by David Mack
WORF TENSED BESIDE THE DOOR, lying in ambush.
Councillor Kopek’s chambers in the Great Hall were far more lavish than those of Chancellor Martok. Unlike the chancellor, Kopek was a scion of a noble House, with generations of haughty expectations to live up to. Polished black marble floors, pillars of gleaming obsidian, and supple targhDIr furniture were all warmly illuminated by crackling, spice-scented varHuS candles housed in ornate carved-crystal sconces.
The councillor was also well traveled, as evidenced by the delicate paper ceiling tiles from Vulcan, and the gently burbling Betazoid water sculpture that dominated the wall to the right of the main double doors, which had been hewn whole from ancient Terran redwood trees.
While concealing Kopek’s now-unconscious aide-de-camp, L’Vek, in the antechamber next to the councillor’s desk, Worf had also noted the councillor’s sizable and smartly tailored wardrobe. The councillor’s boQDu’ had posed no significant threat to Worf, who easily placed the man in a stranglehold and forced him to reveal his name, before knocking him out.
Using the dermal voice patch to impersonate L’Vek, Worf had summoned Kopek back to his chambers on “an urgent matter.” After setting the security-jamming device, there was naught else to do but wait for the prey to walk into the trap.
Waiting, unfortunately, was the one thing Worf least wanted to do right now. With each passing moment the Klingon invasion fleet raced closer to Tezwa, and his son was among those who were about to be sacrificed on the twin altars of honor and futility. Also in jeopardy were Worf’s old friends aboard the Enterprise, who, he was certain, were even now risking their lives to spare the Klingon fleet from the need to make a suicide attack on a target of admittedly little long-term strategic value to the Empire.
At least Lorgh was prompt, Worf reminded himself. The dour old Imperial Intelligence agent had been telling the truth when he’d said the dossier on Kopek had been ready for years. Lorgh also had been right about the Federation’s capture of a Breen starship. To acquire its schematics, Worf had called in two favors and made four promises. He downloaded schematics the Federation government claimed it didn’t have, from a ship it alleged it hadn’t captured, less than ten minutes after he’d first requested it.
Being an ambassador sometimes has its privileges, he mused.
Moving the data through a series of encrypted, anonymous channels, he’d traded it to Lorgh for the Kopek dossier twelve minutes ago. Six minutes ago, Worf returned to the Great Hall. Four minutes ago, he opened the door to Kopek’s chambers with codes that were conveniently annotated in his I.I. file. L’Vek unwittingly gave Worf his voiceprint three minutes ago.
The doors swung open.
Councillor Kopek, a beefy, broad-shouldered Klingon in the prime of his life, barreled in and slammed the doors. “L’Vek! Where are you, you worthless petaQ! What’s so damned urgent?” Even from two meters away, Worf could tell that the councillor’s expensive clothes reeked with the cheap perfume of whichever one of his mistresses he’d lain with before being summoned to the war council, and his breath was ripe with warnog. “L’Vek!”
Worf was grateful for Kopek’s boorish bluster; it made it much easier to sneak up on him. Locking his right arm around Kopek’s throat, Worf bent him backward at a sharp angle and jabbed a neural disruptor—one of the many cruel gadgets Zeitsev had left in his office—between his shoulder blades.
Worf whispered menacingly in the struggling man’s ear. “I am not here to kill you, but if you force me to, I will.”
Kopek continued to fight, but with less vigor. “Who are you?”
The question assured Worf that his voice-disguise patch was functioning perfectly. “That is not important,” he said.
“I beg to differ,” Kopek said, with the same mock courtesy Worf had come to associate with the Cardassians. Kopek’s neo-Cardassian affectations were high on the list of things that Worf hated about the man.
With a single zap of the disruptor, Kopek went limp from the chest down. Worf let him fall like a sack of garbage, then kneeled over the paralyzed councillor and rolled him onto his back. The black balaclava that concealed Worf’s face wasn’t quite as high-tech as his voice patch, but it served its function just as well.
Kopek stared in horror at his motionless limbs. “You’ve crippled me, you taHqeq. If you had any honor, you’d kill me.”
