Rise Like Lions

by David Mack

  The last person left on the channel was Saavik. She gave Picard a sly look. “Well done, Captain.” Before he could reply, she ended her transmission.

  Settling back into his command chair, Picard realized he had not been briefed or coached in advance of this impromptu conference; there had been no prior discussion of addressing the lingering tensions between Calhoun and O’Brien. The situation had arisen, and Picard had, by instinct alone, dealt with it. I’ve played the part of a leader for so long that I’m starting to become one, he realized with amusement. Despite himself, he smiled. It’s about time.

  Klag did not receive the welcome he expected upon his return to the Great Hall. Where he had anticipated songs and fanfares worthy of a hero of old, he found only manic shouts of denunciation.

  Hegron spit at Klag’s feet. “Where is the honor in detonating a star?”

  “You’ve launched an arms race without precedent,” added K’mpar. “Our predecessors signed treaties to prevent this kind of madness.”

  Klag growled at his detractors. “K’mpec was a fool to trade away our power. I’ve taken it back, for all of us!”

  “No,” Hegron bellowed, “you’ve doomed us, you stupid taHqeq!”

  Other councillors followed Hegron and K’mpar’s lead, and their voices bled together into a wall of noise. Klag rapped the steel-jacketed end of his staff on his dais so many times that he lost count, and he kept on pounding it until they shut up. “Don’t cry to me about honor! This is war! All that matters is victory. This has always been our way, and so it will remain.”

  “For how long?” asked Korvog. “It’s only a matter of time until the Taurus Pact develops its own anti-stellar munitions.”

  Councillor Qolka added, “If they don’t, the Kinshaya will.”

  “All the more reason to act now, while we hold the advantage,” Klag said. “With trilithium warheads in our arsenal, we can bring all those second-rate powers to their knees and wield supreme authority over all of known space!”

  K’mpar recoiled in contempt. “Have you forgotten about the rebels, Klag? They control wormholes. That kind of technology doesn’t happen in a vacuum. If they can fold space, what else can they do?”

  “If they had some mighty superweapon, they’d have used it by now!” He spread his arms in a gesture of invitation. “Let them come! I’ll break their bones and drink their blood! I long for the day when at last I face Calhoun in battle.”

  “Face me first.”

  Klag knew that voice rumbling from the shadows, at the far end of the room beyond the cluster of councillors surrounding him. It was familiar, one he had met before but that his memory now struggled to connect with a face or a name. “Who dares challenge me in my own hall?”

  Heavy footsteps drew near. The knot of councillors unraveled, and the approaching figure stepped into the light. It was a warrior in the prime of his life, wearing a general’s insignia and carrying a bat’leth in each hand. He tossed one of the large, curving swords to the floor, and it clanged to a stop at the regent’s feet. Only as its echoes died in the smoky haze that wreathed the ceiling did Klag realize who was calling him out for a duel.

  “Duras, you filthy petaQ! You have no standing here!”

  The general raised his blade and took a ready stance. “That’s for the council to say. But whatever they decide to do with me, I am going to kill you for leading this empire into disgrace.” He nodded at the bat’leth on the floor. “Pick it up.”

  Klag set aside his staff, stepped off the dais, and crouched to grasp the sword’s hide-wrapped center bar. Then he stood and struck a defensive pose, his blood racing with the call to battle. “Lay on,” he said.

  The general let out a battle roar and charged.

  The regent blocked Duras’s first crushing downstroke, but the impact drove Klag to his knees. He intended to roll right and then feint to open up Duras’s defenses, but he never got the chance. The general’s second blow was a brutal swing that all but knocked Klag’s weapon from his hand.

  Before Klag could regain his feet he found himself skewered on the tip of Duras’s bat’leth.

  Staring wide-eyed at the blade in his chest, he struggled to draw breath for a final curse at Duras, but failed. Robbed of honor and title, Klag sank into darkness clinging to his hatred—only to despair as death stole that from him, as well.

  Hegron was the first to declare, “All hail, Regent Duras!” The other councillors roared in approval. Rather than bask in the moment, Duras despised it.

