“And yet you come to me with a warning,” she said.
“Obviously, I believe in the veracity of the information,” Kaarg said.
“What information?” Azetbur asked. “Specifically.”
“I do not wish to impugn another member of the High Council,” he said. “I have no evidence, beyond the word of certain of my acquaintances who themselves have heard things.”
“From whom?” Azetbur wanted to know. She stepped forward until she stood so close to Kaarg that she could feel his breath on her skin. “Tell me the source of the threat to me, and I will determine whether or not it is true.”
Kaarg looked at her for only a second before answering. “General Gorak is planning to kill you, Chancellor.”
“Gorak,” Azetbur echoed. She turned and paced slowly away from the general in an attempt to hide her great satisfaction with what he had just told her. There was one plot only, and it had now been confirmed. She turned back around to face Kaarg. “And you know this how?” she asked, seeking additional confirmation.
“A young officer on Gorak’s staff blurted out the information in a transmission to the Romulan starbase Algeron.”
“A transmission to whom?” she asked, suddenly concerned that Kaarg would try to implicate Kage, one of her most trusted confidants.
“To one of the ambassadorial aides,” the general said. “Ditagh is his name.”
Azetbur nodded, again pleased to hear corroboration of something she had already been told, namely that Ditagh operated under the thumb of Gorak. “When will this attempt on my life take place?”
“I know no particulars,” Kaarg said, “but I believe it will be soon. And I do not think that he will challenge you in open Council.”
“No,” Azetbur concurred. “As loudly opposed as some on the High Council are to my handling of relations with the Federation, I doubt many would allow such a challenge.”
“And so Gorak will no doubt try to isolate you,” Kaarg suggested.
“I am seldom in a position of risk,” Azetbur noted.
Kaarg nodded, but the expression on his face displayed uncertainty. “Considering Gorak’s position,” he said, “do you trust the loyalty of all your guards?” The day-to-day protection of the chancellor fell under the jurisdiction of Klingon Internal Security, a branch of the Defense Force, over which General Gorak held considerable sway.
“You will surround me with your men,” Azetbur told Kaarg.
“I can do that,” he said. “We can safely control the access to you.”
“And in the meantime,” Azetbur said, “you can find Gorak’s weaknesses.”
“I can do that as well,” Kaarg said.
They stood in silence for a short time, until at last, Azetbur said, “Thank you, General.”
Kaarg bowed his head, then started back the way he had come, toward the entrance in the corner of the courtyard. Azetbur watched him go. For the first time in a long time, she felt fortified in her position as chancellor, and thought that maybe she could continue to take the Empire in the right direction as they headed into the future.
Admiral Mentir wanted to swim, wanted to hie down to Space Station KR-3’s natatorium and sprint round and round the long, narrow oval of the watercourse. He felt the need to move, to expend energy in order to divert his thoughts from his responsibilities. But as he glided on his antigrav chair into his office, he knew that he could not do as he wished, precisely because of those responsibilities.
In the last day, Mentir’s immediate priorities had been changed significantly. Starfleet Commander in Chief Sinclair-Alexander had contacted him on a secure channel yesterday and directed him to stand in for Admiral Harriman. Mentir’s old friend, it turned out, had begun a mission prior to the injuries he’d sustained as a result of the destruction of Universe. Because Blackjack’s medical condition had not improved since then—had actually begun to deteriorate now—the C in C had needed an officer to complete his assignment.
And then Sinclair-Alexander had detailed that assignment for Mentir. He’d listened in silence, staggered both by the actions that had already been taken and by those that remained to be accomplished. His emotions had lurched from anger to fear to hope, and back again.
Now, hours later, none of those feelings had diminished.
