A Time to Kill

by David Mack

  “Touching,” Krogan said. “Did you bow to our ships before you murdered six thousand Klingon warriors?”

  Bilok lifted his head and stood. “That abominable crime was the work of one man, not this government.” He half-turned to the ministers behind him. “Call up the record of the last Assembly,” he said. “Cue it to Kinchawn’s order to arrest the negotiators.” As he continued, the gray-feathered statesman held his arms apart, as if to show he was empty-handed and not a threat. “What you are about to see, Captains, is evidence that Kinchawn developed these terrible weapons in secret collusion with our military, revealing their existence to our Assembly only moments before he gave the order to fire. Equally important, you will see and hear that he acted alone, without a vote of the Assembly.” Motioning to the other ministers, he said, “Play it.”

  Picard watched the transmission and glowered at Kinchawn’s brazen assertion of executive power. “I control the majority vote,” Kinchawn said in the recording, “and if I say we’re at war, then we’re at war!” They were the words of a power-drunk leader run amok, so convinced of his own moral authority and infallibility that he bordered on delusional.

  Picard also noted, with a small measure of satisfaction, that the recording showed Bilok arguing the Klingons’ case to the former prime minister—demonstrating that he understood both the idea of honor and the criminality of Kinchawn’s actions.

  The recording ended, and Bilok returned to the viewscreen, once again seated at his desk and surrounded by his allies. “At this time, I am ordering a warrant for the arrest of former Prime Minister Kinchawn,” Bilok said. “He is hereby charged with the premeditated murder of six thousand Klingon citizens. This offense, because it was committed in the name of the government, will be prosecuted as a war crime, and is punishable by death.”

  “I will show your evidence to the High Council on Qo’noS. And I will recommend they hold Kinchawn and his accomplices personally liable for the murder of our soldiers—if you vow to extradite them to the Klingon Empire,” Krogan said.

  “No,” Bilok said. “There will be no extraditions. Their crimes were committed here—they will face our justice, not yours. But I assure you—it will be swift, and final.”

  Bilok’s answer pleased Picard. Apparently the new prime minister could be diplomatic without being spineless; he seemed ready to make concessions, but not to kowtow. It boded well for the planet’s recovery.

  “Prime Minister Bilok, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets, I accept your surrender…. Fleet Captain Krogan, this star system is now under Federation jurisdiction. I must ask you and your fleet to withdraw immediately.”

  Krogan looked disgusted, but also weary. “We’ll be under way shortly, Captain,” he said. His first officer started to protest, but Krogan cowed the man with a primal growl before continuing. “Prime Minister Bilok…I will deliver your terms to the High Council. Krogan out.” The Klingon transmission ceased.

  “Captain,” Bilok said. “Now that we are under Federation control…” The phrase seemed to give the Tezwan leader pause. “I must ask—does that mean the Federation will assist us in rebuilding? The Klingons’ counterstrike all but annihilated our military, which provided our cities’ law enforcement. In addition, several of our cities suffered collateral damage from the attacks, as did our atmosphere.”

  Even knowing that he was about to overstep his authority, Picard answered without hesitation. “Yes, Mr. Prime Minister, the Federation will assist in the rebuilding of your world. My crew and I will do what we can to contain the damage and provide relief, until more ships arrive. I’ll ask the Federation Council to initiate a full-scale emergency relief effort.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Bilok said. “We look forward to welcoming the Federation’s diplomatic representative. Now, with your permission, I must attend to critical matters of state.”

  “Of course, Mr. Prime Minister. Picard out.”

  The screen switched back to the orbital view of Tezwa. The Klingon fleet continued to hang impotently above the planet. “Ensign Le Roy,” Picard said, striding back to his seat. “Guide the Klingon fleet to the edge of the system, then release their command lockouts.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Picard settled into his chair and savored the restored sensation of pride that had been absent for far too long. Months of self-doubt had weighed gravely upon him, but now that internally imposed burden was gone—displaced by the return of confidence.

