Star Trek-TNG-Novel-Imzadi 2-Triangle

by Peter David

  "You have outdone yourself, Duntis," Gowron commended him. "Assassins seeking to sneak up behind me will find Gowron more than ready to deal with them!" He thumped his fist on the back of a chair for good measure.

  "I knew you'd be pleased, Great Gowron," Duntis cooed in his best sycophantic tone. "If you'd like, I can make more for the others in the council. . ."

  Gowron looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "But then they could see me coming!"

  Duntis winced in chagrin. "I'm sorry, Great Gowron. What was I thinking?"

  Suddenly Gowron heard footsteps approaching. He kept his back deliberately to the sounds as an experiment, and strained to bring the image into as sharp focus as he mentally could. A moment later, a Klingon who walked with more than the normal degree of swagger appeared at the main entrance. His hair was cut more closely to the skull than most Klingons', though, and when he spoke it was in a voice that seemed suited to whispered conferences in the cover of night.

  Without turning, Gowron said heartily, "K'hanq. Welcome home. It is good to see you once more."

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  If K'hanq was surprised by Gowron's ready identification of him despite the fact that he wasn't looking at him, he was too well trained to reveal it. "And you, Chancellor Gowron. Recognize my footfall, did you."

  Gowron and Duntis shared a private smile before Gowron turned to face K'hanq. "That," boasted Gowron, "is how sharp these ears are. Although I do not hear nearly as much as you, K'hanq, nor in so many interesting places. Come. Sit and tell me what news. Duntis . . . you may go."

  Duntis bowed slightly and then walked quickly away. Gowron knew that Duntis was already tallying up in his mind just how much his personal accounts would be supplemented by his latest achievement. That was fine as far as Gowron was concerned. As long as Duntis was kept satisfied by his reward for being in Gowron's service, Gowron never had to worry about Duntis providing convenient technology for any possible enemies of Gowron's. And there were enemies, of that Gowron was sure. Enemies everywhere, lurking in shadows, or strutting pridefully in the open.

  And there was no one who was in a better position to keep Gowron informed than K'hanq. When it came to an operative skilled at gathering information, K'hanq was the most dependable source Gowron had. He had informants everywhere. If information was the coin of the Klingon realm, then K'hanq was one of its leading millionaires.

  Gowron took care to keep him happy as well. Unfortunately, in this particular instance, K'hanq was not going to be keeping Gowron particularly happy.

  "Keep in mind," K'hanq prefaced his comments, "that I am but the messenger."

  "Ah. That is your way of telling me that I will not be pleased with what you have to say."

  K'hanq nodded regretfully. "Your suspicions, it appears, are correct. The Romulans apparently are in the process of building an alliance with the Federation."

  "Damn them!" snarled Gowron, his good mood already a

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  thing of the past. He slammed a fist on the chair arm in frustration and nearly snapped the arm off. "Are they insane? Do they not know that the Romulans cannot be trusted? They endeavored to wipe out the Vulcans, for the love of Kahless! That hardly is a ringing endorsement!"

  "Nevertheless, there is some rumbling that the Romulan Star Empire can be worked with. Ambassador Spock continues to advocate peace initiatives. ..."

  "Fool," muttered Gowron, but even he knew the significance of this. Spock was a legendary figure, and legends were notoriously influential, and irritating.

  "Furthermore, Starfleet is pleased that the Romulans have loaned a cloaking device to the Starship Defiant. The Romulans, you see, are no happier about the Dominion and the Jem'Hadar than is the UFP. They represent a mutual enemy, and mutual enemies tend to breed allies."

  "Are we not allies enough?" demanded Gowron.

  K'hanq bared his teeth in annoyance. "We are perceived as unstable by some. A warrior race torn by civil war, unable to clean up after ourselves or solve any problems without the intervention of Starfleet oflBcers such as Picard to guide us."

  "They act as if we are but children!" Gowron bellowed.