Mentir floated across the anteroom toward a door on one side of the far bulkhead. His office consisted of three sections: this outer chamber, in which he could host airbreathing visitors; an inner, aquatic chamber approximating the environment of Alonis; and a lock between the two, allowing access and egress to the water-filled room. A desk and chairs sat in the outer office, along with several tall, leafy plants of various colors. Shelves decorated the walls, holding a collection of meticulously detailed starship models—Federation and otherwise—which Mentir had crafted himself using his psychokinetic abilities. Among the shelves hung several framed holographic prints of undersea landscapes. But the most dramatic feature of the room was a large transparent section of the far bulkhead, which allowed a view of Mentir’s marine workspace, with its rocky floor, exotic undersea flora, and deep-purple water.
Just as he reached the door of the lock, he heard the warble of a communications channel opening. “Operations to Admiral Mentir,” came the voice of Commander Murray Sperber, the station’s executive officer. The universal translator in Mentir’s environmental suit modified Sperber’s words into the distinctive clicks and cheeps of the Alonis language.
Mentir crossed the room to his desk, where he leaned forward and activated the comm system with a touch of his pectoral fin. “This is Mentir,” he said, the sounds of his own voice interpreted as they emerged from the speaker in his ES. “Go ahead.”
“Admiral, we’re receiving an encoded transmission from the Enterprise,” Sperber said. “The first officer, Commander Sulu, is asking to speak with you.”
Demora, Mentir thought, and his mind naturally went to Enterprise and Captain Harriman, and from there to the mission. “Put her through down here,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mentir out.” He circled around his desk—past a replica of a Nivochan asteroid runner sitting on one corner—so that he could view the monitor there. He waited only a second before Sulu’s image appeared on the screen. “Commander,” he said, rather formally, he realized, considering that they had been friends for two decades. Back at the Academy, she had attended a xenoculture course he’d taught, and they’d shared enough mutual interests that they had stayed in touch over the years. He had seen her during Enterprise’s recent visits to KR-3, but only very briefly. Attempting to put aside the serious nature of his new duties and take a friendlier approach, he said, “Welcome back to the Federation.”
Sulu nodded once, curtly, seeming to acknowledge and dismiss Mentir’s salutation at the same time. “Admiral,” she said, also sounding official. “I need to speak with you.”
Mentir felt suddenly confined in his environmental suit, the thin layer of water surrounding his body an inadequate substitute for an ocean. He feared at once that something had gone wrong. Sulu knew nothing of the mission—few did—but if Captain Harriman had been compromised…
“I am alone,” Mentir assured Sulu. “And my exec mentioned that you were communicating on an encoded channel.” Mentir also noted that Sulu appeared to be addressing him from a cabin—presumably her own—rather than from the Enterprise bridge.
“Admiral, I’ve discovered a discrepancy in Starfleet’s personnel records,” she said. Mentir took in this information and immediately felt himself calm down, his concerns subsiding. Whatever personnel matter Sulu wanted to discuss with him, it clearly would not be an issue that involved the mission or Captain Harriman’s role in it.
“I’m listening,” Mentir said.
“By chance, I found a Starfleet officer currently assigned to a starship,” Sulu explained. “But a year ago, I watched that same officer die.”
“I don’t understand,” Mentir said.
“One year ago, on a classified mission, I witnessed the death of a Starfleet officer,” Sulu said. “There was no doubt of it, no possibility that he hadn’t really died, or that he’d later been revived. His body was—” Sulu hesitated, then took a breath. “He was dead. I’m certain of it.”
“And you claim that he is now assigned to a Starfleet vessel?” Mentir asked, seeking confirmation that he understood Sulu.
“Yes,” she verified. “Several months after the mission, Starfleet apparently reassigned him to a ship.”
Mentir considered this for a moment. “The simplest explanation would be a mistake in the personnel records,” he ventured. “This would be a strange example of poor record-keeping, but I’m sure that errors do occur.”
“I don’t think this is an error, Admiral,” Sulu said. “It’s not the only instance I found. On that same classified mission, another Starfleet officer died, and a few months later, she was also supposedly reassigned to a starship.” She paused, and then said, “She was transferred from special operations to the Universe.”
