“No,” Kamemor said. She looked to the other subconsul, Merken Vreenak, a young man who’d come to work for her less than a year ago. She’d so far found him sharp and industrious, an asset to her despite his overt chauvinism; Kamemor loved her people too, but not in such an unreasoning, aggressive manner.
Vreenak returned her gaze. “Is Ditagh correct?” he said. “Is the Federation constructing a metaweapon?”
“Yes,” Kamemor said, her lips curling up slightly on one side, impressed by the subconsul’s acuity. “I want both of you to find out what you can. Check intelligence reports, fleet logs, even rumors on the public comnets, anything at all.” In Kamemor’s experience, she did not think it likely that the Federation and Starfleet would be attempting the creation of some ultrapowerful weapon, but neither did she trust their officials and officers—not most of them, anyway.
“Ambassador,” said Vreenak, “I’ve already heard rumors supporting Ditagh’s claim.”
“You’ve already heard?” Kamemor snapped. “And you didn’t think to inform me?”
“They were rumors only, Ambassador,” Vreenak proffered as justification. Kamemor dismissed it.
“Pursue those rumors,” she ordered. “Locate their sources, ascertain their veracity.”
“Yes, Ambassador,” Vreenak said. Kamemor turned and headed for the door, which slid open at her approach. Before she left, though, she stopped and peered back over her shoulder toward the conference table. “Do not allow your distrust for non-Romulans to color your inquiry, Subconsul Vreenak,” she said. Kamemor did not wait for a response before she continued out of the room.
Kage walked unhurriedly down a corridor on the habitat level, considering carefully what he would say when he reached his destination. In his youth, as a soldier, he had regarded himself a man of action, willing to charge headlong into any situation, but his mindset had shifted as he’d grown older. Rash behavior had given way to forethought, and he’d eventually quit the physical rigors of the Klingon Defense Force in favor of the mental challenges of civil engineering. But his subsequent successes in that realm had failed to sate his natural desire for battle, and so when Azetbur, newly installed as chancellor, had called upon him to join her government, Kage had accepted. He’d learned the artful combat of diplomacy under Azetbur’s tutelage, and had come to relish the struggles it often provided: the subtle machinations, the blatant lies, the different colors of truth when viewed through different eyes. In his tenure as an ambassador, Kage had furthered Klingon objectives with the Lorillians, the Tholians, the Vedala, the Lissepians, the Otevrel, and dozens of other species. But the Romulans…
At an intersection, Kage turned left into another empty corridor, tinted green by indirect lighting. Of the few sections he’d been permitted to visit on the space station, only the habitat level stood free of security personnel. The apparent attempt at Romulan hospitality rang false to him, though, and he felt certain that his delegation—and that of the Federation—remained under constant, covert surveillance. Not that the station contained anything of value to the Klingons; had it, the xenophobic paranoia of the Romulans would likely have prevented them from hosting the negotiations here. Still, that same intense distrust for people beyond their borders would have driven the Romulans to continuously monitor their alien guests.
The station itself seemed utilitarian, a series of rings of increasing and then diminishing diameter, set one atop another to approximate a sphere. The structure put Kage in mind of something a child might cobble together out of blocks. Kage assumed that the facility had been constructed as quickly as possible after the destruction of the planet in this system, and that it functioned primarily as a platform from which the effects of the isolytic subspace weapon could be studied. Judging from Kamemor’s reaction today, though, Kage supposed that the station might also serve as a memorial, as a place mourners could visit to be near the place where their loved ones had died.
Kage passed the door to his own guest quarters and stopped at the next one. He quickly reviewed what he might say and how he might say it, depending on how the conversation developed, and reminded himself of his goals: foremost, to gain information, and secondarily, to limit his liabilities in the ongoing discussions with the Romulans and the Federation. Then he jabbed at the signal control on a panel set beside the door. He heard a tone, unwavering and tedious—Like the Romulans, he thought—followed by a voice.
“What?” came the irritated response.
