by David Mack
Using hand gestures, Taurik made it clear he wanted McEwan to follow him, stay close to the wall, and grab the guard on the right; he would be taking the guard on the left. He signaled Rao and Mobe to hold position until he ordered them to do otherwise.
Adrenaline made her pulse race as she skulked in the half-shadow toward the inattentive guards. Conscious of her every step, her every breath, McEwan didn’t dare let herself blink.
Matching the surprisingly stealthy Taurik step for step, she found herself only two arm-lengths from her target. She paused with her Vulcan team leader, who tensed, awaiting the prime moment. Watching him on the edge of her vision, she sprang forward a split second after he did.
His hand struck like a serpent and locked on to the sentry’s neck, just above the shoulder. The guard contorted and collapsed under Taurik’s deftly executed nerve pinch.
Her own target lunged at Taurik, noticing McEwan only as her arm wrapped around his throat. Planting her leg behind the guard’s knee, she yanked his head back and toppled him easily to the floor, controlling his fall to prevent him from making noise. After a few seconds of expertly applied pressure, he lost consciousness. She released him and used his own manacles to bind him before gagging him with a strip of his own tunic.
Taurik, his own target similarly restrained, motioned Rao and Mobe forward while McEwan checked the intersection for other Tezwan personnel. Two down, she mused, forty-three to go.
As she followed the intense and undeniably skilled Vulcan assistant chief engineer deeper into the enemy stronghold, she decided those odds didn’t look so bad, after all.
Chapter 40
Qo’noS
TENS OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE lived in the metropolitan sprawl of the First City, but in the small hours of the morning the capital felt almost like a necropolis. The juxtaposed ancient and modern structures that lined the wo’leng—the main boulevard that extended away from the Great Hall toward the river—all had been dark and silent as cenotaphs, reinforcing Worf’s impression that he was stepping farther and farther away from the world he had struggled so hard to become a part of.
Looking out from the end of the qIj’bIQ promontory, Worf watched the dark river surge past. Then, like a ghost emerging from the shadows, Lorgh was beside him, leaning against the railing and staring into the water. Worf had not heard him approach. The grizzled Imperial Intelligence agent was slight of build and far from the physical ideal of a warrior, but Worf knew his old family ally could be a skilled and dangerous foe.
“They say the river has no memory,” Lorgh said.
“But Imperial Intelligence does,” Worf said.
“You’re up late, Worf. Or are you up early?”
“You were right about the concealed level in the embassy.”
Lorgh glared with annoyance. “Did you—”
“And about Zeitsev.”
Lorgh pounded his fist on the wide metal railing. “Damn you!” He half-turned away, then clenched his fists and leaned once again next to Worf. “Why?”
“I needed information. The kind only he could provide.”
Lorgh shook his head. “That was foolish,” he said. “I trusted you with that intelligence as a warning, for your protection in case he moved against you.” He slammed his palm against the railing. “Now they know we’ve identified them.”
Worf wondered who “they” were, but because he had less than forty minutes to get the master command codes to Captain Picard, he decided that was an inquiry for another time. “There was no other way,” Worf said, hunching his shoulders against a chill wind blustering in off the water.
“Is that what you brought me here to tell me?”
“No. I need your help.”
Lorgh snorted in disgust. “I’ve seen how you use my help.”
“I need information. If I had time I could find it myself. But I need it immediately.”
Lorgh remained cagey. “What kind of information?”
“Anything I can use against Councillor Kopek. The more damaging, the better. And I need it now.”
That snared Lorgh’s attention.
“Kopek, eh?” He ran his tongue over his jagged teeth. “He’s been quite the d’k tahg in Martok’s back, hasn’t he?”
“Indeed.”
Kopek, one of the newly elected members of the reformed High Council, had made little secret of his disdain for Martok’s commoner origins. In the short time since the pompous northern aristocrat’s arrival in the Great Hall, he had done more to undermine Martok’s leadership and thwart his political objectives than the rest of the council combined. Considering that more than half of the councillors were obstructionists par excellence, that was no mean feat.
“So, Kopek plans to use the Tezwa crisis against Martok.”
“Not if I can prevent it.” Technically, that was true. Worf would endeavor to prevent Kopek from transforming a national tragedy into an issue for personal gain. He conveniently omitted the fact that such a concern was currently secondary.
A malicious grin crept across Lorgh’s face. “Are you here as the Federation ambassador? Or as Martok’s kinsman?”
Worf chose his words with great care. “I am acting on my own authority…. For the good of the Empire.”
“Aren’t we all,” Lorgh said. Worf detected a pronounced undercurrent of cynicism and world-weariness in the remark.
“How soon can you—”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” Lorgh said. He let Worf stew for a moment before he added, “Yet.”
“I do not have time to barter,” Worf protested.
“Never tell someone that,” Lorgh said. His tone was one of menace, not friendly advice. “It just lets them know you’re desperate. That you’ll do or say anything. You might as well stick the blade in your own heart.”
