by David Mack
Worf stopped in front of the desk. “I am concerned that your invasion of Tezwa violates the Khitomer Accords,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Martok growled from the antechamber. “The accords specifically permit us to defend ourselves from attack.”
“And if Tezwa attacks Qi’Vol, you will be within your rights to retaliate,” Worf said. Arguing, even insincerely, on behalf of the Tezwans sickened him, but for now he needed to think like a diplomat instead of like a warrior. “But to invade a planet that might be able to claim it was acting in self-defense—”
“You can’t be serious.” Martok stepped out of his wardrobe, attired in a different ceremonial robe. Worf recognized the vestments as the ones traditionally worn when making formal declarations of war. “Self-defense? They launched a sneak attack! They murdered six thousand Klingon warriors!”
“The Tezwans will say they had no right to be there,” Worf said. “They will insist that the very presence of your ships above their world was an act of aggression—from which they defended themselves.” Defending the cowardly petaQpu’ made Worf furious, but his mask of calm dignity didn’t waver. Martok dismissed Worf’s arguments with an angry wave of his arm.
“Ridiculous,” Martok said. “They permitted us entry for negotiation. Safe conduct was promised.”
Worf had no rebuttal; Martok was right. Interstellar law was clear on the matter of safe conduct. Worf changed tactics.
“Regardless,” he said, “the Federation is alarmed by the ramifications of such a precedent. We must ask the High Council to consider our petition for limitations on the Empire’s actions in this matter.” Worf was treading on dangerous ground; by speaking with the voice of the Federation, he could ensure that his request would have to be officially reviewed by the High Council, in accordance with imperial law. That would get Martok out of his chambers for a few minutes, giving Worf the time he needed. But if his plan backfired, this overstepping of his authority could result in his own arrest by the Federation.
Martok clearly did not like what he was hearing. “What kind of limitations?”
“First, the planet and its star system must remain neutral,” Worf said. “Rather than an invasion followed by an occupation, we ask that the Empire restrict its mission to pacification, then withdraw its military forces.”
“It’s too late to negotiate these terms,” Martok said. “The order’s been given. Tezwa will be invaded.”
“If the Klingon flag is raised on Tezwa, we will demand parity,” Worf said. “The Federation will claim sovereignty over two unpopulated star systems on our shared border—Mahtaan and Hrabosk.”
Martok considered that idea, then harrumphed. “That’s more reasonable,” he said. After a moment, the idea seemed to grow on him. “Very well, then. Parity. I’ll offer your proposal to the council.” The chancellor adjusted the front of his robe. “If there’s nothing else…?” Martok gestured toward the door.
Worf stood his ground. “I would prefer to wait here for the council’s answer.”
Martok grunted, then marched toward the door. “Suit yourself,” he bellowed as the doors swung open before him. “I expect it will be a short debate,” Martok said. The doors closed behind him with a heavy bump.
As the magnetic locks engaged, Worf opened his diplomatic pouch and reached inside. The “package” Zeitsev had somehow delivered to Worf’s office with hardly any advance notice of his intentions—or so it seemed—had contained several devices tailored to facilitate his mission. He knew Zeitsev was well connected, but this had surpassed all expectations. Some of the tools in the kit were ones that Worf had heard of being used by Starfleet Intelligence; a few he had thought were still at the prototype stage. Two he had never realized existed at all, until tonight. He hoped most of them would be unnecessary.
Martok had no computer hardware in his office, despite Zeitsev’s insistence that this was one of the few direct links to the Fleet Command Center. Worf had been here only twice before, and on neither occasion had he seen Martok use a computer. The chancellor despised replicators, and preferred to conduct state business face-to-face whenever possible.
Worf palmed a tiny scanner and pulled it from the pouch. He kept it tucked clandestinely inside his palm while he checked the room for security devices. He detected four. He keyed the device’s signal jammer, confirmed the security devices were offline, and set the tool on the desk.
