by David Mack
“You mean you had all our slaves executed,” Hegron raged. “Tens of millions of them, all over the Empire, cut down in the streets!”
“Better them than us,” Klag said.
Korvog shouldered his way forward and pointed a finger at Klag. “And are you prepared to pay for all those slaves, Klag? Do you have that kind of fortune?” He turned and played to the room. “With one word, he erased billions in profits from our Empire!” Looking back at Klag, he added, “How generous you are, Regent, when you’re spending everyone else’s wealth!”
“Never mind the economic losses,” added Councillor Qolka, a crooked-nosed, blister-faced horror of a man whose face made even hardened warriors flinch. “What about the blow to our prestige? Suddenly, we’re not strong enough to keep our slaves in check? We’re so afraid of our servants that our only recourse is to put them down like rabid targs? Damn you, Klag, you’ve made us the laughingstocks of the galaxy!”
One councillor after another piled on, reading lists of factories and agricultural colonies that would be unable to meet their quotas without their armies of slaves. Shortages of everything from fuel and food to raw materials and weapons were prophesied with absolute certainty. Klag listened to them drone on, maligning him as if he had just written the Empire’s epitaph rather than delivered it from an enemy that had been hiding in plain sight, killing it from within.
Finally, his patience expired. He stood and slammed the end of his ceremonial staff three times on the dais. The ear-splitting cracks silenced the councillors and gave Klag the floor. “Stop whining,” he said, his voice rough with contempt. “A true Klingon doesn’t care about money, or what the novpu’ think of us. What matters is that an enemy has been slain, and the Empire is secure.”
Korvog shot back, “Secure? The rebels destroyed our main fleet yard! They’ve liberated Earth! We’re under siege by the Taurus Pact, and our allies are powerless to help us. Each day our foes grow stronger, and we lose ground. You call this security?”
“He’s right,” Hegron said. “Not since the loss of Praxis have we been this compromised.” He pointed at Klag. “And it happened on your watch, one-arm.”
Qolka added, “The loss of Earth and the fleet yard has our rivals talking. If we can’t defend a world in the heart of our own territory, they say, which of our other possessions are ripe for the taking? Where else have we overextended our reach? Already, the Kinshaya are moving fleets toward the former Romulan Star Empire. And thanks to your blunders, Klag, there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”
“That’s not the least of his failures,” said Hegron. “The rebels’ victory at Earth has given them credibility. Several of the neutral powers in local space are beginning to talk of supporting the rebellion if it can carve a new nation out of ours. All the rebels would need is a few more systems under their control, and powers such as the Taurus Pact might start treating them like equals.”
Klag felt a dangerous shift in the room’s mood. It was tipping over the edge that separated simple anger from all-out revolt, mere dissension from violence. Unless he turned its tide away from himself and against an external enemy, it soon would swallow him whole, and he would find himself without allies while facing one challenger after another for the throne. And even if I defeat those willing to face me in open combat, he knew, the others will resort to assassination.
He needed to assert his dominance and demonstrate his leadership of the council and the Empire, and he needed to do so quickly. “The rebellion will not have a chance to gain that foothold,” he said. “Their strikes on Earth and SoHcha were bold, but make no mistake about this—they suffered heavy losses for their victories. They didn’t escape those battles unbloodied.” He waved his staff in an arc that forced the councillors to step back from his dais. “They don’t have the numbers or the yoHjaq to do anything more than hit and run. They’re nothing but brigands. Pirates. Well-armed harriers.”
“Harriers that have left us without our primary shipyard,” Qolka said.
“For now,” Klag said. “And I hear the same rumors you do—of our galactic neighbors whispering behind our back in support of the gnat that buzzes our ears. But that will all come to an end soon enough, I assure you. I’ve set a plan in motion. One that will guarantee no other power in local space will dare to offer the rebels their support ever again. And when the rebels see what we’re capable of, and what we’re prepared to do, that knowledge will bring them to their knees.”
