Star Trek - TNG - 61 - Diplomatic Implausibility

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  "What was it you said, Ambassador?" Tlral said angrily. "That the rebels were keeping a low profile because you and the Gorkon had arrived?" "That was speculation on my part," Worf said calmly. "Obviously, that speculation was erroneous."

  "Obviously," Tiral said.

  Worf, Drex, and Krevor had beamed over to the governor's satellite as soon as Wu had advised them of the attack. On their arrival, Drex had commenced his new duties as Tiral's temporary aide, and Worf and Krevor accompanied the governor to survey the destroyed refinery. Tiral saw no reason for the ambassador to go, but Worf insisted.

  Worf was getting tired of having to insist every time he gave an order.

  The shuttle pilot said, "Lord Governor, I have Supervisor Grul."

  Tiral nodded. "On screen."

  The visage of an older woman appeared on a small screen to the right of the flight console. For the first time since Worf had met him, Tiral's pudgy face softened. "What happened, Grul?"

  "What in Kahless's name do you think happened, you stupid petaq? Damned rebels is what happened. Did they take your brains when they made you governor?" She looked at Worf, standing next to Tiral. "Who's that?"

  "This is Worf, the Federation ambassador. This is what the High Council finally sent in reply to my calls for help."

  Grul snorted. "About time the Federation showed some sense and got another Klingon to be ambassador. Well, let me tell you what will solve the problem, boy-crush the damned rebels."

  "One cannot crush what cannot be found," Worf said neutrally.

  "Yeah, well, wish I could help you there." "What happened, Grul?" Tiral asked again.

  "They came out of nowhere. One minute we're processing the latest batch from the southern tap, the next there's a bunch of al'Hmatti with shaved cheeks all over the place. No warning, no alarms, nothing until after they were deep inside. One of them planted a bomb. Kiln and Takus tried to disarm the thing, but they couldn't do it. And if those two couldn't, nobody could." She sighed. "Now they never will."

  Tiral growled. "They died well, at least."

  Grul waved her right arm in a dismissive gesture. "Bah. They're probably already in Sto-Vo-Kor, getting drunk."

  Worf scowled. "And there was no sign of how they penetrated your security, nor where they went after they planted the bomb?" "That's what I meant when I said, "They came out of nowhere, "boy Grul snapped.

  Letting the comment go, Worf asked, "Any prisoners?"

  "None breathing. They killed four others, too--three guards and one of my supervisors. Good people. Not how they should've died."

  "Were any al'Hmatti killed or injured?"

  Grul snorted. "Does it matter?"

  "Yes. How many?"

  "A couple were injured when the bomb went off. But the only fatalities or major injuries we've found so far were Klingons," Grul said bitterly.

  Tiral nodded. "There's a Defense Force commander named Drex at the satellite. He's helping me out for the time being. Send your report to him."

  "Fine. Can I get back to work now? "

  "Of course, Grul, thank you. I'll check back later. Tiral out."

  The screen went blank.

  "She raised me," Tiral said suddenly. "My parents were killed at Narendra I'll. She was my nursemaid. When I was appointed governor, I put her in charge of the refinery. She is the main reason why top aline production has increased since I took over here. If the rebels had killed her ..." Tiral closed his gray eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared straight at Worf. "You had best accomplish your mission with dispatch, Ambassador." He turned to the pilot. "Bring us to the capital. I wish to announce the next round of executions." "That would be foolish," Worf said.

  Whirling, Tiral said, "I suspected you would be squeamish about this kind of thing, Ambassador. After all, you were raised by humans." He spat the word out as if it were chilled blood wine "If you wish to spare your stomachs, you can return to the satellite. There's a transporter right behind you."

  "You misunderstand," Worf said coldly. "I am not human. I fully comprehend the laws regarding the treatment of jeghpu'wl', including the policy of random executions to keep them in line. My objections are not moral, but tactical."

  Tiral gave Worf a questioning look. "What?"

  "Using random executions against sedition will either deter it or encourage it--allow it to be used as a rallying cry. It should be obvious to you by now which is the case here."