Reaching back into his pouch, he removed a tricorder. He did three sweeps of the room before he registered the matte-surfaced holographic emitter crystal embedded into the ceiling above Martok’s desk. That makes sense, Worf thought. He hates clutter. He moved behind the desk and seated himself in Martok’s chair. His fingertips traced the undersides of the armrests, searching for a concealed switch. There wasn’t one. It must be voice-activated, Worf concluded.
“Computer, activate holographic interface.”
Nothing happened. It has to be his voice, he realized.
Digging inside the pouch, he found the small dermal patch he sought. He pressed it to his throat, just above his trachea, then fished its remote control from under the holomask emitter. He cycled through the remote’s preset options, and selected Martok’s voice pattern, which he’d recorded just minutes ago.
It unnerved him to hear Martok’s voice roaring out of his mouth. “Computer,” he barked. “Activate holographic interface.”
“Submit for retinal-pattern verification,” the deep, masculine computer said.
Worf had feared this might be the case. Imperial Command was justifiably paranoid when it came to information security. If he had been able to gain physical access to the primary headquarters, he might have been able to access the system with little more than a stolen password or a decryption algorithm on his tricorder. But for remote terminals such as these, Imperial Intelligence had no doubt insisted upon biometric security protocols, to prevent unauthorized access.
Worf saw little point in attempting to bypass the system. If he made a mistake, it would almost certainly trigger an alarm. And although Zeitsev had been able to provide Worf with a bundle of high-tech gadgets, none of them contained Martok’s security code.
With less than two hours remaining to the invasion of Tezwa, Worf had three options.
He could attempt to infiltrate the Fleet Command Center and steal the master command codes from its computer by direct access. The odds against his survival were staggering. The odds of his success were infinitesimal. This was not so much a plan as a death wish, a futile road to be taken when all others had clearly failed. Worf was still far from that course of action.
He could set up surveillance equipment in Martok’s office, wait for the chancellor to access the system, then record Martok’s password. Its merits were that it was simple and presented minimal risk. Its most serious flaw was that there was no guarantee Martok would need to access the Fleet Command network in the next two hours. Equally troubling was the fact that Worf might have to resort to violence against his own kinsman in order to copy his retinal patterns, to fool the system’s biometric-identification system.
The thought of so directly betraying Martok galled Worf. Infiltrating the Fleet Command Center might have provided him with numerous access codes to choose from; he could have accomplished his mission without necessarily compromising the chancellor himself. If he broke into the system using Martok’s codes and biometric profile, the ensuing disgrace might place the chancellor’s political future—as well as his life—in jeopardy.
There was one last possibility, but it would mean crossing the line into outright criminality; he would have to commit to an agenda of espionage, extortion, and perhaps even murder.
The magnetic locks of the main door released with a soft, muffled click.
“Computer, terminate connection.” The holographic trefoil blinked off as he removed the dermal voice patch from his throat with one hand and scooped up his signal jammer with the other. He stepped over to the liquor cabinet and thrust his
hands into his pockets to hide the gadgets. He deactivated the jammer as the doors opened and Martok returned.
“Good news, Mr. Ambassador,” Martok said with a gagh-eating grin. “The council accepts your request for parity.”
“Excellent,” Worf said.
Martok eyed him strangely. “Planning on raiding my stash of bloodwine?”
“I was just leaving.” As he passed by Martok he paused and added, “Perhaps next time.”
Martok gave him a hard, friendly slap on the back. “Count on it,” he said. “Come back later, we’ll celebrate. This is going to be a glorious day for the Empire!”
Or not, Worf mused glumly as he left Martok’s chambers and set out to commit a great evil in the service of a greater good.