28
Love in Wartime
Three weeks had been more than enough time for Memory Omega’s automated repair bots at Erebus Station to rebuild the Defiant inside and out, but it had felt like nowhere near enough time for O’Brien to rebuild his crew’s confidence—or his own. No matter how many times Picard and those backing him insisted that the rebellion had stunned the Alliance, all that O’Brien could think of were the people he had lost, the lives that had been sacrificed to score tactical victories of dubious merit. The dead weren’t statistics to him; they had been his friends, the only ones he had ever really known. To him, they were his only kin.
Reliving days and moments long past, he walked the corridors of the station’s residential quarters, following the signs to a meeting he had avoided for as long as possible but that could no longer be postponed. He arrived at his destination and hesitated. For a moment he considered turning away, going back the way he’d come, and trying to make do with what crew he had left. Don’t be stupid, he castigated himself. This is no time to break in a novice. He pressed the door signal and waited. Several seconds passed with no response from within. Thinking he’d misread the chrono, he checked it again. He was on time.
I’ve come this far. Might as well give it one more try.
He pressed the door signal again. Moments later, he heard Tigan’s faint voice from behind the door. “Come in.”
The door unlocked and slid open with a soft hiss. O’Brien stepped inside Tigan’s quarters, which were as generic as everyone else’s. All the lights were off except one in the corner, behind a chair. As he moved farther inside and heard the door close behind him, he squinted into the heavy shadows until he found Tigan sitting at a small square table on the far side of the room from the light. He took a few steps toward her, then stopped. “Okay if I sit down?”
Her entire affect was deadpan, as if she were numb. “Sure.”
O’Brien eased himself into a chair diagonally across from her. He looked at her for several seconds, but she made no effort to acknowledge his presence. She just stared straight ahead, her expression slack, her eyes fixed upon something unseen in the darkness. He folded his hands atop the table. “How’ve you been?”
“How do you think?”
He hadn’t expected her to make this easy, but he’d hoped for a bit more engagement than this. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” His gentle coaxing seemed to have no effect. She just went on staring at the wall. “What I do know is that I’m worried about you. A lot of us are.”
“Why?”
“Are you really gonna make me say it?” He leaned forward and cocked his head, trying in vain to attract her gaze. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ezri. We all are.” He had no idea what else to say. “You know I cared about her, too.”
“Not like I did.” Anger revived Tigan’s face as she shot a hard look at O’Brien. “Don’t you dare compare your loss to mine.”
Leaning back and lifting his palms, he said, “I wasn’t. But it’s not a contest, Ezri. Just because I miss her, too, doesn’t mean you miss her any less.” He relaxed a bit as he added, “I just wanted you to know you’re not alone.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “But I am alone, Miles.” She buried her face in her hands, and grief strangled her voice. “Leeta was all I had left. My mother and my brother Janel are dead, my younger brother Norvo’s an Alliance stooge…” She began to cry. “I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared about. They’re all gone.” Eyes and jaw clenched shut, she struggled not to break
down completely.
Unsure how she would react, but desperate to offer some consolation, O’Brien stood and reached toward Tigan’s shoulder. He figured that if he didn’t invade her space too abruptly, she might accept that small gesture of comfort.
At the first touch of his hand, she got out of her chair and embraced him, nestling her face between his neck and shoulder. Reacting to an instinct he hadn’t known he possessed until that moment, he hugged her and gently stroked her greasy, unwashed hair with one callused hand while she cried.
Several minutes slipped away while he let her express her grief without question or interruption. All she seemed to want was someone to care, to accept her grief in its pure form. That was something he knew how to do.
When her outpouring of emotion at last tapered off, he asked in a husky whisper, “You all right?”
She leaned back and sleeved the tears from her cheeks, then looked up at him with puffy, reddened eyes and nodded. “I think so. For now.”