  "It is policy--" Tiral started.

  "Governor, have you ever read any of the publications you instructed em'Rlakun to suppress?"

  "No. Why should I?"

  "Because when fighting a battle it is generally wise to know your enemy." He pulled a padd out of a pocket in his thermal suit, and thumbed through several displays to the one he wanted. Handing it to Tiral, he said, "The rebels have been using the executions as a propaganda tool against you and the empire."

  As Tiral read the display, his mouth twisted into a vicious snarl.

  "Damn them!"

  "It may be policy to kill random citizens in response to this bombing.

  But it will also aid your enemy's cause and weaken yours. That is a poor position to take."

  Tiral handed the padd back to Worf. "Very well," he said, nearly choking on the words. He turned to the pilot. "Return us to the satellite. There is nothing more we can do here."

  Tiral didn't even look at Worf for the rest of the journey, which suited Worf fine. He had much to ponder.

  Something is wrong, he thought. It does not make sense for the rebels to make such a high-profile move when they are finally getting what they want. The symbolism of the attack was as important in this case as the attack itself. The slowdown in top aline production mattered less than the fact that they had damaged a major refinery: a symbol of the empire's presence. After all, the Klingons would never have come here in the first place if not for the top aline

  But they know that I am here to negotiate a peace at their request, he thought. So why continue with the assaults?

  Perhaps the rebels were factionalized--the group that had advocated contacting the Federation differed from the group that had attacked the refinery. That would be unfortunate.

  However, aside from their ill-fated assault on Tiral's satellite--the fight that the Gorkon finished off--the rebels' campaigns had been fairly successful and well organized. That, in turn, bespoke an organized group.

  So why continue? What has changed?

  And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, he saw it. It was obvious, really.

  Worf almost smiled.

  As soon as the shuttle docked at the satellite, Worf disembarked and headed for command-in-control, Krevor silently on his heels. Drex was at the workstation Tiral had assigned him.

  "What do you want?" Drex asked at Worf's approach.

  "You should shortly be receiving a report from a Supervisor Grul about the refinery attack. Study it carefully. I want to know how the rebels got in and out. However they did so, they used a tactic undetectable by Tiral's people."

  Drex glowered at Worf. "And you expect me to find what the governor could not?"

  "I expect you to follow my orders, Commander."

  "Yes, sir. Anything else?"

  "No. Carry on."

  Martok, if Drex does not find his own honor soon, House-mate or not, I will have to kill him.

  Wu was waiting in the Gorkon's transporter room when Worf and Krevor materialized in a red glow several minutes later. "Report," Worf said as he stepped off the platform and moved toward the exit.

  Reading off his padd as he and Krevor followed the ambassador, Wu said, "You've received a few correspondences. Nothing major, but a couple regard matters you'll need to deal with once we get back to Qo'nos, so you may want to look them over. Also, Lieutenant Toq has found only one suitable world to match your search. It's located outside Klingon space--the only planet surrounding a blue giant. Like tad, it's mostly covered in ice over a saline sea. There was an archaeological survey
done about ten years ago--the natives called it Koosbane, apparently, before they died out about seven million years ago."

  "How far?"

  "A week at Warp 6."

  Worf nodded. That was something. "Compose a message to Minister T'Latrek. Suggest to her the possibility of the Federation relocating the arhmatti."

  "To Koosbane?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well."

  "Let me see the message before you have it sent," Worf said as they arrived at their quarters. Krevor took up her position outside while Wu and Worf entered.

  Wu made some notes on his padd, then said, "Also, I finished compiling the report on Kreel raids in this sector. There have been four attacks on Klingon ships in this area in the last six months."

  "Any commonalities?"

  "Rather a big one, actually. Every single vessel they attacked, including this one, had either visited this star system or had it on their itinerary before they were attacked."

  Worf looked up sharply at Wu.

  "Quite a coincidence, eh, sir?" Wu drawled.

  "Hardly," Worf rumbled.