Anticipating that the quarters would not be locked, Kage pressed another control. The door glided open, revealing Ditagh standing at an open food synthesizer across the room. In his hand, he held a tall glass half-filled with a dark, red liquid. Bloodwine, Kage guessed, and he shuddered to think what a Romulan version of the hearty Klingon potable might taste like.
“Ambassador,” Ditagh said, his employment of the title clearly not intended as a sign of respect, but as an epithet.
Kage stepped inside, the door easing closed behind him. “Ditagh, we must talk,” he said.
“Talk,” Ditagh said with unveiled contempt. “I am tired of talk. I’ve had months of it, and I’ve had enough.” He brought the glass up to his mouth and upended it, imbibing the remaining liquid in two massive gulps.
Kage took another step forward, quickly glancing around the room. Though smaller, Ditagh’s quarters mirrored his own. A rectangular front room, conspicuously devoid of decoration, contained only a sitting area—a quartet of chairs surrounding a low circular table—a food synthesizer, and a comm system. An open doorway in the far wall led to a simple bedroom. Good, Kage thought. No surprises.
“If you’ve had enough, then I can have you reassigned,” he said, an offer he knew Ditagh would not accept. Several months ago, the volatile aide had replaced one of Kage’s most trusted lieutenants, Roneg. The appointment had been officially handed down by Azetbur, but Kage understood now that other members of the High Council had maneuvered Ditagh into the position. The circumstances of Roneg’s departure from the negotiating team—his father had been killed in an industrial accident, requiring that Roneg return to Qo’noS to lead their House—had at first seemed unambiguous. But Kage’s vigilance in protecting the needs of the Empire had driven him to have the accident quietly investigated, and the results, while inconclusive, had at least seemed suspicious. Roneg’s father had been killed in an area of the shipyards nobody could recall him ever having visited, at a time when he normally would have been off. All of which had led Kage to believe that Ditagh had been installed in the delegation for a purpose counter to Kage’s own—and counter to Azetbur’s. And as time had passed, Ditagh’s tongue had loosened, speaking up during negotiations—as he had today—in ways seemingly designed to slow, or even derail, the peace process.
“I do not need to be reassigned,” Ditagh said. “I will endure my lot for the good of the Empire.”
“Then you will conduct yourself in accordance with my direction,” Kage said, dropping his voice low for emphasis, “rather than that of your…sponsor.” Kage had chosen the last word carefully, intending it as a disparagement of Ditagh’s manhood.
Ditagh laughed, a guttural, confident sound that Kage hoped also contained the taint of fear. “I am your aide, no one else’s,” Ditagh claimed, then slammed his empty glass down on the shelf of the food synthesizer. He pushed the tips of his thick fingers against the device’s control panel, and a door dropped into place in front of the shelf. Kage saw menus and submenus flash up onto the panel, and Ditagh navigated through them until he stopped at a particular entry—Klingon bloodwine, Kage assumed, though he could not read the words from where he stood. Ditagh selected the beverage, and the buzz of the device filled the small room. A moment later, the door of the food synthesizer slid upward, revealing a full glass of what appeared to be bloodwine on the shelf. As Ditagh grabbed it up, Kage crossed the rest of the short distance between them.
“If you are my aide, then listen to me,” he said, staring up into Ditagh�
�s face. “I will brook no more interruptions in the negotiating sessions, no more disruptions.” Kage paused, seeking the words that would enrage his aide. “You will speak only when I so deem.”
Ditagh’s face went through a rapid succession of transformations, from anger, to acceptance, to confidence, and finally to amusement, a smirk emerging from beneath his beard. “As you wish,” he said, lifting the bloodwine to his lips.
Kage moved without hesitation, swinging his open hand up and batting the glass from Ditagh’s grasp. Kage did not look away, but he heard the glass strike the wall, then fall to the floor and shatter. “I’m not toying with you, Ditagh,” he said. “Do not test me.”
