She studied her visage for a moment in the mirror above the basin. To her surprise, she noticed three or four gray hairs in among her shoulder-length black locks. Only forty, and already going gray, she thought, chuckling to herself. “So much for not worrying,” she said.
Except it’s not really worrying, is it? She just wished that she knew why Starfleet Command had ordered the captain to stay behind on Algeron. They’d clearly had some purpose in mind, and she simply wanted to understand it. Perhaps she should’ve asked Captain Harriman about it before he’d left the ship, but he hadn’t seemed approachable at the time. As far as she knew, he seldom kept information from her, his professed belief being that his crew could best serve Enterprise when they knew what he knew.
“But that’s not always possible, is it?” Sulu asked her reflection in the mirror. Certain information had to remain known only at the highest levels of Starfleet. She recognized the need for classified data; for good reason, nobody aboard Enterprise, and only a very few in Starfleet Command, knew of her mission alongside Captain Harriman to Devron II, much less what had happened there.
Unforgettable images rumbled through Sulu’s mind. The turbulent descent through the rich, roiling atmosphere of the planet. The enormous, towering volcano hurling molten rock and ash high into the atmosphere. The gargantuan and seemingly impenetrable rain forest. The electric-blue disruptor blasts hammering into one of the warp shuttles. The crash landing. Devron II had been an experience of extremes.
Sulu dropped the towel beside the basin and returned to the living area of her quarters. Thoughts of the secret mission—considered successful at the same time that it had been disastrous—recalled those who had carried it out: Captain Harriman and herself from Enterprise, Iron Mike Paris from Agamemnon, T’Prel from New York, Zultu Bini and Claudine Robinson from special operations, and Creyn, from nowhere Sulu had ever been able to determine.
I still keep thinking about Iron Mike Paris, the captain had told her before departing the ship. That had been the second time he had mentioned Iron Mike recently—and those had been the only times he had mentioned him since the Devron mission. She wondered again whether Harriman had been trying to tell her something.
Sulu walked over behind her desk and sat down. She punched at the activation button for the desktop computer interface, which chirped in response. “Computer,” she said, “show me the Starfleet personnel file for Commander Michael Thomas Paris.”
“Working,” the computer replied in its slightly stiff female voice. A moment later, the interface display sparked to life. The left third of the screen filled with a portrait of the officer, the right two-thirds with data about him.
Sulu looked at Iron Mike’s face, and she felt a twinge of something; even a year afterward, the memories of the events on Devron II carried with them an emotional weight. Paris appeared quite youthful in the picture, just as he had at the start of the mission, though she knew that they’d both been born in the same year. A small and seemingly fragile human, with soft features and light hair, Paris looked as though it would have been impossible for him to have genuinely earned the nickname of “Iron Mike.” By the time the mission had ended, though, Sulu had understood the source of the moniker: Paris had acted with unrelentingly strong mental discipline, facing dangers with bravery and selflessness.
The Starfleet personnel summary recounted information about Iron Mike, some of which Sulu had learned prior to the Devron operation. Born 17 May 2271 on Altair IV, in Hume Township. Wife, Victoria Santos. Son, Cole, born only days before Paris had left Agamemnon for Devron II. Graduated Starfleet Academy with honors in 2292. Served as a mathematician aboard Colombia before requesting and being granted a transfer to the command track. Rose rapidly up through the ranks, serving on Excelsior and Mjolnir before being assigned to Agamemnon. As second officer and then executive officer of Agamemnon, decorated seven times by Starfleet, a fact that impressed but did not surprise Sulu.
She read through the list of Paris’s awards, which included such high honors as the Silver Palm with Cluster; the Grankite Order of Tactics, Class of Excellence; and the Archer Ribbon for Conspicuous Bravery. She had expected to see a decoration at the end of the list—something like the Karagite Order of Heroism—given for Iron Mike’s role in the Devron mission, but of course, nothing could have been awarded for an operation that, as far as most people knew, had never taken place.
Sulu pored through the detail of Paris’s Starfleet record, through to his leave of absence from Agamemnon—a leave that, like hers from Enterprise, had been scheduled to last only weeks. No explanation had been given for his time away from Agamemnon beyond Personal request. Information about—and even the very existence of—the mission to Devron II would doubtless remain classified for years to come, Sulu thought.
And then she came to the next entry in Iron Mike’s personnel record, and her jaw dropped in shock. She looked at it a second time, thinking that she must have initially misread it. The stardate identified a time several months after the Devron II mission, and listed Paris’s return to Agamemnon as the ship’s executive officer.
But that had never happened, Sulu knew.
“Computer,” she said, “what is the current status of Commander Michael Thomas Paris?”
“Commander Michael Thomas Paris is the first officer aboard U.S.S. Agamemnon,” the computer answered.
Sulu stood up quickly, a rush of energy pushing her to her feet. She felt confused and…and betrayed. Something was wrong here, and she needed to know what it was.
