seconds: “Sir, there is a network of tunnels under the refinery that do not match either our previous scans or the geological records of the planet.”

  “Good,” Klag said.

  “Do an extensive scan of the entire planet, Lieutenant,” Drex said. “I expect a complete report within half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir!” Toq said eagerly.

  “Captain, Commander,” Worf said, “I will speak with you both.”

  “Is there a problem, Ambassador?” Klag asked. “We should be able to locate
the rebel base, and then—”

  “I will speak with you both,” Worf repeated, more slowly this time, indicating the way to Klag’s office with his arm.

  Snarling, Klag moved back to his office, Drex on his heels. Klag was well and truly sick of Worf ordering him around like—

  Like someone in charge of the mission? the back-of-his-head voice chimed in.

  Once in the office with the door closed, Worf asked, “Tell me, Captain, what were your plans once Toq locates the rebel base, as he likely will?”

  Klag almost said, Aid Governor Tiral in crushing the rebels, obviously. But that was the wrong answer. After all, if Worf had asked, say, Rodek that question, the gunner would answer that he would obey the orders of his commanding officer. On this mission, at least, that needed to be Klag’s answer as well.

  His right arm started to itch again.

  Sitting in the chair behind his desk, he answered Worf’s question: “I would advise you to allow me to aid the governor in crushing the rebels.”

  Worf nodded. “An understandable recommendation on your part.”

  “So those will be your orders?”

  “No.”

  “What?” Klag rose from his chair angrily. He was nearly apoplectic. “Ambassador, your task is to solve the problem on taD. If you crush the rebels, the problem is solved.”

  To Klag’s surprise, Drex spoke up. “No, sir, I don’t think it will be.”

  “What?”

  “Before the reports from the refinery came in, I was looking over the publications that Tiral wanted suppressed. There are a lot of them, from all over the planet.”

  “So?”

  “There’s more. I looked over the records of the attack. The saboteurs were numerous, and did considerable damage to the refinery, yet no al’Hmatti were seriously injured. Captain, ninety-five percent of the refinery personnel were al’Hmatti. Yet all the casualties and most of the injuries were among the five percent who were Klingon. That cannot be a coincidence.”

  Klag nodded. “Unless the rebels had some inside help.”

  “Not just some,” Worf said. “I have also seen those records. Most of the al’Hmatti in the refinery had to be assisting the rebels in order for the collateral damage to have been as specific as it was.”

  “The rebels aren’t the problem, Captain, or at least not the only one,” Drex said. “The al’Hmatti don’t want us here, and the only way to get them in line is to kill them all. And then who will mine the topaline?”