  "Not all of them," K'hanq hastened to emphasize. "The UFP does not speak with one voice in this case. There are those who respect the long-standing alliance . .. and certainly have no desire to see the Klingon Empire as enemies once again."

  "That is wise of them."

  "But there are others who see it differently. Who think that the Romulans represent the future. They do not trust us ... nor do they trust the Romulans. And since they trust no one . .. they will deal with anyone."

  "Insane." Gowron shook his head. "Simply insane. They must learn otherwise. They must see the error of their ways. No one knows the Romulans better than we. Were we not

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  their allies? Do we not know their betraying ways? Their treacheries? We Klingons have not yet forgotten Khitomer. We have not forgotten the Romulan promises of loyalty that were tossed aside." He rose and began to pace. "Ironic, is it not, K'hanq? When we began our initial rapprochement with the Federation . . . that was when our alliance with the Romulans began to deteriorate. It was as if they were our allies simply because of our mutual antagonists, the Federation. Yet now they would switch sides. It is as if the Romulans need someone to hate before they can then work with someone else."

  "And they most definitely hate us," said K'hanq.

  "That is beyond question. So where does that leave us?"

  "I regret that it leaves us on extremely uncertain ground. If the Federation comes to terms with the Romulans, and the Romulans launch hostilities against us . .."

  "What would the UFP do, do you think?"

  "Well," K'hanq said thoughtfully, "if one can judge by past actions ... there are three likely possibilities. The first is that they might attempt to mediate a settlement. .."

  "A settlement!" snorted Gowron disdainfully. "You mean some sort of compromise so that the Romulans could buy themselves more time to gather more strength against us!"

  "The second is that they will simply stay neutral.. ."

  "Allowing for an all-out war." This option clearly did not appeal to Gowron. "Not for a moment am I contemplating shrinking from a fight. I would welcome the opportunity to put those arrogant, pointy-eared bastards in their place. However, with all the recent civil stress and strife that have enveloped the empire, it would be akin to fighting a two-front war-from within and without. I would be less than enthused." He paused. "And the third possibility?"

  "That the Romulans and Federation would ally against us."

  There followed a long silence as the awesome challenge that represented hung in the air. K'hanq was unsure of what to

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  expect from Gowron, for the Klingon leader's face was unreadable. And then his eyes sparkled with anticipation and he flashed a wolfen grin. "A fight like that. . . the Klingon Empire's last, hopeless stand against overwhelming and hopeless odds . . . gods, K'hanq ... it would be glorious."

  "It would at that, Gowron. Of course," he added as an afterthought, "it would also be suicide. And if none of us are left to tell the tale, what point in glory?"

  "True," admitted Gowron. He gave it a bit more thought, and then said, "K'hanq ... I want you to find someone. For one of your talents, it should not be difficult."

  "Who, Great One?"

  "Worf."

  "Worf.sonofMogh?"

  "The very same."

  "But why?" asked K'hanq. "He is in Starfleet."

  "Precisely. But he is also beholden to me, K'hanq. I restored honor to his family, cleared the name of his father. If there is anyone who is trustworthy enough to tell me of how the Federation perceives matters ... it is Worf."

  "Once I have located him, do you desire to speak with him via subspace?"

  Gowron snorted disdainfully at the very notion. "So that either Romulan or Federation spies can find a way to break through transmissions? Listen in on our conversations? I do n
ot think so, K'hanq, no. No, bring him here."

  "And if he will not come?"

  Completely without warning, Gowron's temper flared. "I am Gowron!" he fairly roared. "Gowron, son of M'Rel! Leader of the High Council! If I say that Worf will come . . . then he will cornel Is that clear?!"

  "Yes, Gowron," K'hanq said quickly.

  "Well? Do not just stand here. Go!"

  K'hanq headed for the door. And as he did, Gowron .. .