  Evidently, realizing his sarcasm was ill-timed, Wu cleared his throat and continued: "The encounter with the Gorkon was the first time the Kreel had the added defensive capability of the Breen shields, but the other three were freighters and cargo vessels that couldn't put up quite the same fight that we did."

  Worf nodded. "Very well. Have you sent the report to Starfleet Intelligence on the Kreel yet?"

  "Not yet. Commander Kurak is supposed to give me comm access later today."

  "Good. Add this information to that report. Commander Drex should be sending a report on the refinery raid. I want to see it the moment it is ready."

  "Of course. Is there anything else?"

  Feeling his stomachs growl, Worf realized he hadn't eaten anything all day. With an internal smile, he thought, Mother would be aghast.

  "Fetch me some food from the galley. I will be catching up on those correspondences."

  "Very good, sir."

  Kurak headed to her quarters at the end of her shift in an even worse mood than usual. Lieutenant M'Rep had misaligned the warp coils during the last maintenance cycle and had nearly blown up the ship. She had killed M'Rep for his incompetence herself, which was responsible for worsening her mood--it would take weeks for Command to send a replacement.

  Then that imbecile human came mewling after communications access. She was in no mood to deal with one of his kind, so she sent him off with some excuse or other.

  Vail, at least, had been less irritating. He did what he was told--he had fixed M'Rep's mistake in much less time than it would have taken the late engineer to do the job right the first time--and made no suggestions for improvement. Obviously, she thought, my threats had an impact.

  Now she just wanted to sleep.

  So she was particularly unreceptive to the dead lingta lying across her threshold.

  Long ago, the men of her province on Qo'nos would leave a game animal of some kind on the threshold of a woman they wanted to court. No one had indulged in the ludicrous practice in generations.

  A padd lay on top of the deceased animal. Its screen glowed with what appeared to be verse.

  To her horror, she realized it was a love poem.

  Leskit, she thought, it has to be. It seems he won't take "keep away from me" for an answer.

  Then she read the poem.

  'arlogh nga'chuq Leskit Qongdaqdaq je' Leskit

  Kurak Leskit nitebha'

  Leskit malrachal ngech tagh nga'chuq yiq nga'chuq

  'arlogh

  Do'Ha' Leskit lo'lahbe'ghach Leskit

  Kurak couldn't help herself. She laughed.

  She laughed long and hard. It was probably the worst piece of poetry ever written in all of Klingon history.

  "Now that was what I was hoping for."

  Kurak whirled to see Leskit standing in the hallway.

  "Did you write this drivel?" she asked, trying to get her laughter under control and only partly succeeding.

  "No," Leskit said with a smile. "My son wrote it."

  "Your son? And his mother ... 7'

  "Does not speak to me if she can possibly avoid it. But my son does, as often as he can. He's two, and there's a three-year-old he wants desperately to impress. Sadly, being two, he can't even wrestle a glob fly, much less a proper animal, so he has to settle for poetry."

  Kurak held up the padd. "If this is what he's settling for, he's in deep trouble. This isn't even literate."

  "I know. I can only hope that he'll learn to spell--or learn to hunt, so he won't have to spell."

  "Speaking of hunting, I wasn't aware that there were wild lingta on the Gorkon."

  Leskit laughed. "I'm afraid you have your assistant to blame for that one. But I did order him to replicate the beast. It was the only way to get him to do it, as he expected you to react badly." He considered. "You could still say I defeated a foe in order to lay this offering at your feet."

  "This was an insane gesture, Lieutenant."

  "It's an insane universe, Commander. Besides, it did what it was supposed to do."

  "Make a horrible stench in my quarters?"

  Again, Leskit laughed. "No, keep you in your doorway while you read the poem, so the door would stay open and I could savor your laughter.

  You have a beautiful laugh, Kurak. You should employ it more often."

  "I seem to recall, Lieutenant, telling you that you would cease your attempts to befriend or seduce me."

  Leskit grinned. "You did say something like that. As predictions go, I thought it fairly poor."