Worf reminded himself that even though this man was an old family friend, he was still a lifelong spy. Lorgh had raised Worf’s brother, Kurn, as his own son after Worf’s parents were killed in the Khitomer massacre and Worf was adopted by a Starfleet noncommissioned officer named Sergey Rozhenko. Lorgh’s bond of friendship with Mogh, Worf’s late father, combined with his obviously paternal feelings for Kurn, had lulled Worf into thinking of the wily old spy as part of the family. It was an error he would not make again. “Make me an offer,” he said.
“I can get you a dossier on Kopek that’ll have his head on a tik’leth by midday,” Lorgh said. “But I’ll need information of equal value from you. Something only you can get for me.”
“I will not betray the Federation or Starfleet.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Lorgh said. “But I’m sure you could share with an ally information the Federation has about a mutual rival?”
“Such as?”
“Eleven days ago, in the Ravanar system, Starfleet Special Ops personnel captured a Breen vessel, whose crew…” Now it was Lorgh’s turn to select his words carefully. “Met with an accident,” he continued. “The Federation Security Council denies any such incident took place. But we both know what their words are worth.”
“And you want…?”
“The schematics of the Breen vessel,” Lorgh said. “Get me its logs and I’ll get you dossiers on the entire High Council.”
“Tempting, but not necessary.”
“You hope.”
Worf scowled. “I will send the schematics in twenty minutes,” he said. “Have the dossier ready.”
Lorgh chortled darkly. “It’s been ready for six years.”
Worf turned to leave. He hesitated as Lorgh fired one last verbal shot across the weary ambassador’s bow.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that your son is aboard one of the ships on its way to Tezwa?”
Worf did not dignify the question with a response, choosing instead to walk to his hovercar and make a swift departure. But as he raced back to the Federation Embassy, growing more anxious by the minute, his answer to Lorgh’s query simmered in his thoughts: It did not…unti
l now.
Chapter 41
Tezwa—Keelee-Kee
“THESE ARE FRAGILE TIMES, General,” Kinchawn said.
General Gyero Minza wasn’t sure how to respond to that comment. He stood at attention before the prime minister and speculated that he had not been summoned in the middle of the night to provide a status report. Kinchawn rose from his chair, stepped from behind his desk, and meandered around the perimeter of his lushly appointed office.
“We are on the threshold of a new era in our history,” Kinchawn continued. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course, Mr. Prime Minister.”
Minza watched Kinchawn circle around him. The prime minister let his hand brush through the thick blue-green fronds of a clutch of potted plants that filled one corner of the room. Mixed with the ilosk ferns were dozens of tall flowers, with enough colors to win a rainbow’s envy. Their fragrance was faint, but he had noticed it the moment he’d entered the room.
“As we take our first steps beyond our own solar system, there will be those who seek to thwart our efforts,” Kinchawn said. “The Klingons. The Federation. Perhaps even elements from within our own government.”
The prime minister continued his circuit of the room, moving behind Minza. Because the general remained at attention, he could not turn to keep his eyes on Kinchawn. Instead, he followed the lean elininim’s reflection on the glass of the framed print of Tezwa’s Civil Charter, which hung on the wall between two red-and-gold Tezwan flags that were curled with ceremonial precision around their poles.
“I have reason to believe the Klingons will attempt another attack on our planet,” the prime minister continued. “In fact, I am quite certain such a strike is imminent.”
“All forces are on highest alert,” Minza said.
“To threats external,” Kinchawn said. “But are your troops prepared to defend our world from traitors? From a fifth column within our ranks that would seek to aid our enemies?”
“You know we are,” Minza said.
“General…would you agree that, in times of war, a government divided against itself cannot hope to prevail?”
Minza saw Kinchawn’s intent taking shape, and he found himself grateful to be part of such a momentous development in history. “I cannot see how it would be any other way,” he said.
Kinchawn passed by the sliding doors to his balcony, beyond which the spires of Keelee-Kee sparkled like polished speartips. “Then how are we to respond to the dangerous elements in our midst?” As he continued, he waved his left hand one way, his right hand another. “Dissidents who fill the people’s hearts with doubt. Instigators who provoke the masses into protest.” Now that he was moving back toward his desk, Minza was once again able to watch him instead of his mirror image.
“In the best of all possible worlds,” Minza said, “they would be turned to our way of thinking. Enemies would be converted into allies.”
“I agree,” Kinchawn said. “But there will always be those who refuse to negotiate. Who cannot see the value of reason.” The prime minister stood in front of his chair and rested the tips of his slender, bony fingers on the desktop. “How are we to deal with them?”
“If they don’t support the national good, they should be considered enemies of the state,” Minza said, feeling bolder with each moment he spent in the prime minister’s presence. “If they won’t stand with us, they must be eliminated.”
Kinchawn smiled warmly, radiating his approval. “Let me ask you a hypothetical question.”
“Of course, sir.”
“If I were to empower you—right here, right now—to take whatever measures were necessary to ensure the security of our political and civil interests…where would you begin?”
Minza hesitated to speak candidly. For as long as he could remember, as well known as the Lacaam Coalition’s agenda was, it had been considered dangerous—even taboo—to say aloud what he was thinking right now. Was he being tested? Lured into the open so he could be disgraced? He could think of a few subordinates who would gladly have set him up to fail. But the prime minister’s demeanor was relaxed and straightforward.