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  with his back to him . . . said, "And K'hanq ... I will be watching you." K'hanq bowed slightly and left.

  "He will come," Gowron said with confidence to the empty room. "He will come."

  For no accountable reason ... he felt a chill. The winds of war, perhaps, cutting to the bone. For the first time in a long time . . . Gowron felt old.

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  CHAPTER

  12

  Lwaxana had lost track of the days, as had Worf. But they knew one thing, beyond question:

  Things were not getting easier.

  "It's like slamming my head repeatedly against a rock!" Lwaxana had complained to Deanna at one point. "Except less fulfilling!"

  "Mother, maybe you're going about this the wrong way. . . ."

  "Little One, he has to understand! He has to be open to our ways!"

  "And does it cut both ways, Mother? What if his KJingon relatives desire to enroll me in some sort of gladiatorial school?"

  "Would you agree to do it?"

  "Yes," said Deanna without hesitation.

  "And would you give it your best effort?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, that's the point, dear. I don't think Worf is giving this his best effort. I think he's being stubborn and hardheaded, and if he really loved you-"

  "Don't, Mother," Deanna had said, holding up a warning

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  finger. "Don't put that sort of price on what's being done here. Worf has agreed to your tutelage on my behalf. If he is having trouble understanding, does the problem lie with the student or the teacher?"

  Lwaxana had glowered at her and said nothing. For Lwax-ana, saying nothing was an impressive feat all its own.

  Worf looked at the painting with some confusion.

  He had rendezvoused with Lwaxana, as promised, at a rather pleasant and scenic place. It was an overlook near Bacarba Lake, which was as flat and as blue as any body of water that Worf had ever seen.

  "Glorious day, isn't it, Worf," Lwaxana had said when he had arrived. She was standing in front of an easel, wearing work clothes. She was busy applying paint in thick layers to the easel. "Not a cloud in the sky."

  "Yes. That is preferable."

  There was something in his tone that had caught her attention. "Why do you feel it's preferable?"

  "Incoming ships are easy to spot. Reduces chances of a sneak attack, unless-of course-they have a cloaking device."

  She sighed and shook her head. "Worf, I'll give you credit for one thing: You're consistent." She laid down her brush and gestured to the painting. "So . . . what do you think?"

  He stared at it uncomprehendingly. The large easel was covered entirely with one color of red, top to bottom. The strokes were uniform, no variation at all. That was all it was, just... a big red easel.

  "Very modem," he said judiciously. "A ... sublime introspection."

  "Hmm. You think? I just thought it was a big easel covered with red paint."

  "Oh. Well. .. yes. It is."

  "Then what were you just talking about?"

  "I was being polite."

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  "Why Worf," said Lwaxana in mock astonishment, "you are capable of surprising me every once in a while."

  "Is there a point to producing this .. . work?"

  "Yes, there is. In fact, it's the subject of today's exercise. Sit down."

  Once Worf had seated himself on the ground, he said, "Now what?"

  "Now," Lwaxana told him, sitting next to him, "we're going to watch it."

  "Watch it? Watch it do what?"

  "Dry."

  He couldn't quite believe he'd heard her properly. "You want me to sit here . . . and watch paint dry?"

  "That's right."

  He studied her carefully to see if there was some hint of humor in what she was saying, some slight endeavor on her part to be making a joke. She couldn't be serious. "For how long?"

  "Until it's dry, of course. Otherwise it would be pointless."

  "It is pointless in any event!"

  "Worf," she sighed. She shifted around on the ground so that she could face him directly. "We're trying to deal in subtleties. That's what all this has been about."

  "Subtleties? The sparring session? The underwater immersion for hours on end? The dozens of books you have had me read? The essays? The ten-mile barefoot hike? Having me try to chop down a tree with my teeth? I am still picking wood chips from my gums!"

  "We have different definitions of subtlety."

  Worf felt as if they had different definitions of reality altogether. "How is watching paint dry supposed to be of any use?"

