by David Mack
“What’s the minimum safe distance for retreat?” Riker said.
“Thirty meters, maybe less,” La Forge said. “As I said, the effects’ll be implosive. Once you’re out of the facilities, you’re pretty much clear.”
Picard nodded approvingly. “Very good,” he said. “But you’ll still be facing heavy resistance in the firebases.”
“The statistics are misleading,” Data said. “Of the forty-five personnel we expect to encounter at each facility, only twelve are likely to be armed security personnel. At any given time, only four of those guards are likely to be on duty.”
“Also,” La Forge interjected, “once we capture the bases’ operation centers, we can isolate the remaining personnel behind locked doors—for their safety and ours.”
Picard’s brow wrinkled with skepticism. “And the firebase personnel would have a fair chance to escape?”
“Yes, sir,” Data said. “We could set the systems to release the lockdowns on a time delay, enabling us to leave the bases without a direct confrontation.”
Riker stroked his bearded chin for a moment before he spoke. “What if the firebase personnel signal a warning to their headquarters? We could end up facing a lot of angry reinforcements.”
“I already have my people putting together subspace signal jammers,” La Forge said. “They’re short-range, and they’ll only have enough juice to run for a couple hours, but they’ll do the trick. The firebases will still have internal, hard-wired communications, but external coms’ll be down for the count.”
Vale’s lips tightened into a worried frown. “How long will it take to deploy these jammers once we’re on the ground?”
“Flip of a switch,” La Forge said with a confident shrug. “Set ’em and forget ’em.”
“Well done, Mr. La Forge,” Picard said. “Unfortunately, the artillery is only one part of the problem. The Tezwans also have a fleet of their own. Even without the support of the planet’s guns, they’ll still try to engage the Klingons.”
“Well, we’re already taking control of the firebases,” La Forge said. “We could use the Tezwans’ own artillery to stop their fleet—before we destroy the guns.”
The idea of slaughter on such a scale appalled Picard. “You’re not suggesting we destroy twenty-four starships?”
“No. We’ll just disable them.”
“He’s right,” Vale said. “We can reduce the guns’ power settings, and tweak their frequencies to cripple the Tezwan ships. Worst-case scenario, they’d still have emergency batteries for life-support.”
Crusher looked unconvinced. “What if they don’t?” she said.
“They’re in orbit above their homeworld,” Vale said. “They can use their escape pods and go home.”
Riker looked at Vale. “How’s our intel on the Danteri ships they’re using?”
“Pretty good,” Vale said. “The Excalibur and the Trident have been updating Starfleet’s records with new technical data. We should be able to knock out the Tezwan ships without causing any serious casualties.”
Picard nodded. “All right,” he said. “But if we remove all the Tezwans’ defenses, we’ll be leaving them exposed to a massacre by the Klingons. How should we go about halting the Klingon invasion force?”
A subtle smirk tugged at the corners of Riker’s mouth. “This would be a long shot,” he said.
“Naturally,” Picard said.
“When I served aboard the I.K.S. Pagh,” Riker said, “I noted that they used security prefix codes much like ours. Each ship had a unique code sequence that its captain could change at will. But they also had an override code—a code the crew didn’t know, and which could be changed only by Klingon High Command.”
“An override code?” La Forge said. “As in, we’d take remote control of every ship in their attack fleet?”
“Exactly,” Riker said.
“It is an interesting proposition,” Data said. “However, it raises three important questions. First, how do we obtain the code? Second, how do we push a signal containing the codes through the Klingons’ shields? And last, how do we time the disabling of the Klingon fleet so as not to leave it at the mercy of the Tezwans, or vice versa?”
“We’ll transmit the code signals on a super-low-frequency subspace channel,” Riker said. “They developed it for use when their ships are cloaked. If we can get the override codes, the SLF channel specs should be bundled with them.” Picard masked his alarm at the notion of stealing the SLF data, one of the Klingon Empire’s most closely guarded military secrets.