“Universe?” Mentir said, and he suddenly realized what had happened—something Admiral Sinclair-Alexander had not mentioned to him, but that must have been the case. Eventually, if she kept digging for information, Sulu would figure it out too. Mentir glanced away for a moment, his gaze falling on the Nivochan asteroid runner, but he looked back when Sulu continued.
“Yes, the Universe,” she said. “I think these may be spies. I think—” She hesitated, and for a moment, looked away from the screen, as though something had unexpectedly occurred to her. Then she peered back at the monitor and continued. “For the Romulans, maybe,” she suggested, “or even for the Klingons.”
“But that would mean that somebody within Starfleet Command would have to be involved,” Mentir said. “To falsify the reassignments…”
“That’s why I came to you, Tirasol,” Sulu said, the intent of her statement—that she could trust her friend—clear. “Think about this: there are no records of the deaths of these officers, since they died on a classified mission; they have extensive Starfleet records; and so nobody would question their posting to a starship.”
“You may be right,” Mentir said, knowing of nothing else that he could say. “What is the location of Enterprise?” he asked, although he was already fully aware of the ship’s movements.
“We’re en route to the Echo Sector,” she said, “to patrol the Neutral Zone.”
“I’m issuing you new orders, Commander,” Mentir said. “Enterprise is to report at once to Space Station KR-3, and you are to report directly to me.” He needed to recruit a starship and its commander anyway.
“Sir?” Sulu said.
“Demora,” Mentir said, leaning closer to the screen and lowering the volume of the snaps and chirps that formed his voice, “we’ll discuss what you’ve found when you arrive.”
Sulu looked silently at him for a moment, as though trying to judge his intentions. Finally, she said, “Yes, Admiral. Thank you.”
“Mentir out,” he said, and he saw Sulu reach forward, obviously ending the communication from her end. The screen went blank. Mentir reached forward himself and deactivated the comm system.
He sat for a while without moving, his thoughts racing. He suspected that Sulu would continue to scour Starfleet’s personnel records in search of additional anomalies, and that she would eventually piece all of the information together and confirm the truth. Fortunately, he trusted few officers as much as he trusted Sulu, and so it would be no more of a risk to recruit her for the mission than it would be to recruit any other officer. Enterprise had not initially been considered for the assignment because of its recent trip to Algeron, but the Romulan Imperial Fleet and the Romulan Intelligence Service would know that Starfleet’s flagship had been patrolling the Neutral Zone during the past few months, and so this could work.
Satisfied with his decision, Mentir made his way around his desk and headed for the lock, and for the comforting waters of his inner office. Considering the circumstances, he felt sure that Sulu would do as he asked, but he did not look forward to telling her what they had done, and what they would yet do. He could only hope that she would understand.
And forgive.
“The general is preparing to act.”
Ditagh stood in front of the monitor in his quarters and smiled broadly at the welcome news. His time aboard Algeron had grown frustratingly long, and his tolerance for Kage’s continued obeisance toward the Empire’s historical enemies had waned almost completely. Once the general seized power, though, Ditagh knew that Qo’noS would immediately remove itself from these pathetic efforts to pacify the Romulans and the Federation. After that, he would finally be able to bolt this sterile space station and return home.
“Do you know the timetable?” Ditagh asked his compatriot, a member of the general’s staff.
“Not precisely, but it’s going to happen soon.”
“Good,” Ditagh said. “The might of the Klingon Empire will be—” The flat tone of the door chime sounded in the small room. He looked away from the monitor and over to the door, which he had taken to locking after Kage had burst in here not long ago. The ambassador no doubt stood on the other side of the door right now; no one else on the station would have cause to call on him. “I must go,” Ditagh said, peering back at the monitor. He did not need the old man questioning him about his communications back to Qo’noS.