  He tore his blade free of Klag’s chest. “Enough of this madness,” he said, ascending the dais and seating himself upon the throne as if it were a matter of no great consequence. “We never should have let this power-mad fool lead us down a path to destruction. It’s time to chart a course back to sanity.”

  The councillors gathered around the dais. Korvog asked, “How?”

  “By setting rational priorities,” Duras said. “Cardassia gears for war. So does the Taurus Pact. And Klag’s idiotic violation of the Raknal Accords might have just sparked an arms race for trilithium weapons. These are real threats—but the Terran Rebellion isn’t. It’s our least important foe, but it has become powerful enough to make a nuisance of itself. Satisfying as it might be to swat at it, we can’t afford to be distracted from our real enemies, not with so much at stake.”

  K’mpar asked warily, “How do you propose we deal with the rebels?”

  “A cease-fire,” Duras said. “I’ll rescind Klag’s foolish ultimatum, and mollify the rebels by granting them the systems they’ve already captured.”

  Qolka was outraged. “Give up worlds of the Empire? To that scum?”

  Duras quelled the protest with a raised hand. “Only temporarily. We also need to broker a truce with the Taurus Pact so that we can focus on bringing Cardassia to heel.” He leaned back and relaxed onto the throne. “These are all wars we can win, my friends. Just not all at the same time.” He sighed. “Someone prep a subspace broadcast on all frequencies: I have a message to deliver.”

  O’Brien sat in his command chair and felt his blood pressure rise as the bridge crew of the Defiant pressed forward toward the main viewscreen, all eager to view the message being transmitted from the Klingon Empire’s newest ruler, Regent Duras. Unable to see or hear clearly through the wall of bodies, O’Brien cleared his throat with as much volume and menace as he could muster. Abashed, the bridge crew retreated to their assigned stations as the transmission began.

  The face of Duras appeared on the screen. He sat upon his throne inside the shadowy chamber of the High Council. Behind him, a Klingon banner adorned the wall, flanked by free-standing braziers crowned with golden flames. “Fighters of the Terran Rebellion, hear my words: The Klingon Empire offers you a cease-fire. My predecessor, Klag, betrayed our code of honor with his cowardly crime against Ferenginar. You have my word that we will commit no further such atrocities—on the condition that your rebellion also pledges to honor this cease-fire. If you accept our terms, keep the worlds already under your flag and rule them as you see fit; if you reject our offer… then may you die well.

  “You have two days to respond.”

  The signal ended, and the screen switched back to a view of warp-bent stars. Standing at the port-side sensor console, Tigan scrunched her face with contempt. “Pfft. Does he think we’re that stupid?”

  Swiveling around from the helm and operations console, the Defiant’s new flight controller, Prynn Tenmei, also sounded a doubtful note. “Why would the Klingons let us keep captured star systems?”

  “The bigger question,” added weapons officer Kirsten Perez, a lean and muscular human with blond hair who looked younger than her forty years, “is, will the Cardassians honor promises made by the Klingons? I can’t imagine they’d just let them give away entire star systems—especially to us.”

  “Those are all good questions,” O’Brien said, pondering what he’d heard. “My guess is that it’s a trap. Duras wants us to settle on a few
planets and let our guard down so he can box us in and kill us all in one massive assault.”

  Keiko, who had been listening from the aft situation table, stepped forward to stand next to O’Brien’s chair. “You’re all wrong,” she said. She waited until everyone looked at her, then she continued. “The cease-fire he offered is genuine. And if he’s looking to trick anyone, it’s the High Council and the Cardassians.”

  O’Brien wondered whether his beloved was pranking him and his crew. “Oh, really?” he said. “What makes you so sure?”

  A devilish smile brightened her face. “Because Duras is one of us.”

  31

  Aggressive Expansion

  Their cease-fire with the rebels is clearly a prelude to an invasion of our space!” Councillor Menaar punctuated his thought by pounding his fist on Damar’s desk. As soon as he’d done it, he sheepishly backed away, obviously aware of his faux pas. “Forgive my exuberance, Legate.”