He wrung his hands, dreading her reaction as he said, “I’m sorry that I have to ask you to do this, but I need you back on the Defiant.”
“No.” She shook her head furiously, reacting violently at the idea. “No, absolutely not. I never want to see that ship again.” There was desperation in her eyes. “I can’t go back aboard that ship, Miles. I’ll see her everywhere.”
“We all will,” O’Brien said. “But we don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, we do. Let someone else command Defiant. Pick another flagship.”
O’Brien shook his head in gentle refusal. “All the other ships have captains. Defiant’s our boat, Ezri. It’s our duty to take her back into service.”
She got up and retreated from him. “That’s a load of crap, and you know it. You’re one of the leaders of all this. If you told one of the captains to switch commands with you, they’d do it.”
“Maybe. But the other crews have all earned their ships, just like we earned ours. I’ve never asked any captain who joined us to give up their ship, for me or anyone else. I don’t plan to start now.” He followed her around the room as she backed away from him, but he was careful to keep his distance. “This war’s a long way from over, Ezri—but now there really is an end in sight. And everyone else is counting on us to help them get there.” She backed herself into a corner, so he stopped and raised his hands, palms out, doing all he could to allay her fears. “Picard and the Memory Omega folks have a plan for the next phase of the war, and they need Defiant to be part of it.”
Tigan shrugged. “So? Go. Nothing’s stopping you.”
“I need a good first officer, Ezri, one I can rely on.” He cracked a lopsided smile. “I need you.”
As he’d feared, the suggestion that Tigan take the position that had belonged to her late wife brought her back to the edge of tears. What he hadn’t expected was that she would also be smiling. “Me? Your XO?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
She covered her mouth with her fingers. Miraculously, that tiny gesture seemed enough to dam up the flood of her emotions. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”
He stepped forward and gently took her by the shoulders. “I am. Big things are coming down the pike, kid. I can’t do it alone. Come with me.”
All at once, the young Trill woman looked humbled but proud, terrified but relieved, torn apart by grief but buoyed by courage. Mustering a faltering and crooked smile, she nodded, then lifted her chin. “I won’t let you down, General.”
Overcome by his own turbulent blend of anxiety, pride, and affection, he gathered her up in a fatherly embrace. “I know you won’t.”
Keiko stood in the observation lounge and felt dwarfed by its ten-meter-tall transparent steel wall that looked out on the starship construction yard. From her vantage point she had an unparalleled view of nearly half the ships docked at Erebus Station, and, beyond them, the majestic spiral of the Milky Way and the intimidating gulf of the intergalactic void.
Several meters behind her, people passed by on the level’s main concourse. Some of them were O’Brien’s people from the Terran Rebellion, and others were from Calhoun’s armada. Only once in a great while did she catch a dim reflection of a fellow Memory Omega member, most of whom had sequestered themselves out of habit. Amid the great commotion of moving bodies, Keiko remained still. She had hoped that arresting her body in space might bring her tranquility of spirit. So far, it did not appear to be working.
She inhaled and made herself savor the sweetness of unpolluted air. I’d forgotten the small pleasures of living in a civilized place. After so many years on Terok Nor, I guess I just became accustomed to foul odors and tepid showers.
There had been no end to her litany of criticisms of Terok Nor, but now that it was gone she regarded its memory with a peculiar fondness. She found herself thinking of the nights she’d celebrated with the rebels after hard-won battles, or the moments of tenderness she’d shared with Miles, and suddenly all of the old station’s shortcomings fell away, forgotten.
Letting go of her reverie, she felt a change in the air, a subtle presence. She couldn’t describe the sensation. She wasn’t psionically talented; she didn’t pick up surface thoughts or read emotional auras. Most of the time, anyone with a light step could creep up on her with little difficulty. But there was one person who made the world feel different simply by virtue of being nearby.