“The timing is tricky,” Vale said. “The key is to disable both forces before the Klingons make orbit. If either side gets even one shot off, this whole party’ll be for nothing.”
Riker nodded. “Agreed. What’s the Klingons’ ETA?”
“Best guess?” Vale said. She checked her padd. “Three hours, thirty-eight minutes.”
“I think we’re forgetting an important detail,” Troi said. “The Klingons are not going to excuse Kinchawn’s sneak attack just because the Tezwan fleet is disabled or their artillery’s been destroyed. Unless the Tezwans can placate the Klingons without insulting their honor, our intervention will only delay the invasion by a matter of hours.”
Picard knew Troi was right, but he also realized she was raising an issue they could not address. “Unfortunately, Counselor, the Tezwans alone must bear the burden of making amends with the Klingons,” he said. “Our mission is to stop the invasion. We can only hope that once we’ve done our part, the Tezwans will seize the opportunity to do theirs.” He looked toward Riker. “Will, destroy the firebases. Take whatever resources or personnel you need, and go as soon as possible.” Picard pushed away from the table. “If there’s nothing else—”
Crusher spoke up. “Captain, we still haven’t said how we’re going to get the Klingons’ override codes.”
Picard had been able to tell from Riker’s poker face that the first officer had known the answer to that question when he’d suggested stealing the codes. And though Picard was loath to admit it, he concurred that it was their best—and only—hope of stopping a brutal and tragic conflict. He looked Crusher in the eye and told her only what she needed to know.
“Leave that to me,” he said.
Chapter 17
Qo’noS
IN THE STILLNESS of the night, Captain Picard’s voice was grave. “Millions of lives depend on your answer, Mr. Ambassador.”
Worf sat alone in his private residence, weighing his oath of duty to the Federation and his loyalty to his former captain against his pledge to his kinsman, Chancellor Martok.
Years ago Picard had stood with Worf as his cha’DIch when the Klingon High Council, then presided over by K’mpec, stripped him of his honor. And it had been Picard who had protected him from a possible Starfleet court-martial after he’d slain Duras to avenge his own murdered mate, K’Ehleyr. Indeed, Worf’s debts of honor to his former commanding officer were almost too numerous to recall.
But Martok was his kinsman. Worf had helped him escape a Dominion prisoner-of-war camp; in return, Martok had invited Worf to serve aboard his ship, the I.K.S. Rotarran, during the Dominion War. Side by side they’d fought many harrowing battles for the glory of the Empire, and in the flames of the aftermath they had forged a bond that only warriors who had bled together could truly understand. It was Martok who had ushered Worf into his House and helped restore his honor, Martok who had stood with him on the day he married Jadzia. And after Worf’s beloved wife was slain, it was Martok who had risked everything to help him win a great battle in her name, guaranteeing her noble spirit a place in Sto-Vo-Kor.
But now, in the deepest hours of the night, Picard was asking Worf to violate his oath of service as the Federation’s ambassador to Qo’noS, betray the patriarch of his adopted House, and sabotage the soldiers of the Empire. To become a spy.
The burden of the decision was heartbreaking.
“What you ask…” he began, then ha
lted. He looked away from the monitor and struggled to collect his thoughts. His mouth was dry with hesitation. His thick, upswept eyebrows knitted together in tense concentration. He looked back at Picard’s image on the screen. “Is there no other way?”
“I wouldn’t ask if there were,” Picard said.
Worf thought for a moment. “If I am detected, it could be construed as an act of war against the Empire,” he said.
“Not if you act on your own authority,” Picard said. “In the absence of an executive order, the president can disavow any knowledge of your actions. Legally, the Federation would be protected.”
“And I would be executed,” Worf said.