  Damar let the older man squirm a moment before he let him off the hook. “Think nothing of it, Councillor. Passions are bound to run high at times such as these.” He measured the reactions of the others gathered before him: Councillors Gulal and Rajak, and Legates Temar and Parn. They each were careful to avoid eye contact with Damar, lest they find themselves embroiled in Menaar’s error. Satisfied that he had them at a momentary disadvantage, Damar capitalized upon it. “It is not the Klingon Empire’s sudden change of leadership or even Duras’s offer of a cease-fire to the rebels that concerns me. What troubles my sleep is knowing that they’ve dispatched an ambassador to broker their own truce with the Taurus Pact. I, for one, find it highly unlikely that the Gorn, the Tholians, and the Breen will negotiate in good faith with both the Klingons and us. Even if both treaties are signed, history suggests only one will be honored.”

  “Very true,” said Legate Temar, a tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed man whose profile looked as if it had been hewn off some celebrated monument in the heart of the Tarlak Sector. “The Taurus Pact will honor its truce with the power they believe poses the greatest threat to them. If we wish to claim that honor, we need to crush the Klingon Empire, take its brawn for ourselves, and leave enough of its ragged carcass for our foes to scavenge that they don’t set their sights on us.”

  Around the room, everyone nodded. “Unfortunately,” Damar said, “the Klingons are doing everything in their power politically to make certain we remain engaged on as many fronts as possible. By offering the Terrans a cease-fire, they make us the rebels’ sole remaining target, and they’ve sent a negotiator to the Taurus Pact, undermining our own efforts at diplomacy and increasing the risk that our borders will remain under siege by the Breen and the Tholians. It’s the Klingons’ way of making sure we’re too dispersed and off balance to defend ourselves when they launch their own attack.”

  Legate Parn, a man whose bulging physique tested the limits of his uniform, interjected, “Any significant incursion of Klingon forces into our sovereign space would be a disaster for us.”

  “I am well aware of that.” Damar shot a glare at Parn’s superior, and Temar passed the silent reproach along to Parn, who wisely stifled himself.

  Councillor Gulal stepped in to fill the conversational gap. “The military implications of a Klingon invasion would be nothing compared to the political ramifications, Legate. Popular support for this regime is deeply fragile at the moment, and the loss of confidence such an invasion would bring would almost certainly make our continued governance untenable.”

  Her verbosity made Damar smile. “You mean the people will throw us out if we let the Klingons in. Thank you, Councillor, for that remedial lesson in politics.” He picked up a glass from his desk and sipped kanar that was almost as sweet as the look on Gulal’s face was sour. Setting down the glass, he asked Temar, “How does Central Command recommend we stop the Klingons?”

  “By taking Raknal Station,” Temar said. He lifted a portable data tablet and pointed at the interactive display surface that covered one wall of Damar’s office. “With your permission, sir?” Damar nodded his assent, and Temar uploaded his strategic briefing to the wall screen with a tap of his finger. As he continued, he illustrated his points with broad sweeping gestures. “Raknal Station is the single most important strategic asset in this quadrant. Its central position, fortification, and concealment within the Betreka Nebula all make it a prime location from which to command and control interstellar traffic from the Terran system to Cardassia Prime to Qo’noS. At the moment, the garrisons stationed there are split evenly between our people and the Klingons’ personnel. If we move now and make a decisive first strike, I believe we can capture the station.”

  Damar eyed the battle plan and interior schematics of the station with a dubious eye. “Perhaps. But doing so is certain to provoke a Klingon retaliation. Are we prepared to repel such an assault?”

  “Not at the moment,” Temar said. “Our proposal calls for the redeployment of all available forces to reinforce Raknal Station pending the Klingon retaliation.”

  The three councillors appeared troubled by Temar’s suggestion. Rajak was the first to respond. “Legate, what if you’ve misjudged the Klingons’ response? What if instead of trying to retake the station, they attack Cardassia Prime?”

  “Or any of a number of strategically valuable worlds,” Menaar added, “such as Chin’toka or Setlik III?”