Minza decided that if this was a political ambush, it was too late to retreat now. Kinchawn was either looking to make Minza’s career or end it. Either way, this was a threshold moment and there was no point in delaying the inevitable.
Mustering his resolve, Minza said, “I would kill Bilok and his inner circle of Gatni Party leaders.”
Kinchawn took a deep breath, released it, and smiled.
“Excellent,” he said. “And your second step?”
“Demand the loyalty of the other Gatni ministers, then disband the Gatni Party.”
“History will remember you as a visionary and a patriot.” The prime minister sat down. “How soon can it be done?”
“Two hours,” Minza said. “Maybe sooner.”
Kinchawn’s eyes gleamed with hatred and delight as he gave the order that Minza had waited his entire career to hear.
“Kill them.”
Chapter 42
U.S.S. Enterprise-E
PERIM FELT like a glorious impostor.
With Captain Picard in his ready room awaiting a vitally important, last-minute secret transmission, Perim was alone near the aft section of the bridge, seated in the captain’s chair.
She had swelled with pride when he said “You have the conn, Lieutenant.” From the moment she took the center seat, she began to understand the appeal of command. Once a vague, ill-defined notion, the essence of command had become a tangible commodity. The bridge looked a bit larger from here, and the rest of the galaxy felt just a little more manageable.
On the main viewer, Tezwa remained a minuscule flicker against the black backdrop of space. Maybe it was her pilot training, or the fact she was fretting about Jim Peart being down there risking his life, but even though Tezwa was nestled amid a million other points of light that looked all but identical, she still knew exactly which tiny white dot it was. No matter how many times she looked away, when she turned back to face the main viewscreen, her eyes found Tezwa’s distinctive, vermilion-tinted twinkle every single time.
Ensign Le Roy swiveled away from the ops console to face her. “Lieutenant, sensors are detecting sharp power increases in the Tezwan spacedocks.”
“They’re powering up the fleet?”
“Looks that way,” Le Roy said, turning back to her console. “I’m reading twenty-four unique engine signatures, all in prelaunch warmup.”
“How long until they’re ready to deploy?”
Le Roy checked her sensor readings. “Thirty minutes.”
“Wriede,” Perim said, glancing over to the tactical officer. “What’s the Klingons’ ETA?”
Wriede looked at his own console. Suppressing an awkward, lopsided grimace, he said, “Thirty-two minutes.”
Perim sighed. “Wonderful,” she lamented. In thirty minutes, this entire star system was going to turn into a shooting gallery, and two dozen Starfleet personnel down on that planet had front-row seats.
She calmly stood and moved back toward the first officer’s seat; the golden aura of command had lost its luster.
“Captain Picard to the bridge,” she said.
Chapter 43
Tezwa—Solasook Peninsula,
0337 Hours Local Time
DESPITE ITS INGENUITY and cunning, Data felt no sense of pride in the plan he had concocted.
The android officer vaguely recalled what pride had felt like, but when he tried to taste the emotion again from memory, its flavor eluded him. Cold equations, the records of the positronic pulses all were there, but they didn’t add up to anything. Recollections of feelings both subtle and intense, from petty to sublime, resided in his neural storage matrix, software for a piece of hardware he no longer possessed.
He remembered thinking once—months ago, before Starfleet had demanded he give up his emotion chip—that to remember such feelings but not know what they felt like would be
a tragedy, a loss worthy of terrible sorrow. Perhaps I should feel sad now, he ruminated. Except that I cannot. He acknowledged the irony of it, even though he could not appreciate its bitter humor.
He accepted the reasoning behind Starfleet’s ultimatum, despite his reluctance to submit to it. After more than three decades of living without emotions, their sudden addition to his consciousness had changed his entire way of thinking—of being.
For a fleeting moment, he had considered resigning his commission rather than submit to Starfleet’s order. But when forced to choose between keeping his long-sought emotions or continuing to serve beside his shipmates, he chose to surrender the gift his creator had labored to give to him.
He did not regret obeying the order; without the emotion chip, he was incapable of doing so.
However, he was eminently capable of completely dominating the poorly secured Tezwan artillery-control network. With only a fairly crude optronic patch into their communications system—and with a little help from his tricorder—he had accessed every major system in the Solasook Firebase. He dedicated an extra four-tenths of a second to a review of all the many variables that might impact the success of his plan, and he deemed the statistical probability of its success to be highly favorable.
He keyed his com. “Data to Bravo Team. Are you all ready?”
“Aye, sir,” Parminder said. Her voice was almost drowned out by the howling of the arctic storm winds.
“All set on the west slope,” Obrecht answered.
“Ready,” Heaton said.
“Stand by,” Data said, setting his scheme into motion.
Bypassing several security lockouts, he logged in to the antimatter-reactor control system. With a few quietly executed overrides, he altered the status readouts for several critical systems, all of which were, in fact, functioning within normal parameters. When he had pushed the meters’ displayed states far enough away from optimal, he triggered the core-breach alarm.