“You will recover in a few hours,” Worf said. “If you cooperate.”
“With an honorless yIntagh?” He spat at Worf. “Never.”
Wiping the warm spittle from his mask, Worf removed an optolithic data rod from his pocket. “This may interest you.” He inserted the rod into a small playback device, which projected a small holographic image in the air above Kopek’s scowling face.
Long scrolls of annotated data flashed by, one densely packed screen after another. Every few seconds there was a brief image showing Kopek stabbing someone, shooting someone, or engaged in intercourse with someone.
The look of unmitigated terror on Kopek’s face confirmed for Worf that the evidence had been worth his effort to acquire.
“Yes, Kopek, it is all here,” Worf said. “The weapons you sold to the Cardassians during their war against the Federation. The imperial supplies you smuggled to the Orion Syndicate, during the Dominion War. Your mistresses, your bastards—even your true firstborn, the one whose infant skull you dashed on Mount Vor so no one would know you sired him with a commoner woman.” Kopek squeezed shut his eyes. Worf grabbed the traitor by his scalp and yanked his head back until his eyes opened. “You did these things with open eyes! Look at them now!”
Kopek tried to mask his fear with rage, but the micro trembles in his jaw betrayed his agitated state. “Who are you? Where did you get all this?”
“You are not asking the correct question.”
Kopek glared up at Worf. His terror transformed into bitter disgust as he grasped the true purpose of this visitation. He narrowed his eyes and mumbled through gritted teeth. “What do you want?”
“Your command access code,” Worf said. “Now.”
Kopek’s face twisted with furious disbelief. “Are you mad?” Worf continued to glare at him. Kopek shook his head. “No.”
“If you refuse me again, this data rod will find its way to the chancellor. You will be executed, your House dishonored, and its holdings forfeited to the Empire. Your bloodline will end.”
“You’ll expose me anyway.”
“I will not. You have my word of honor.”
“Honor?” Kopek barked out an angry laugh. “What honor does a man with no name have?”
“More than you,” Worf said, every word infused with contempt. He turned off the holoprojection and held the data rod in front of Kopek’s face. “If you tell me your command code, when you awake, this will be yours, to do with as you see fit. Refuse me—or lie to me—and you will not wake up at all.”
Worf gave the councillor’s scalp another firm twist, in case it might help extract his answer more quickly. If Kopek followed an honorable path, choosing to die rather than reveal his code, Worf would be out of options. Captain Picard and the Enterprise crew would have no way of stopping the Klingon attack fleet, which would almost certainly be destroyed over Tezwa. He thought it bitterly ironic that the only hope for the survival of thousands of honorable Klingon warriors was the fact that one of their highest leaders was an honorless, degenerate traitor.
As Worf unsheathed his d’k tahg and raised it to striking position over Kopek’s throat, the councillor lived up to his reputation. “My code is Kopek wej Hut baH Soch vagh loS taj.”
“I hope so,” Worf said. “For your sake.” He reached into his satchel, took out a hypospray, and injected its contents into Kopek’s jugular. The councillor faded almost instantly into anesthetized slumber, and Worf moved on to the next phase of his plan.
He unclasped the side loops of his satchel and unfolded it on the floor next to Kopek, revealing the full assortment of tools that Zeitsev had l
oaned to him, complete with a short set of instructions on a minipadd. Propping open Kopek’s eyelids with his thumb and middle finger, he scanned the councillor’s retinal patterns. After changing the voice patch to mimic the man’s hoarse baritone, he uploaded the scan of Kopek’s retinal patterns into the holomask.
The holomask was a technology that Worf had never heard of before tonight, but he suspected it was the product of efforts to duplicate a mobile holographic emitter that the crew of the Voyager had brought back from the Delta Quadrant. He affixed the device to his tunic and activated it.
A few seconds of disorienting, static-filled vision later, he caught his reflection on the water sculpture. He was the perfect simulacrum of Kopek, from his clothes to his upturned cranial ridges—to his retinas.
Worf dumped the real Kopek into the wardobe antechamber, on top of the still-incapacitated L’Vek.