  Temar nodded at Parn, who replied, “From our vantage point on Raknal Station, we would be able to see any incoming attack before it reached our core systems. Any deployment out of Klingon space will register on the station’s long-range sensors. The Klingons won’t be able to move against us without being intercepted en route.”

  “What if they’re cloaked?” asked Gulal.

  With a sideways glance, Parn deflected the question to Temar. The senior legate answered, “Raknal’s sensors were built by the Klingons, Councillor. With its resources at our disposal, the Klingons’ cloaking devices would be rendered useless. The advantage would be ours.”

  “Be that as it may,” Rajak said, “what you’re proposing is a commitment of nearly all our remaining military forces. Even if we prevail, we might be crippled.”

  The legate shook his head. “I doubt that, Councillor. Assuming we take Raknal from within and then turn its defensive systems against the Klingons, the brunt of the battle will fall upon the station. Our forces will simply be there to prevent their escape and mop up the stragglers.”

  “I certainly can’t fault you for a shortage of optimism,” Damar said. “What kind of losses do you project in a full engagement?”

  “No more than thirty percent, sir.” He raised his hands to forestall a tempest of protests. “I know those numbers aren’t inconsequential, but after we emerge victorious, we’ll still have enough strength to set the political agenda in all of known space—starting with the eradication of the rebellion.”

  Damar reclined his chair and weighed the risks of Temar’s plan against its potential rewards. Menaar interrupted his deliberations with a desperate plea. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually considering this insanity?”

  “It seems reasonable and proportionate to the challenge facing us.”

  Waving his arms at the wall display, the older man verged on hysteria. “It’s a recipe for disaster, Damar! Sending all our forces to Raknal on a gamble? Have you considered the price we—and the people—will pay if Legate Temar is wrong? I beg you not to approve this plan.”

  Training a suspicious stare on Temar, Damar asked, “How do you respond, Legate? What if we lose our stand against the Klingons, and they retake Raknal?”

  Temar was relaxed and smug. “That won’t happen, sir. The Obsidian Order has obtained intelligence from a reliable source that will guarantee our triumph at Raknal Station. As a great philosopher once said, ‘The secret to victory in war is to win the battle before it is fought.’ And I assure you all”—he smiled not just at Damar but at the three councillors, as well—“this battle
is won.”

  “For all our sakes, and that of Cardassia, I hope you’re right,” Damar said, steeling his resolve. “Seize Raknal Station and prepare for war with the Klingons.”

  Picard checked the status report from the Enterprise’s engineering department for the tenth time that hour. It remained unchanged from his previous nine reviews. He knew that refreshing the computer screen on the desk inside his ready room would do nothing to accelerate the process, but anxiety lately had been driving him into strange patterns of behavior.

  His ready room had been his refuge since his first day aboard the massive, intimidating starship. Before taking command of the Enterprise, the only ships on which he had spent any significant time had been the Stargazer and the Calypso, a small runabout and an outrider, respectively—starships made for crews whose members could be counted on one hand. Inside the multilevel labyrinth of a ship such as the Enterprise, Picard felt lost and disoriented. He was unaccustomed to having so much interior space in which to roam. Consequently, when he wasn’t expressly needed on the bridge, he passed his hours sequestered in his quarters or cloistered in the privacy of his office.

  Dissatisfied with the dearth of new information on his computer, he got up and strolled to the window behind his desk. Looking out at the once-thriving moon of Andoria, whose curve dominated his view but was itself dwarfed by the mass of its gas giant parent, Andor, Picard watched as crews in small spacecraft worked as quickly as possible to construct orbital defense platforms. Though he could not see the planet’s cloud-blanketed surface from orbit, he knew that other crews down there were laboring just as diligently to install dozens of artillery batteries on every major landmass. It was all part of a long-term defensive strategy prepared by Memory Omega during the decades it had spent in hiding. Tragic that it comes far too late for the vast majority of people who once called this home, he lamented, recalling the historical accounts of the Cardassians’ slaughter of the Andorian people. Despite the cease-fire with the Klingons, it was the lingering threat of renewed hostilities with the Cardassians that gave urgency to the rebellion’s efforts to erect formidable defenses for its new possessions.