  Kurak took Leskit in. He was definitely attractive. He smelted of sweat and grime. The presence of neck bones that Leskit had himself removed from Cardassian corpses sent a thrill through her. She even imagined that he had slain the lingta himself.

  She looked into his eyes. "I don't know whether to kill you now or make you dispose of the lingta first."

  "Dispose? And waste a perfectly good piece of meat? With your assistant's facility for replicating food, it would make a glorious meal."

  "It would if lingta didn't make me ill," Kurak said.

  "Ah." Leskit unholstered his hand disrupter, aimed, and fired. The lingta disintegrated in a red glow. "Problem solved, then. I believe this is the part where you kill me."

  Kurak walked inside her quarters. "Perhaps later." She turned around.

  Leskit still stood in the doorway. "Don't just stand there, Lieutenant, come in. A man who disposes of a lingta on the threshold deserves at least a drink."

  Leskit grinned, bolstered his disrupter, and entered. The door behind him ground shut.

  What are you doing, Kurak? she asked herself. You swore you wouldn't get involved with anyone. Serve until your nephews get old enough then get as far away from the Defense Force as possible. Form no attachments, make no impression, simply serve and get out.

  But then she thought about how long it had been since she had laughed.

  She asked the replicator for a pitcher of chech'tluth and two mugs.

  Klag killed the last Jem'Hadar soldier with his mek'leth and screamed to the heavens.

  Or, in this case, to the ceiling of the Gorkon's holodeck.

  Defense Force vessels had only recently been equipped with holodecks.

  But where Starfleet used them for a multitude of recreational and professional purposes, and the Ferengi used them for that race's two favorite pastimes, profit and sex, the Defense Force employed them solely for military training.

  Of course, technically, Klag wasn't reliving the Battle of Marcan V as a military exercise. He was reliving it because he enjoyed it, and because he was in a bad mood and needed cheering up.

  He was the captain. He could do that.

  Right now, he really needed to kill something.

  And what better way than by reliving his greatest battle?

  "Computer," he said, "restart program."

  He stood once
again on the arid plains of Marcan V, near the wreckage of the Pagh. He did not need a scanner to know precisely where he would find the crashed Jem'Hadar ship.

  Klag was not happy. He was a hero of the empire. He had been fortunate enough to receive a top-of-the-line ship for his first command--a rarity for a newly promoted captain--due in part to his heroism, in part to the shortage of captains, postwar. Soon, he would be inducted into the Order of the Bat'leth.

  But he was making a targ's ear of his first mission.

  A Jem'Hadar materialized six feet to Klag's left, charging toward him.

  With a slash of his mek'leth, Klag cut the creature's supply of the addictive ketracel-white drug and slit its throat.

  It had all seemed so reasonable. After all, jeghpu'wl' were attacking on tad. Governor Tiral had no support. It was an intolerable situation, but the governor seemed

  powerless to do anything about it. Klag had thought he could.

  Two Jem'Hadar charged at him. Klag took one down, but the other knocked him to the ground, driving the mek'leth from Klag's hand.

  However, Klag was starting to wonder how much of tad's difficulties were truly due to High Council recalcitrance, and how much was the fat governor's own damn fault. The captain began to believe that Worf's accusation of gubernatorial incompetence was completely accurate.

  Klag unholstered his hand disrupter and fired on the Jem'Hadar. It disintegrated in a red glow.

  Then there was Worf. For Klag to have his command undermined by that--that What is he, really? Klag asked himself. He claims that he got his position legitimately, not as a member of the chancellor's House. Riker claimed the same. But Riker is human, and Worf was raised by humans. Can they truly be trusted?

  He picked up his mek'leth and killed the remaining Jem'Hadar, then killed their Vorta.

  It left him unsatisfied. He'd done this too many times. He knew what to expect.

  It was too easy.

  "Computer, end program."

  The holodeck returned to its normal grid. It occurred to Klag that he hadn't programmed the right smells. The thing he remembered most about his fight against the Jem'Hadar was the oddly appealing smell of their blood mixed with the white. The holodeck hadn't re-created that to Klag's satisfaction.