  “Picard to transporter room. Begin beaming up our strike teams from the planet surface.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Transporter Chief T’Bonz.

  Picard began compiling data for his next update to Starfleet Command. Minutes later, Perim looked up from her command console, clearly alarmed, and swiveled toward Picard. Apparently sensing Perim’s distress, Troi leaned in, as well. “Captain,” Perim said, glancing nervously at Troi. “Chief T’Bonz reports five of the teams are safely aboard.”

  He waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. “Five teams?”

  “Commander Riker’s team is missing…” Perim looked afraid to continue in front of Troi, but she steeled herself and finished her report. “…And presumed dead.”

  Troi looked like someone had slapped her.

  His good mood immediately gone, Picard’s left hand clenched over his knee, an irrational reaction, but it felt like what he had to do to hold himself together as his thoughts went flying apart. He hadn’t felt so overcome with grief in years, not since the day he’d learned that his brother and young nephew had perished in a fire on Earth. But the truth was that this was worse. Losing Robert and René had grieved him deeply, but to even imagine that Will Riker was gone left him feeling hollow and hopeless. Like losing a son was all he could think—over and over, until he was unable to breathe.

  Troi rose from her seat and marched to the turbolift. Perim stood a moment later, then paused and looked at Picard.

  “Go,” he said.

  Perim followed Troi into the turbolift. The doors swished shut, leaving Picard again surrounded by strangers.

  Chapter 62

  Tezwa—Kinchawn’s Redoubt

  “OUR SITUATION is already improving.”

  Kinchawn sat at the head of the long table, flanked by several dozen of his most senior military commanders and backed by two dozen of his Lacaam’i ministers. The underground command center was barren and felt more like a dungeon than the seat of a government-in-exile, but he didn’t plan to be here for long.

  “Not only are the Gatni still hopelessly disorganized,” he said, “but we now have the additional boon of contending with the Federation and its Starfleet, instead of the Klingons. The Federation has no tolerance for violence. At the first sign of serious resistance, they’ll withdraw—leaving us free to deal with the Gatni traitors on our own terms.”

  “When do we strike?” asked General Minza, who sat to Kinchawn’s immediate right at the head of the table.

  “We need to wait for softer targets,” Kinchawn said. “The Federation will send civilians to help Bilok and the Gatni make repairs. We’ll let them…for now. Let them put out the fires, restore communications, distribute food. Then, as soon as we have enough vulnerable targets, we attack.”

  “Someone will need to coordinate the cells in person,” said General Yaelon, an older officer who did not look like a man who was suited to sitting at meetings; his sun-bleached feathers and rough, cracked skin bore the stamp of a veteran battlefield officer. “I would like to volunteer.”

  “You’ll be directing the cells in Arbosa-Lo, General,” Kinchawn said. “However, General Minza will be masterminding the insurgency. You’ll report to him.”

  “As you command, Prime Minister.”

  “I want deployment estimates by midday,” Kinchawn said to the room. “Continue to follow the chain of command. General Minza, keep me informed of any changes in the situation.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Meeting adjourned.
Aleem no’cha.”

  “Aleem neel’ko,” the room replied with one sonorous voice.

  The generals and the ministers dispersed, and Kinchawn retired to his private sanctum. Forcing the Federation to abandon his world would be costly, but the alternative was to watch Bilok and his Gatni miscreants permanently subordinate Tezwa to that soulless political juggernaut.

  Azernal betrayed me…thought he could use me for a pawn, then toss me aside. Now he’s recruited Bilok to help mop up his mess, all to protect his sanctimonious Federation. Kinchawn pondered what kind of endgame would inflict an appropriately devastating retribution upon the Federation. It would not be enough merely to spill their blood on Tezwan soil; he needed to guarantee that neither the Federation nor the Klingons would come calling on his people ever again.

  Of course, he realized. It’s so simple. He gloated over the malicious elegance of the answer to his dilemma. I’ll get them to destroy each other.