Chapter 32
Earth Orbit—McKinley
Station
MCKINLEY STATION WAS EXACTLY as Koll Azernal had last seen it three years ago—cold, sterile, and depressing. Little more than a ring of prefabricated industrial modules, it embodied all the least-glamorous aspects of Starfleet. It was drab, utilitarian, and uniform to a degree that Azernal suspected even the Borg might envy. The facility’s one redeeming feature was its stunning low-orbit view of Earth, but even that was only visible half the time, unless one walked constantly around the station’s outer ring to keep up with its semihourly rotation.
Looking down from a currently unoccupied docking port, Azernal admired the delicate webs of lights adorning the Eurasian continent. The crisp edge of daybreak was creeping across the curve of the planet. Dawn was rising on Moscow and Tehran; in a few short hours it would rouse Rome, then Paris.
Another thing Azernal disliked about McKinley Station was its acoustics. Sounds of all kinds could bounce their way around the outer ring and come back, full circle, to their point of origin; voices carried like curses in a cathedral. Which is why he heard Quafina’s footsteps a full minute before he saw him.
Nelino Quafina was, by his species’ standards, a fairly handsome individual. His glistening scales were a splendidly uniform shade of silvery gray, and his eyes were large, even for an Antedean. His cranial fins were large and well shaped, and ever so slightly darker than the rest of his scales. He walked in long, graceful strides, his webbed feet padding softly across the smooth metal deck. His flowing garments, tailored in five different shades of metallic blue, gave his towering frame an almost imperial bearing, in Azernal’s opinion.
Viewing the species objectively, Azernal couldn’t understand why so many humanoids found the icthyoid visage of Antedeans aesthetically displeasing. He surmised that recent history played a role; there were more than a few individuals in the Federation who, for some inexplicable reason, still bore a grudge over the trivial fact that an Antedean assassin, disguised as one of his planet’s delegates, had tried to blow up the Pacifica conference fourteen years ago.
Quafina stopped next to Azernal and joined him in admiring the view. “You called,” he said. His voice sounded hollow, a peculiar effect of the Antedeans’ efforts to mimic humanoid speech. Their larynges evolved to produce vibrations in a fluid medium, by drawing liquid or air inward. Consequently, Quafina, like most Antedeans when removed from their natural aquatic environment, always sounded like he was swallowing his words.
Azernal opened the door to the airlock. “Step inside.”
Quafina looked into the cramped pressure compartment, then fixed his expressionless eyes on Azernal. “You first.”
“Your faith is touching,” the Zakdorn said as he stepped into the airlock. Quafina followed him in a moment later, and stooped sharply to fit inside. Azernal shut the door. The setting was now intimate to the point of being claustrophobic, but at least it was private.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Quafina said.
Azernal ignored the quip. “We need more shipments to Tezwa,” he said.
“Unofficial, I presume?”
“Of course,” Azernal said.
“More of the same?”
“Not exactly,” Azernal said. “We need to mask the source of our earlier shipments.”
Quafina made a few short clicking noises. “In what way?”
“We need to make it look like they came from the Tholians.”
Quafina made a few more clicking sounds, slower and deeper this time. “Difficult,” he said. “I can do it, but it will take time to prepare and arrange.”
“How long?”
“At least a few weeks,” Quafina said.
“That might be too late,” Azernal said.
“It could be done faster using official resources,” Quafina said, his tone accusatory.
“Absolutely not,” Azernal said. “Strictly off the books. I can’t have Starfleet Intelligence putting their hands all over this. Use whatever channels worked last time.”
“Then it will take a few weeks,” Quafina said. “Unless you can get me access to a time machine.”
“And bring Temporal Investigations into it? No, thank you.”
“Then we’re done.”
Azernal bristled at Quafina’s openly confrontational tone, but said nothing as the Antedean opened the inner airlock door. Quafina ducked his head and exited, then moved quickly away down the gradually curving corridor.
Trade secrets being the lifeblood of the intelligence profession, Azernal knew better than to pry into Quafina’s methods. Honestly, it was better if he didn’t know all the details. He still had no clue how the wily Antedean had smuggled to Tezwa the vast quantities of contraband technology needed to build the nadion-pulse cannons, or how, under constant scrutiny as the Federation’s secretary of military intelligence, he’d kept his activities hidden from his subordinates.