Sitting down at Kopek’s desk, Worf spied the chronometer. The fleet will be there any minute. He pushed that concern from his mind. “Computer, activate holographic interface.”
“Submit for retinal-pattern identification.”
“Proceed.”
A shaft of intense green light, projected from the ceiling, traveled up his torso to his face. “Look into the beam.” The emerald flash scanned his right eye first, then the left.
“Identity confirmed, Councillor Kopek.” A semitransparent image of the red-and-gold Klingon emblem appeared in midair above the desk.
“Connect to the Fleet Command Center.”
“State access code.”
“Kopek wej Hut baH Soch vagh loS taj.”
“Code verified.”
The trefoil was replaced by a graphical display consisting of the Fleet Command Center insignia and a diagram of its hierarchical directory structure. Navigating swiftly through the holographic interface, Worf zeroed in on the master fleet command codes. With a few simple inputs, he began downloading the information to his tricorder.
He looked at the optolithic data rod on the desktop. The notion of surrendering it to Kopek enraged him. The man deserved to die, and very likely his House deserved to fall into ignominy with him. There was no way to know for certain how many Klingon lives he had betrayed with his profiteering during the Dominion War, or how many Starfleet personnel had been slain by arms he had provided to the Cardassians. Even if none of those crimes were worthy of being avenged, certainly the murder of Kopek’s helpless child—whom he had slain, in cold blood, with his own hands—was enough to warrant his disgrace and death.
But I gave my word.
The classified files finished copying to his tricorder, and he terminated the connection. Rising from the chair, he picked up the data rod and clutched it in his fist. He thought of all the heinous misdeeds it documented, the honored blood with which its sordid tales had been written.
This might be my only chance to destroy him, Worf realized. His opposition of Martok will only worsen. He will resort to murder, lies, bribery…nothing is beneath him. I could give this to Martok, to help him force Kopek off the council.
He looked at the data rod in his hand. I gave my word.
He dropped the data rod on the desk and walked to the door. I have offended my own honor enough for one day, he decided.
Stepping into the crimson-lit corridor, Worf quickened his pace. The fleet was about to drop out of warp, and he knew full well the bloody price that would be paid if he was late.
Chapter 50
U.S.S. Enterprise-E
PICARD’S EARS STRAINED against the silence. The countdown timer had ticked down to zero, but all was quiet on the bridge.
Perim hovered for a moment over Le Roy at ops before resuming her circuit of the bridge’s primary duty stations. She paused briefly at the helm, nodded to herself as she eyed Magner’s console, then moved on to review the security and tactical stations.
The captain occupied his mind reviewing the latest status reports Perim had forwarded to him. Her damage evaluation indicated that the Enterprise remained without shields, and the Tezwan attack drone that rammed the primary torpedo launcher had turned the bulk of the ship’s most sophisticated targeting sensors into mangled junk.
Dr. Crusher’s latest report was more encouraging; the majority of the ship’s personnel injured by the Tezwan sneak attack had been treated and cleared for duty. Only a handful of more serious cases remained in progress, and the medical staff had limited the number of crew fatalities to five.
Which is still five too many, the captain brooded.
Perim returned to her seat next to Picard. Keeping her voice down, she told him what he already knew. “No sign of the Klingon attack fleet, Captain.”
Picard’s eyes drifted across the ceiling. He could almost feel a deadly presence lurking beyond its fragile protective shell. “They’re out there, Lieutenant.”
Perim looked up, as if to see whether Picard was privy to some kind of clue she had overlooked. Picard sighed and pensively pressed his closed fist against his chin. There was still no word from Worf or from the strike teams on the surface of Tezwa. “Status of the Tezwan fleet,” he said.
“Fully deployed,” Perim said. “They’ve formed a defensive perimeter around the planet. I think they’re expecting the attack.”
“They’d be fools not to,” Picard said.
Wriede turned toward Picard and Perim. “Captain,” the willowy tactical officer said. “If the Tezwan fleet decides the Klingons aren’t coming…they might come after us.”
The worried looks that darted between the rest of the bridge crew loaned credence to Wriede’s theory. Picard had already considered that possibility, more than an hour ago. It was a genuine risk; the Danteri-made Tezwan fleet was more than capable of keeping pace with the Enterprise, and their greater numbers might enable them to surround the Federation flagship.