“I understand.” And he clearly did, because he closed the channel, blanking the screen. Ditagh touched a control and deactivated the comm system on his end, then turned and walked to the front of his quarters. He reached up and operated a panel set into the bulkhead, and the door slid open. As he’d expected, Kage stood in the corridor.
“Ditagh,” the old man said, “I would speak with you.” He employed the same voice as he did in the negotiating sessions, the calm, even tones of diplomacy—the tones of weakness. It embarrassed and angered Ditagh that such a man represented the Empire.
Turning his back to Kage, Ditagh strode into the center of the room. “What do you want?” he said, showing no respect at all to the ambassador. Although he allowed Kage to maintain his appearance of authority in front of the Romulan and Federation representatives, it pleased him that the charade had ended outside of those meetings. In private, Ditagh no longer hid his disdain for the peace-loving old man. Now he rounded to face him.
“I want to know your mind,” Kage said, stepping inside. The door eased shut after him. “I want to know what you think of the data presented by the Starfleet captain.”
Ditagh stared at the ambassador for a second, just long enough to ascertain the seriousness of the request. When he saw that Kage actually expected an answer, he laughed, a deep, hearty guffaw filled with derision. “You want my opinion?” he said. “Are you now mediating harmony within the Empire?”
“Why not?” Kage asked. “We are both Klingons. Should we not battle together against our enemies, rather than fighting each other?”
Ditagh peered at the ambassador, but now found it impossible to determine the sincerity with which he had asked his questions. “The problem,” he told Kage, “is that you do not know who the enemies of the Empire are, and you do not do battle against them.”
“I know who you think our enemies are,” Kage said. “I know who your sponsor thinks our enemies are.” Ditagh listened to the obvious attempt to insult him and did not react; Kage’s words meant nothing to him. “But is there no room in your worldview for new facts?”
“And what ‘facts’ are those?” Ditagh asked. He moved to the food synthesizer, intending to order a flagon of bloodwine, but then he decided against it. The Romulan approximation of the Klingon drink provided yet another impetus to flee Algeron. “Facts such as manufactured data files? Doctored sensor readings? Useless blueprints? Are those your ‘new facts’?”
“Have you actually looked at the data?” Kage asked, stepping farther into the room. “Are thos
e your genuine conclusions, or are they merely assumptions?”
Ditagh studied the ambassador, attempting to take the measure of his questioning. Did he really want to know Ditagh’s view, or did he seek something else, perhaps some item of information that he thought might help Azetbur’s cause? Kage had previously acted on both motivations, although it seemed unlikely that he would wish to seriously discuss matters with Ditagh after their confrontation.
“I’ve examined the Federation data,” Ditagh disclosed. He walked over to a chair and dropped heavily into it, his large frame filling the piece of furniture. Kage followed him over, though he did not sit down.
“You’ve examined the data, and concluded the readings to be counterfeit?” he asked. “What about the designs for the new drive?”
“I’m not an engineer or a scientist,” Ditagh said, beginning to tire of this interrogation.
“What does that mean?” Kage asked.
“It means that I’m not qualified to make a determination about the authenticity of the Federation data,” Ditagh said.
Kage leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of a chair. “But you just characterized the data as manufactured, the drive plans as useless.”
“The veracity of the data is irrelevant,” Ditagh said, dismissing the integrity of sensor logs and engine designs with a wave of his hand. “What matters is the intention of the Federation. They are our enemy, and so it is clear that they strive to defeat us. If the readings are genuine, then the Federation must be distracting us from some other important truth. If the drive plans are accurate, then they most certainly will fail in operation, or lead the Empire to develop starship engines inferior to whatever Starfleet is now devising.”
“But your interpretations are self-fulfilling,” Kage said. He circled the chair he had been leaning on and took a seat directly across from Ditagh. “You do not trust the Federation, and so you ascribe dishonorable motives to them. You then use those perceived motives as fortification for your belief that the Federation is our enemy. But since the destruction of Praxis almost twenty years ago, they have demonstrably been our allies.”
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