  Chapter 63

  U.S.S. Enterprise-E

  DATA WATCHED the medical staff tend to the injured strike-team personnel. Nurses Ogawa and Weinstein aided Lieutenant Commander La Forge and Lieutenant Braddock. Dr. Crusher finished patching up Lieutenant Peart, who sat up and grabbed his jacket from the adjacent biobed. On the other side of sickbay, Dr. Tropp sealed a dark blue body bag around the corpse of Ensign Wathiongo.

  Taurik and Vale had gone on ahead to the briefing room; the other uninjured strike-team personnel had been dismissed to their quarters. As the senior-ranking strike-team leader, Data was required to assemble and debrief the remaining team leaders once their injuries had been attended.

  The door swished open. Troi rushed in. Her face conveyed what Data recognized to be distress. Perim entered behind her and went directly to Peart, who caught the slender Trill woman in a familiar embrace and kissed her passionately.

  “Data,” Troi said, her voice unsteadied by grief. “What happened? Where’s Will?”

  “I do not know, Counselor.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Is he dead? Tell me.”

  “His personal transponder went offline shortly after the Mokana base imploded. He and his team might not have reached safe distance in time.” Troi grabbed Data’s uniform jacket and twisted handfuls of its fabric in her white-knuckled fists. Her lips curled into a tight, horrible grimace as tears rolled down her cheeks. His social-courtesy subroutine guided him to say something else, something that might suggest an alternative conclusion regarding the commander’s fate. “However, that is only one possible scenario.”

  His conversational gambit did not have the desired result. Troi pressed her face against Data’s chest and sobbed.

  He wanted to comfort her, but without his emotion chip he found empathy difficult. He knew that an acceptable behavior in this circumstance was to place one’s arms around the grieving individual. Calculating the precise application of pressure to be firm without causing discomfort, he embraced her.

  He tried to remember sorrow. It was a dim memory, vague and imprecise. His positronic mind could see its mathematical values with perfect clarity but could do nothing with them.

  Awkwardly bereft of feelings, unsure of what to do or say, he stood silently, closed his eyes, and held his weeping friend.

  Chapter 64

  Qo’noS

  “I SHOULD KILL YOU MYSELF,” Martok said, his rasping growl of a voice echoing even in the modest space of his private chambers.

  Far from hanging his head in shame, Worf defiantly returned the chancellor’s fearsome, one-eyed glare with equal intensity. “I admit nothing.”

  “You don’t deny it, either.” Martok said. “Who else would have stolen our fleet’s master command codes and given them to the Enterprise?”

  “There could be many suspects.”

  “I disagree,” Martok said. “And so will the council.”

  “Then let the council bring charges.”

  He had to admire Worf’s unrepentant bravado; like any true warrior, Worf was not one to apologize for his victories.

  Martok snorted, then walked away from him, toward the liquor cabinet. “Very clever,” he said, taking a bottle of warnog and a carved onyx goblet from the shelf. “ ‘Bring charges.’ When you know damn well they have no evidence.”

  Worf said nothing. Martok poured himself a drink and put away the bottle without offering to pour one for Worf.

  “Not that they need evidence,” Martok said. He sipped his bitter drink. “Once the council starts lobbing accusations, the truth won’t matter. They’ll stain us both with the same lies.”

  “Your allies on the council could prevent such an inquiry.”

  Martok’s voice became quiet. “Allegiances falter when the storm comes. You should know that better than anyone, Worf.” Stepping from the shadows into the low, flickering firelight, Martok felt far older than his years. “Forced to choose between honoring our pact and increasing their own power…” He knew that Worf would understand the implied end of his sentence.

  “Then you must eliminate your vulnerability,” Worf said. “Accuse me yourself.”

  Martok shook his head and stepped closer to Worf. “You’d still be my kinsman. Your dishonor would still be mine.”

  “Then you must disown me. Force me to accept web’ghIm.”