  "Worf. . . look at it." He looked. "Do you see how it is now? Wet? Glistening? Over the next hours, slowly that is going to fade, going to transform. The glistening will diminish, the paint will form its permanent bond with the easel. It will

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  I M 2 A D I II

  change before our very eyes. You build your starships, take them out into space, park them and have no trouble watching while a star is born or a star dies. But all you see are the big things, Worf. There are the little things as well. It is from those little things that true love blooms, you see. We may first be attracted to the big things about other people . .. the entire physical package, or the thunderbolt that hits us when we first look into their eyes. At first, love is wet and glistening and new. Over time, however, the love dries. You become bored looking at it... if you are in the wrong state of mind. But if you appreciate it properly ... it can be a constant source of interest and amazement."

  He stared at her blankly.

  "So here is what we're going to do, Worf," she said, undaunted by his evident lack of enthusiasm. "We will watch the paint dry. And as we do, I want you to try and achieve two things. First, I want you actually to appreciate the simple and amazing process of the paint transforming from one state into the other. See it for the wonder that it is, and if you do not think that it is wonderful, then try to find a way to make it so. And second-since we'll have plenty of time-I want you to try and separate yourself from yourself. Do not think about other things you could be doing. Do not think about frustrations, or goals unachieved, or debates, or anything. Make this drying easel more important than you. Elevate it. Lose yourself in it, and ease yourself into a meditative state. See if one drop of paint looks different to you than another. See all the possibilities. Let yourself go, Worf. That's all I'm asking. Lose yourself. . ." She gestured to the easel. "... in that."

  "I will. .. try," he growled.

  They sat and stared at the easel.

  Five minutes and seventeen seconds later, Worf said, "This is ridiculous."

  "Worf. .."

  "The lesson is over." He rose and turned to face her. "I do not know what sort of elaborate game you are playing here,

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  Lwaxana, and as of this point, I no longer care. I am a Klingon. Klingons do not sit around watching paint dry! There is no purpose to it except to waste more of my time than has already been wasted."

  "Is that all you see of what we've been doing?" she asked, getting to her feet. She placed her hands on her hips. "Just wasting your valuable time? And don't you walk away from me!"

  That was exactly what Worf was doing. "We are done with this absurdity."

  "You don't love her, Worf. Not like Riker did."

  The harsh words brought him up short. "What. Did, You. Say?"

  "She deserves the best," Lwaxana said defiantly, not the least bit intimidated by his clearly building wrath. "Will and Deanna, th
ey were Imzadi. They share a bond you can never have."

  "What bond? What does 'Imzadi' mean? Is this another of your 'lessons'?"

  She stared at him and he felt as if she were truly seeing him for the first time. And she seemed, somehow, to deflate, ever so slightly, as if something had been taken away from within her. "No, Mr. Worf. The lessons are over. We're done. Here. Let me put it to you in a way you will understand."

  And she went to the paint-covered easel, drew back her arm, and plunged her fist through it. The canvas ripped easily enough, and the entire easel tilted over. She caught the canvas before it fell, gripped it firmly, twisted at the waist, and then let fly with all her strength. As if on cue, a breeze caught up the easel and carried it down, down to the water far below. It landed there and floated for a moment, supported by the wood of the frame.

  Lwaxana looked at her hands. Tinged with red paint as they were, they looked almost bloodstained. She gave him one last, disappointed look and then walked away, shaking her head. Worf remained behind, standing at the precipice, looking down at the ruined painting far below in the water. The tide

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  was going out apparently, and slowly, ever so slowly, the ruined painting was carried away with it. "Nice throw," he noted.

  Deanna had just come back from the art museum and was burbling happily with Chandra over piping-hot glasses of moog when Worf walked in. He said nothing; just stood there and seethed. One did not have to be an empath to know that he was not particularly happy.

  "Chandra, perhaps you'd better .. ." Deanna said.