Ditagh turned his head toward where the glass had broken, then glared back down at Kage. “Test you, old man?” he said. “What possible glory could I find in doing battle with a broken-down peace-lover?” Ditagh moved even closer to Kage, standing over him and obviously trying to intimidate him with his sheer size.
Kage did not flinch. “Isn’t that why you’re here?” he asked. “To fight me? To prevent me from completing my mission?”
“I am here as your aide,” Ditagh maintained, evidently unwilling to take Kage’s bait.
“And to act on behalf of the High Council,” Kage ventured. “Or at least some of those on the Council.” He had not intended to be so straightforward with his accusations, but Ditagh was perhaps not as foolish as he seemed. Even though Kage had wanted to learn the identity of the power behind Ditagh surreptitiously, he would settle right now simply for knowing.
“I am your aide,” Ditagh repeated.
Kage returned Ditagh’s cold stare, at the same time searching for the tactic that would tell him what he wanted—what he needed—to know. Finally, he smiled up into Ditagh’s face, then turned and headed for the door. “It is a weak man who works in the dark for another,” he said as he went.
“It is you who are weak,” Ditagh called after him, and Kage stopped just as the door swept open before him. “And you make the Empire weak as well.”
Now Kage turned back around and stepped away from the door, which he heard close again behind him. “I am attempting to strengthen the Empire,” he said. “There is no dishonor in not fighting. There is only dishonor in not fighting well.”
“You avoid fighting,” Ditagh told him. “You seek peace at any cost. You are willing to give up anything for it, including the will of your own people.”
“Klingons do not want war with the Romulans and the Federation unless we can win such a war,” Kage said. “And right now, we can’t. We still need to strengthen our infrastructure and fully resupply our military.”
“What Klingons want,” Ditagh pronounced, “is their birthright. We are warriors.” He paused, then added derisively, “At least, most of us are.”
“Say what you want to say,” Kage told him.
Ditagh apparently needed no further invitation. “You are a lackey for peace,” he accused. “Qo’noS should withdraw from these talks and let the Romulans and the Federation destroy each other for us.”
“Is that what you really want?” Kage asked. “To sit back and allow our adversaries to decimate themselves, then for us to march in and defeat the battle-weary? Would you also kick a three-legged targ?”
“A three-legged targ does not possess a weapon capable of laying waste to much of the Klingon Empire,” Ditagh argued.
“Nor does the Federation,” Kage said, and at last, he thought he saw a direct path to the information he needed. “The general is wrong or misguided,” he said, then hurried on, trying to avoid drawing attention to the statement. “Such stupidity and shortsightedness were what weakened the Empire twenty years ago. You were only a child, Ditagh, but surely you remember the destruction of Praxis.” The Klingon moon had housed the Empire’s primary energy facility, which had been taxed beyond its capacity in order to prepare for war with the Federation. A massive explosion had resulted, blowing half of the moon out into space and raining destructive fallout on Qo’noS. “The accident left us crippled and unable to provide enough energy for everyday life, let alone to take us into battle. If we move too quickly toward war again, we will once more be left weakened.”
“The Klingon people grow tired of accepting Federation handouts,” Ditagh said, “and of begging for peace with the hypocritical Federation and the disloyal Romulans.”
“But Ditagh,” Kage implored, “there is no honor in fighting a battle you cannot win.”
“There is no honor in believing your own people are unable to win battles,” Ditagh countered.
“We can win battles,” Kage avowed. “But we don’t need starships and disruptor banks to do so. The Romulans and the Federation are on the brink of war between themselves, but neither dare attack without an alliance with us. As far from full strength as the Klingon Defense Force is right now, our ships would be the difference in any war, whichever side we choose to fight with. So we can wield our political might, reestablish our power that way, and at the same time, prevent the devastation war would bring upon us, even in victory.”
“Political power,” Ditagh said, an expression of disgust on his face. “You are an old man, filled with the cowardice of a little girl…or a big girl. Azetbur is a plague on the Klingon people.”