  “Never!” Martok hurled his goblet, which smashed against the wall, splattering one of his old war banners with warnog. “You’re my family. I’d rather face an eternity in Gre’thor than deny you.” He grasped Worf’s shoulders. “Let the council come. If they want a battle, we’ll give it to them.”

  “I thought you wanted to kill me yourself,” Worf said, the hint of an impudent smirk tugging at his mouth.

  Martok returned the gesture with his own lopsided half-grin and a grunt of amusement. For what? Martok mused. Saving three hundred thousand Klingons from a pointless slaughter? Preventing the start of an occupation that would have consumed more time and lives than it could ever repay? Martok wondered sometimes whether he was being unduly polluted by Worf’s way of thinking.

  “Honor is our way of life, Worf,” he said. “But to blindly confuse honor with pride…that just might be the death of us.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Your role here will be harder, from now on. People are going to resent the Federation—and you—for some time. And you’ll find the council less willing to cooperate than before.”

  “I expected as much.” Worf really didn’t seem fazed by the hostility that was certain to await him, both on the streets of the First City and in the treacherous corners of the Great Hall. Martok couldn’t openly approve of Worf’s actions, but he still admired the younger warrior’s fearless conviction. A bitterly ironic thought made him chortle.

  “This is just like old times for you, isn’t it?”

  Worf looked puzzled. “How so?”

  “Once again you’ve saved the Empire from itself,” Martok said, placing his hand on the back of Worf’s neck in a fraternal clasp. “And once again, you’ll be vilified for it.”

  Chapter 65

  Earth Orbit—McKinley

  Station

  “WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME,” Azernal said, his voice echoing in the chilly close quarters of the airlock.

  Quafina, who was almost folded in half above Azernal, blinked his bulbous eyes slowly, a gesture Azernal had come to recognize as a pensive expression among the Antedeans. “All is in motion,” Quafina said, his words seeming to tumble back down his own throat as he spoke. “I have opened the channels. I need presidential approval to move the cargo off Earth.”

  He handed a special secure-encryption padd to Azernal.

  Azernal reached into his pocket for a data rod, which he plugged into the socket on the back of the padd. The red symbols that indicated the classified shipping orders were pending were replaced by different blue-and-white emblems, which verified the orders now had presidential approval.

  “I thought only the president could do that,” Quafina sa
id.

  “The less he knows, the better,” Azernal said as he handed the padd back to Quafina.

  “True,” Quafina replied, casually tucking the device back under his robe. “Better for all of us.”

  “When will the cargo get to Tezwa?”

  “Freighters are not so fast,” Quafina said. “Four weeks.”

  “Cover your tracks.”

  “Always.” Quafina opened the inner airlock door and strode away, his footfalls slapping loudly in the echoing corridor.

  If Picard’s stunning success against ridiculous odds had convinced Azernal of anything, it was that the single most explosive variable in the Tezwa equation would be the presence of Starfleet personnel. The Admiralty had just deployed several ships to the beleaguered planet, and those were soon to be followed by tens of thousands of civilian relief workers.

  He wasn’t certain how to keep Starfleet in check while he worked his political damage control on Tezwa, but he still had a few days to iron out the details. If anyone’s going to turn this into a fiasco, Azernal worried, it’ll be Picard.

  Then he imagined how Kinchawn might retaliate for being sent into exile with his military leaders. If we give him a big enough target, the crafty Zakdorn surmised, he just might provide my distractions for me….

  It was a reprehensible strategy; it would produce thousands of casualties—but ultimately it would save billions of lives.

  In Azernal’s icy calculus of life and death, that was good enough.

  Chapter 66

  Qo’noS

  NOT ONLY WAS THERE NO TRACE of Zeitsev or his Andorian guard, there was no evidence that anything had ever been there at all.

  Worf stood in the empty shell of the subbasement below the Federation Embassy. Less than twelve hours ago, this had been a high-tech underground intelligence center, with surveillance equipment capable of peering into every shadow on Qo’noS. But as he scanned it now with his tricorder, he found no traces of the technology or people he’d encountered here.