She caught her own reflection on the transparent wall and forced herself to suppress her hopeful reaction before she turned around. Then she pivoted and looked over her shoulder.
Miles O’Brien stood alone, an island among men, and looked at her. His lifetime of hurts was etched into every line of his face, and the horrible burdens of wartime leadership showed in the deep worry lines that creased his forehead.
The two of them regarded each other for several seconds, neither speaking nor moving. Keiko understood the moment perfectly, despite the silence. A profound loneliness yawned between them, an aching emptiness. She had heard about the casualties his crew on the Defiant had suffered during the attack on the Klingon fleet yards, and the toll his grief had taken on him was plain to see.
Knowing he would not take the first step, she did.
She moved with caution, as if fearful of scaring him off. He held his ground and let her come to him. Traversing the last few inches between them with trepidation, Keiko stopped a hair’s breadth shy of touching her forehead to his, and she looked up into his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, “for every—”
“No.” He looked at his feet for a moment. “You don’t have to be sorry. You did what had to be done. You don’t owe me anything.”
She felt ashamed. “I just wanted to explain why—”
“It doesn’t matter.” He reached over and took her hand. “No more apologies, no more explanations. I’m done with them. We don’t have time for grudges.”
Keiko nodded. “No more woulda-coulda-shoulda.”
“Exactly.” His shoulders slumped as he sighed. “To hell with pride, too. I’m miserable without you. I had forgotten how lonely I used to be before I met you. Then I pushed you away, and I had to learn it all over again.” He looked over her shoulder, out at the ships, the distant galaxy, the endless cosmos. “None of this is worth a damn without you.”
She squeezed his hands tightly. “I feel the same way. Without you, all I do is go through the motions.” She reached up one hand and stroked his stubbled cheek. It rasped like fine sandpaper beneath her touch. “Missed you.”
“Missed you, too. Can you forgive me for being an ass?”
Favoring him with a smile, she said, “No more apologies, remember?”
He chuckled nervously, then asked in a small voice, “Can we start again?”
She kissed him. “We never stopped.”
He kissed her, and this time it lasted long enough for him to gather her up in his arms, a homecoming in the form of a bear hug. When they came up for air, he leaned back just far enough to look her
in the eye. “Any more secrets to tell?”
“None,” she said. “We’re on the same page, now.”
Her answer put a pensive look on his face. “I guess this means we’re in this together, now. For the duration, I mean.”
She kissed him again and held him close. “All the way to the end.”
Two Months Later
29
The Last Argument of Kings
Ensconced in the center seat of the Enterprise’s bridge, Jean-Luc Picard hoped no one ever caught on to what an impostor he was.
The ship rumbled and pitched as it blasted its way through the debris field of ruined spacecraft that littered Andoria’s equatorial orbit. On the main viewer, torpedoes hammered the defending Alliance warships as phaser beams flensed sections of hull from their exteriors. All but defenseless before the superior firepower of the Enterprise and her sister ships, Intrepid and Courageous, dozens of Klingon and Cardassian battleships had been reduced to fiery scrap and now plunged, broken and ablaze, into Andoria’s vast La’Vor Sea.
And all Picard had done to make it happen was utter a single word: “Fire.”
Behind his left shoulder, K’Ehleyr was the true tactical mastermind behind the rebellion’s latest victory—and those that had preceded it. She and the other Memory Omega–trained personnel were the architects of these strategies, yet everyone else treated Picard as if he were the champion of the rebellion, a savior who had come to lead them to some long-imagined promised land.
He hated living a lie, but revealing the truth would do more harm than good. The rebellion needed a hero, now more than ever, perhaps just as much as it needed Memory Omega. Without a symbol for its aspirations, a face and a name in which to invest its hope, the fragile insurgency would splinter and collapse. It didn’t matter that Picard wasn’t the military genius they’d been led to think he was; what mattered was that they believed they could change the galaxy by putting aside their fears and selfish desires long enough to follow him to victory.