“Chancellor Azetbur is the leader of the High Council,” Kage said seriously, “and deserving of your respect.” He paused, then decided to try again: “The general would lead no better.” It was a gamble; although numerous generals sat on the Klingon High Council, the name Kage was looking for might not have belonged to one of them.
But Ditagh finally bit. “General Gorak is a great man,” he said indignantly. “He would return honor to the Council, to all of Qo’noS. And he would end this pathetic peace conference.”
Kage charged the few steps back across the room, wanting both to deflect attention from the information just divulged, and to deal with Ditagh’s outburst in today’s session. As he reached Ditagh, Kage threw his hands out and straight-armed the larger man. Caught off guard, the younger Klingon did not have time to brace himself, and he sailed backward into the wall. Kage lunged after him, thrusting a forearm up into his neck and applying pressure. Ditagh gasped for air, his eyes wide with surprise. “You will speak no more of ending this peace conference,” Kage hissed through gritted teeth. “If you interfere anymore with what I’m trying to accomplish here, with what Chancellor Azetbur wants me to accomplish, I’ll snap your neck.” To underscore his words, Kage pushed his arm forward. Ditagh’s face darkened, his eyes bulged.
Finally, Kage pulled back. Ditagh doubled over, dropping to his knees as he choked and coughed. Kage watched him for a moment, then leaned in next to his ear and said, “Do not underestimate this old man.” Then he straightened and headed for the door.
As Kage passed back into the corridor, he heard Ditagh sputter, “Azetbur is a pretender. She will fall.” Kage did not stop or look back. He already had what he’d come here to get: the name of the power behind Ditagh. General Gorak was the traitor on the Klingon High Council.
Minus Eight: Universe
Sasine stood before John at an open airlock on Space Station KR-3, the two of them in their Starfleet uniforms. An Enterprise corridor stretched away beyond the airlock, the great vessel waiting to take him away once more. She supposed she could have resented the ship because of that—perhaps should have resented it—but why waste such emotional effort on something so foolish? She loved John, and she would miss him terribly once he had gone, but captaining a starship contributed to who he was as a person, and was therefore something that she loved about him. She never once entertained the notion of wanting him to give that up. She would support whatever choices he made for his life, as long as they fulfilled him and did not deny the man he was.
“I’ll miss you,” John told her.
“And I’ll miss you,” she replied. As she gazed into his blue-gray eyes, she thought she saw a mix of emotions there. She knew that he did not want
to say goodbye—neither of them ever did—but they both carried greater burdens than that. In the days since they had arrived here at KR-3, they’d been able to continue their time together, but they’d also been required to prepare for their next assignments. John would be leaving on Enterprise in just a few minutes on a classified mission, and tomorrow she would be leaving for her new posting, Helaspont Station, near the Tzenkethi border.
“I love you, Amina,” he said.
“I love you.” She glanced in each direction down the corridor on KR-3, and then past John into Enterprise. Seeing nobody, she leaned forward and kissed him, softly, romantically.
When she pulled back, he said something that neither of them ever said: “Be careful.”
Sasine had always assumed that the risks inherent in their positions prevented them not only from saying such things, but even from thinking too much about them. She knew that if she focused for any length of time on the danger John faced as a matter of course—and even more so in the current political climate—she would be unable to function at her best. She simply had to accept the nature of his duties and trust in his abilities, just as he did with her. Admonitions to “be careful” or “stay safe” were unnecessary, and even potentially dangerous; as experienced Starfleet officers, neither would act recklessly, but if, at the wrong moment, thoughts of their commitment to each other intruded into their minds, it could undermine their decisions and thus pose a threat to themselves and others.
And so John’s comment surprised her. Rather than reproving him for it, though, she simply said, “I’ll be careful. I always am.” Then, playfully swatting him on the shoulder, she said, “You know that.”
“I know,” he said. “I do. I just…” He shrugged. “I just love you, and I don’t trust the Tzenkethi.”
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