“You’ve risked your life and honor to defend the Federation before, Mr. Ambassador,” Picard said. “The circumstances may have changed, but the stakes are no different…. The needs of the many—”
“Outweigh the needs of the few—”
“Or the one,” Picard finished. Worf recalled that Picard was aware he had mind-melded with former Starfleet officer and famed Vulcan diplomat Spock roughly three years earlier. Some years prior to that, Picard himself had mind-melded with Spock during a covert mission to Romulus. Worf had long wondered whether Spock’s mind-meld had left any lingering psychic traces; the almost reflexive way Worf had volleyed the old Vulcan homily with his former captain confirmed that suspicion.
The Klingon ambassador brooded. Picard’s logic was sound, at least on its face. As a younger man, Worf might not have been swayed by appeals to the greater good, but experience—and yes, perhaps, maybe even Spock’s mind-meld—had imparted to him a small measure of wisdom, and a sense of a larger universe.
But the true origin of his reluctance was not concern for the political fortunes of the Federation. The truth gnawed at him like a burning knife twisting through his stomach. After decades of struggling to balance the scales of honor and justice, after suffering humiliation and injustice for the good of a Klingon Empire that had turned its back on him, he had finally in the last few years been able to come home.
Here he could stand in the High Council chamber as both a respected envoy of the Federation and a Klingon warrior. He could walk unescorted through the torrid, bustling streets of the First City and be hailed on every smoky corner as the warrior who slew Gowron and could have seized the Empire for himself, but gave it back to a man of the people. He could be welcomed into the mess hall of any warship in the imperial fleet and join the grizzled veterans as they guzzled tankards of warnog, gorged themselves on jawfuls of gagh, and passed the hours filling the ship with roaring battle-songs.
To betray Martok by stealing the fleet’s master command codes and giving them to Picard—no matter how noble the purpose, no matter how many Klingon warriors’ lives would be spared from a wasteful end—was to risk being expelled forever from the world and people he’d struggled all his life to know firsthand. He was being asked to risk not just his life and honor, but his history and his heritage—his past, his present, and his future.
“How much time do we have?” Worf said.
“Just over three hours.”
“I understand,” Worf said with a quick nod. “I will contact you as soon as I am ready to transmit the codes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Captain,” Worf said. His next words stuck in his throat. He was not fond of sentiment, but he had learned the hard way not to wait to tell people things they deserved to hear. “Whatever happens…I want you to know that it is, and always has been, my greatest honor to serve with you.”
Picard’s expression brightened with what Worf recognized was pride. “The feeling is mutual,” Picard said. “Qapla’, Worf.”
“Qapla’, Captain.” Picard ended the transmission, and the screen of Worf’s monitor reverted to the blue-and-white emblem of the Federation.
“Worf to Mr. Wu.”
Even in the middle of the night, his senior attaché, Giancarlo Wu, replied immediately. “This is Wu.”
“I will be officially unavailable until further notice. Please make the necessary arrangements.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Worf out.”
He walked with fast, purposeful steps into his bedroom and took from his closet a large, heavy robe with a deep hood. As he put it on, he felt his pulse quicken.
Yesterday I longed to return to a career of action, he recalled. Slipping a phaser into his shoulder satchel, he steeled himself to do exactly that.
Chapter 18
U.S.S. Enterprise-E
RIKER LEANED AGAINST the frame of the window, which arched inward over his head toward the ceiling. He had dimmed the lights so as not to have to look through his reflection. Beyond the transparent barrier, the stars were sharp and bright, devoid of the flicker that people who lived their lives planetside took for granted. Soft, bluesy jazz-piano music fell like a misting rain of sound from the speakers hidden in the ceiling.
The door swished open. Troi walked in, silhouetted by the cold, bright light spilling in from the corridor. She stopped after taking only a few steps inside. The door closed behind her, and the room melted back into darkness and starlight shadows. She paused to look around. “Will?” she said. She sounded concerned. He hadn’t meant to alarm her, but he realized that, under the circumstances, asking her to meet “right away” in their quarters might have given her cause to worry.