What mattered was Quafina got results without getting noticed, and that’s all Azernal really needed to know.
Chapter 33
An Undisclosed Location
“IF KINCHAWN DOESN’T LAND US in a war with the Klingons, this lumbering hothead will.”
Dietz remained silent while he stood next to L’Haan, who humored Zeitsev’s rant via secure subspace com. “I’m not sure what he’s planning to do,” Zeitsev continued. “Whatever it is, it probably won’t be very subtle.”
L’Haan responded in her usual cool, rational manner. “How do you suspect Ambassador Worf learned of your identity?”
“An excellent question,” Zeitsev said. “His connection to the chancellor and alliances through the Order of the Bat’leth may be part of it. He’s better integrated into Klingon society than any previous Federation ambassador since Curzon Dax.”
“With alliances come enemies,” L’Haan said. “Regardless, his involvement changes matters. As does his contact with you.”
“I know,” Zeitsev said. “Protocol’s being followed.”
“Good,” L’Haan said. “We will continue to monitor Ambassador Worf from here.”
Zeitsev nodded once. “Zeitsev out.” He terminated the transmission, and the screen went dark.
Dietz waited for her to say something. He loved the sound of her voice, always so calm and measured, her enunciation all but flawless. Eye contact with her was usually too intimidating, so he often found himself watching her lips, admiring their symmetry and uniformity of texture.
Her lips parted then, and she spoke, breaking the spell.
“What became of Azernal’s transmission to Quafina?”
Dietz looked up into her intense, brown eyes, then just as quickly looked away to his computer terminal. “They just left McKinley Station, about five minutes apart.”
“Do we have a record of their meeting?”
“Negative,” Dietz said, sorry to disappoint her. “We didn’t have time to tap into the station’s internal sensors.” With a few deft strokes Dietz called up Quafina’s full dossier on a secondary monitor. He highlighted a note he’d flagged earlier. “I predict there’s an eighty-three percent chance Quafina’s being tapped to participate in a cover-up on Tezwa.”
“Actually,” L’Haan
said, “the likelihood is eighty-nine-point-six-one percent.”
Dietz controlled his breathing and tried to keep his pulse from rising, but he still felt a flush of warmth in his face as shame colored his cheeks. L’Haan, if she noticed his embarrassment, didn’t acknowledge it. He hated making such easily avoidable errors in front of her.
“We won’t know Quafina’s agenda for another hour or so,” he said, his composure somewhat regained. “Should I continue to prepare for a Klingon invasion?”
“Yes,” L’Haan said. “Even with Worf’s involvement on Qo’noS, Picard and his crew are still likely to fail. We should be ready to take appropriate steps.”
“Perhaps we should wait until we see what Azernal and Quafina are doing,” he suggested. “What if they have their own contingency plan? We might be able to avoid taking a drastic step that would draw unnecessary attention.”
L’Haan regarded him with a dubious, sidelong glance from beneath an arched left brow. He felt as though he stood accused in her gaze. He considered defending his statement, then decided against it. Dietz and L’Haan had debated policy in the past, and, not surprisingly, had found their opinions quite similar. He wasn’t squeamish about destroying the planet; he simply disliked such heavy-handed methods. Like most of those in the organization, he preferred subtler tactics—precision and secrecy, rather than naked demonstrations of force.
“Continue your preparations,” she said. “If they become unnecessary, I will rescind the order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One more thing,” L’Haan said. “Wake the Orion Sleeper.”
Chapter 34
Tezwa—Solasook Peninsula,
0256 Hours Local Time
“I CAN’T SEE a damn thing down here.”
“Keep scanning,” Data replied, watching Obrecht from an icy ridge above the suspected location of the firebase’s entrance.