“Ensign Le Roy, open a channel on secure frequency one-eight-alpha.”
“Aye, sir,” the ops officer said, tapping the command into her console. Picard didn’t expect the Klingons to listen to reason, but the longer he could delay them in conversation, the more time Worf and the strike teams would have to complete their assignments. “Channel ready, sir,” Le Roy said.
Picard stood, to better project his voice. “Attention, Klingon fleet commander,” he said in his most authoritative manner. “This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise. We request a parley, on behalf of the people of Tezwa. Please respond.”
Several seconds passed. There was no reply. Picard felt slightly self-conscious standing alone in the center of the bridge, addressing an invisible entity that he couldn’t truly prove was there, but for the benefit of morale he held his resolute stare at the viewscreen, willing a response to come.
He was met by silence.
Behind his shoulder, Perim’s voice was low and soft. “Sir, what if the Klingon fleet isn’t here?”
Picard held his ground. I know you’re out there.
Perim kept her tone diplomatic. “Captain, maybe we—”
From the overhead speaker, a voice like broken glass cut her off. “Attention, Enterprise: This is Fleet Captain Krogan. There will be no parley. You have three minutes to get out of the war zone. Krogan out.”
So much for diplomacy, Picard lamented.
“That answers that question,” Perim said. “Orders, Captain?”
Picard sat down and fixed his gaze on the main viewscreen.
“Signal the strike teams,” he said. “Let them know they have three minutes until Armageddon.”
Chapter 51
Tezwa—Keelee-Kee
FOLLOWING MINISTER ELAZOL through the door to his office, Bilok recoiled as a sapphire blue flare of energy disintegrated the top of his friend’s head.
The deputy prime minister stumbled backward, fumbling awkwardly beneath his robe to find his pistol. Even as he yanked the weapon free of his belt, age and panic combined to trip him over his own feet. He fell hard to the floor as the assassin insi
de the office appeared in the doorway, the military-issue blaster in his hand leading his way.
The killer was a young, physically fit elininim—one of Kinchawn’s people. He had the hard, cold eyes of a professional murderer. In the fraction of a moment it took him to realize Bilok was below the level of his aim, the fragile statesman opened fire in self-defense.
The blinding azure beam of charged plasma killed the young gunman almost instantly. His lifeless body seemed to dance, suspended on the coursing stream of energy like a marionette on an inverted string. Bilok released the trigger. The slain would-be assassin slammed to the floor next to Elazol’s corpse.
His weapon still clutched tightly, Bilok scrambled across the floor to Elazol. The room stank of burnt feathers and charred flesh. He took his friend’s body in his arms. Tears of rage stung his eyes. There had been no reason for Elazol to enter Bilok’s office ahead of him. He had always walked faster than Bilok, and they had known each other for so many years that they had long since abandoned the formalities of protocol.
An ancient Tezwan saying haunted his thoughts: “A step early, a step late, we walk blindly to our fate.”
Running footsteps overlapped their own bright echoes in the corridor outside his office. Bilok turned and raised his weapon. Dasana halted at the sight of his pistol, and Itani lurched to a clumsy stop behind her. “Neelo’s dead,” Dasana said, her voice warbling with sorrow and fear.
Bilok lowered his weapon and looked down at the desecrated visage of his friend and ally of more than three decades. “They came for me, too.” Dasana and Itani’s eyes, already wet with tears, overflowed as they looked down in mourning on Elazol. Bilok knew there was no time now for sorrow-songs. The Lacaam’i had begun their endgame. “Who’s left?”
“Unoro and Tawnakel,” Itani said. “Edica’s been shot.”
“They’re coming for us,” Bilok said. “All the Gatni. Warn everyone. They must arm themselves.” He gently laid Elazol on the floor. There was no time now to wait and consult with Azernal. The Federation was too far away to be of any help, and in any case it would almost certainly refuse to intervene, calling this an “internal matter.” Rising to his full, imposing height, he turned to Dasana and Itani. “Come with me.”