She reached down and jabbed at a button, deactivating the computer interface. Then she moved out from behind her desk and paced across the room, her mind attempting to concoct scenarios that might be able to explain what she had just learned. She crossed her arms as she strode up to a viewing port, but though she peered through it, she did not see the stars. Instead, she saw the surface of Devron II: the lava flows, the great waterfall, the wreckage of the warp shuttle, the subterranean compound they’d found in the middle of the jungle.
And she saw Iron Mike Paris, in the moments after he had selflessly risked his life for hers. She saw his tattered flesh through the tears in his uniform, his body badly broken. She saw herself rushing to him, trying to save him, her hands becoming soaked in his blood. And she saw his last, quick intake of breath, and his eyes as the light faded from them.
A year ago, on Devron II, Sulu had watched Iron Mike Paris die.
Azetbur ran at speed across the courtyard, her legs devouring the distance to her adversary. As she neared him, she raised her staff above her head, setting up to wage her attack. She saw him brace himself as she approached, bending his knees in obvious preparation to spring away, his eyes measuring her advance.
With the gap between them closing, Azetbur opened her mouth wide and screamed, her voice loud and wild, a battle cry she hoped distracted from the rapid change she made to her handhold on the staff. Almost on top of her adversary, she brought the weapon down fast, in a move she intended to appear as a direct assault. Her adversary committed himself at that moment, leaping away to her right. But Azetbur thrust the far end of the staff into the grass-covered ground, planting it. Holding tight to the staff, she adjusted her weight and threw her body into an arc around it. She swung her feet out and caught her adversary on his right side, one of her heels landing on his biceps, the other on his chest. The impact sent him flying from his feet.
Azetbur landed and overbalanced, losing her grip on the staff as she tumbled to the ground. The aromatic scent of freshly cut grass filled her nostrils as she rolled atop it. She quickly jumped back to her feet and retrieved her weapon, grasping it in both hands and preparing immediately to wield it.
“Well done, Chancellor,” her adversary said, breathing heavily. Azetbur waited as he lifted himself up onto his hands and then rose to his feet. She still held the staff up, ready to swing it, her muscles tensed, her blood coursing hotly through her veins, the taste of combat raw in her mouth
as she gasped for air. Only when it became clear that her adversary would not continue the exercise did she relax her arms and let the far end of the staff drop to the ground.
“Thank you, Revik,” Azetbur said. Her daily training session had already lasted nearly two hours, almost twice as long as usual. Though a diplomat, as her father had been, she never forgot her heritage; a proud Klingon, she fought most often with weapons such as words and tact, but she also kept herself proficient in the use of her fists and the traditional weapons of individual combat. Further, she regularly practiced her skills with energy weapons.
Revik, a large but agile man, walked over to Azetbur. His white, lightweight body armor, shining brightly in the morning sun, contrasted vividly with his dark coloring. He slipped off his protective gloves as he made his way over to her, then removed his headgear, revealing a mass of long black hair pulled back into a knot. “Excellent anticipation and adaptation,” he commended. “I thought I’d waited until you’d fully committed, but obviously not.”
“I’ve told you before,” Azetbur said, “it’s my job to figure out what people are going to do next, and plan for it.” She dropped the staff onto the grass, then pulled off her own gloves and helmet, tucking the former inside the latter. She smoothed the tangles of her hair, soaked through with sweat.
“So have we finished for today?” Revik asked.
Azetbur considered continuing—the workout had been a good one, and though tired, she still felt strong—but then she spied movement past Revik, at the far corner of the courtyard. “Yes, we’re done,” she said.
“What shall we work on tomorrow?” Revik asked.
“Hand-to-hand combat,” she said without hesitation. “No weapons.”
Revik nodded, apparently not surprised. Azetbur had most often been practicing weaponless combat in their recent sessions. She supposed the reason might be her need to somehow deal with her political dissatisfactions. The resistance to her decision to sustain acceptance of Federation aid, even during the current diplomatic circumstances, frustrated her a great deal. Of late, she had come to suspect that private interests drove her opposition—both among the citizenry and on the High Council—far more than the now-common plaint of the wounding of Klingon pride.
“With your permission, Chancellor,” Revik said, motioning behind her, toward where the preparation room opened from the Great Hall into the courtyard. Azetbur nodded, and Revik bowed his head, then walked past her.
Across the way, where she had seen him enter just a few moments ago, a man stood unmoving. Even if he had not asked for this meeting, she would have recognized him. He wore the heavy, metallic uniform of the Klingon Defense Force, and his large, fleshy shape was unmistakable. She lifted her hand and pointed to a stone bench along one wall of the courtyard, gesturing for General Kaarg to meet her there. He began marching in that direction.
Azetbur tossed her gloves and helmet onto the ground beside the staff, then strode toward the bench. Already she felt the muscles of her legs beginning to tighten; her workout today had been particularly strenuous. As she walked, she began unfastening the black armor surrounding her upper body. By the time she had reached the bench, she carried four separate pieces: the front of the torso, the back, and both arms.