“Over here,” he said.
She took a cautious step in his direction. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I just wasn’t in the mood for light.” He heard her footsteps as she moved toward him. He held out his left arm toward her. “How’re you doing?”
She sidled up to him and nestled under his arm. “I’ve been better,” she said. He hugged her gently to him. She wrapped her slender arms around his waist and tilted her head upward. “What are we listening to?”
“Junior Mance,” he said. “One of the great Chicago masters.”
“Chicago?” She rested her head against his chest. “I thought you preferred New Orleans jazz.”
“I play New Orleans style,” he said. “But it’s not all I like. Geordi actually recommended this to me a few weeks ago.” Riker listened for a few moments as one of Mance’s elaborate and brilliantly constructed piano solos evoked the intermingled joys and sorrows of a bygone century. “I downloaded some holodeck re-creations of shows Mance played in New York, in the early twenty-first century…. He was amazing.”
“It is beautiful,” Troi said. “Sophisticated…. Elegant.”
He hugged her a little bit closer and gave her a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Reminds me of you.”
She looked up and smiled at him. “Charmer,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be planning the away mission?”
“It’s already planned,” he said. “Geordi’s getting the gear ready, and Data’s handling the logistics.”
“So what are you doing in here?”
He touched her hair, memorized its silken texture as her dark tresses enveloped his fingers. “Just wanted to spend a few minutes with you before I go,” he said. He tried to keep his thoughts rooted in the present; he focused on the softness of Troi’s hair, the gleeful surges of Mance’s blues-inspired jazz-piano melodies, the un-tainted beauty of the stars. Anything to shield his Imzadi from his lingering fear that he might not come back from this hastily conceived commando assault against the Tezwans’ heavily fortified fire-control centers.
But he could tell from the way she tightened her arms around him that she could sense everything he was trying to hide, from his anxiety about the mission at hand to the pain he was working so hard to put behind him. If anyone were to ask him why he’d risked the ship to rescue Troi and Captain Picard from the Tezwans, he would tell them it was to prevent the enemy from gaining the additional advantage of hostages. But he suspected that Troi sensed the truth: After having his father torn from him, he simply had not been able to bear the thought of losing his fiancée and his capt
ain, as well.
The com chirped. “Data to Commander Riker.”
“Riker here.”
“Commander La Forge and I are ready to proceed, sir.”
“Acknowledged,” Riker said. “Assemble the strike teams in the shuttle hangar. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
“Aye, sir. Data out.”
Riker lifted a wayward lock of Troi’s hair from her eye, tucked it back where it belonged, and let his hand caress her cheek. “I have to go.”
“I know,” she said. “Be careful.” She pulled him down into a passionate kiss, fueled as much by love as by fear. She pressed her tear-streaked cheek against his bearded face. Her voice quavered. “Come home,” she whispered.
“You know I will,” he said. He kissed her again and considered saying something that began, If I don’t make it back…, or, I just want you to know…, then decided against it. Better to leave on an optimistic note, he decided. “See you in a few hours,” he said.
Summoning his nerve, he freed himself from her arms. He walked to the door, which slid open. The bright light in the corridor made him wince. He looked back into his quarters. His eyes were already adjusting to the light, and he could barely discern Troi’s petite shape in front of the window. “Leave a light on for me,” he said. Then, before he could change his mind, he stepped away and let the door close behind him.
Chapter 19
Qo’noS
WORF WALKED QUICKLY and used his hand to keep his targ-skin satchel concealed beneath his hooded robe. The streets of the Klingon capital were all but empty in the predawn gloom, but distant traffic and a slight wind blended into soft white noise. A sudden, brief downpour had just ceased, leaving the city streaked with wet reflections. Tugging his hood low across his brow, he crossed the boulevard with haste, rounded the corner, and strode across a wide plaza toward the Federation Embassy.