“General Kaarg,” she said when he reached her. She held the pieces of body armor out to her side and let them fall to the ground. “I was surprised to hear from you this morning. I would have expected you to be aboard a starship patrolling the boundaries of the Empire.” In response to the Romulan claims of a Starfleet first-strike weapon, and to the Federation’s subsequent denial, Azetbur had ordered the Klingon Defense Force to deploy significant resources along the Empire’s borders with both powers. She knew that both the Romulans and the Federation had done the same. Such a military buildup risked the peace, but in light of Azetbur’s decision to side against whichever government committed the next act of aggression, the Klingon military needed to be ready for battle.
“I have great confidence in my wing,” Kaarg said, “and I am in frequent contact with my officers. But considering the current political situation, I concluded that my presence here, on the Council, would be most important.” He paused, and then added, “At least prior to the start of any hostilities. But I’ll be returning to our borders with the Romulans and the Federation before long.”
“Of course,” Azetbur said. “The Empire appreciates your loyalties.” Since the general had stood up to defend her against Brigadier Kuron in the meeting following the Romulan envoy’s visit, Azetbur had noticed other, subtler indications that Kaarg’s allegiance was to her. And after learning from Ambassador Kage about the perfidious General Gorak and his young lapdog, Ditagh, she valued, now more than ever, whatever solid support she could find.
“My duty is to Qo’noS,” Kaarg agreed. “And because of that, there is an urgent matter I must discuss with you.”
“An urgent matter?” Azetbur asked, wondering what information the general would want to bring directly to her, and not to all of the High Council. “Please,” she said, motioning toward the bench, “sit.”
Kaarg did so, settling his considerable bulk onto the stone surface. “Chancellor, I have learned that you may soon be challenged,” he said soberly.
“I’m continually being challenged,” Azetbur said lightly, intentionally suggesting that she had not taken his meaning, and thereby hoping to force him to disclose in detail whatever information he had—an old diplomatic technique. She did not look at him. Instead, she casually propped her foot up on the edge of the bench and began loosening the straps that bound the armor about her leg.
“Chancellor, I did not make myself clear,” Kaarg said. “I meant to say that an attempt is going to be made to remove you from power.”
“To remove me from power,” Azetbur repeated. She pulled the armor from her leg and lobbed it atop the other pieces on the ground. It landed on the breastplate with a crack, then slid off onto the grass. “And what about removing me from life?” she asked, still not looking at the general. She set her leg down and lifted the other one, reaching for the straps securing the armor around it.
“Yes,” Kaarg said.
Finally, she looked up at him. To her surprise, Azetbur felt anger rush through her. Although she had long dealt with opposition to her leadership, and even though Kage had recently confirmed the disloyal intentions of General Gorak, actually hearing that an attempt would be made to assassinate her enraged her. “And what is your point in telling me this, General?” she demanded.
“My point,” Kaarg said, his expression hardening, “is to protect the chancellor of the Klingon Empire.” He stood up, though he made no move toward her, and no move to leave. “To protect you,” he finished.
“How does my knowing what you’ve just told me offer me protection?” she asked, suddenly realizing that the plot of which Kaarg spoke might be separate from that of Gorak’s. “Am I never to leave my residence?” she asked. “Or my office? Am I to stay away from gatherings of the High Council? Such actions would see me removed from power just as quickly as a mek’leth in the back.” She took her leg down from the bench and leaned in close to Kaarg. “Klingons,” she said, “do not cower.”
“I had thought that by telling you of the threat,” the general said, “I could cause you to be more vigilant.”
“Do you believe that I am not now vigilant?” Azetbur bristled. “Do you think that there are not a dozen disruptors aimed at you at this very moment?”
To his credit, the general did not look away, did not seek out the armed guards peering out from the grand structure of the Great Hall surrounding the courtyard. “My apologies, Chancellor,” he said with unconcealed annoyance. “I can see that my assistance is not required.” He turned, apparently to go. He did not ask for her leave.
Azetbur watched Kaarg’s back, her fury compounded by his snub of her authority. She appreciated the practice of loyal opposition, and the need for open debate on policy, but she’
d had enough of the ignominious backroom maneuvering against her. In the wake of her father’s assassination, eighteen years ago, she had brought peace to her people, and from there she had fostered the rebuilding and renewal of the Empire. The destruction of Praxis had hobbled the Klingon infrastructure, and it had been her vision and leadership that had made it possible to deal with, and then move past, the catastrophe. How could it be, then, that mere talk—about the shame in accepting Federation aid—now empowered her enemies and cowed her supporters? How dare General Kaarg—
What? Azetbur asked herself. How dare he warn her of a threat against her? He had come here to help her, and she had allowed her anger and frustration with the current political situation—on Qo’noS, but also with Romulus and Earth—to blind her to his support.
“General Kaarg,” she said, and she took several steps after him. She realized that she still wore body armor on one of her legs, but she ignored it. Right now, she needed to know what the general knew—beyond the existence of vague threats—but perhaps more important, she needed an ally on the High Council.
Kaarg stopped and spun to face her. She stopped as well, facing him across a short space. “Yes, Chancellor?” he asked, the annoyance in his voice now seemingly tempered. With a few strides, she closed the distance between them.
“Do you have specific information?” Azetbur asked.
The general appeared immediately uncomfortable. “I have been told certain things,” he said, “but I cannot vouch for the authenticity or seriousness of those things.”
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