The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  From Tain’s perspective, this entire incident was proving to be incredibly valuable. In the short term, he had obtained useful information about Legate Kell and First Speaker Alnak. In the long term, this negotiation would allow his people to observe both the Klingons and the Federation more closely. The expansion program that had brought them Bajor and attempted to bring them Legara IV was also bringing their borders much closer to the sphere of influence of both powers.

  The Klingons were an empire that had been bringing worlds under their heel for centuries. They had a reputation for fierceness and cruelty that Tain was sure was well earned. As for the Federation, though they claimed to be beneficent and egalitarian, they were as imperialistic a state as Tain had ever seen, expanding to an astonishing number of worlds. Tain would have thought that their democratic system would collapse under its own weight, especially at the size the Federation had achieved, but it seemed to function efficiently.

  If Cardassia is to take its place as the leader of the galaxy, we must know as much as we can about these nations that will oppose our destiny.

  The meeting adjourned soon thereafter. Tain could see that Kell was furious. He could also see that the legate was trying desperately to read Tain’s own expression and was frustrated at his inability to do so. Get used to disappointment, Tain thought.

  He rose from his chair. “Thank you, Madam Speaker,” Tain said with a small bow. Turning to Kell, he added, “And best of luck to you, Legate.”

  His polite response only seemed to anger Kell more. Tain simply smiled the blandest smile he had in his repertory and moved to the exit, all the while trying to decide which agent he would send to infiltrate the negotiating team.

  Chapter 9

  U.S.S. Carthage

  When Lieutenant Ian Troi had been given permission by Commander Rachel Garrett to attend the reception, he had forgotten how damned uncomfortable Starfleet dress uniforms were.

  Maybe participating in a Betazoid wedding has changed my opinions on clothes just a bit, he thought with a smile as he shifted the collar on the red dress uniform in the vain hope of keeping it from rubbing against his Adam’s apple.

  Resigning himself to spending the evening scratching his neck, he left his quarters and headed to the U.S.S. Carthage’s recreation lounge. The room had been converted into a reception hall for this, the first night of what hoped to be a fruitful negotiation between the Klingons and the Cardassians over the disposition of Raknal V. In the three weeks since the Betreka Nebula Incident, the three sides had agreed to hold negotiations aboard the Miranda-class Carthage, with the Sontok and the Wo’bortas bringing the representatives of the Cardassian and Klingon governments, respectively. Troi had noted during his previous bridge shift that both ships had taken considerable battle damage, and that their repairs were adequate, but not one hundred percent—in a firefight, neither ship would be able to make much of a show of things, whereas the Carthage was in tip-top shape. Troi wasn’t sure if that boded good or ill.

  On his way down the corridor of deck twelve, Troi turned a corner and almost bumped into a man also wearing a Starfleet dress uniform. However, Troi didn’t recognize the taller man, which meant he couldn’t have been part of the crew. Troi prided himself on knowing every one of the Carthage’s complement of two hundred at least by face, and this slightly lined, clean-shaven visage framed by dark brown hair amply flecked with gray didn’t belong to any of them. One of the passengers we took on at the starbase, then, he thought.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” he said, taking note of the older man’s collar, indicating he was a full lieutenant and therefore one grade rank higher than Troi.

  “Quite all right,” the man said in an all-business tone, then offered his hand. “Elias Vaughn.”

  “Ian Troi, science officer,” he added, though Vaughn had not indicated his own position. “I take it you’re going to the reception, also?”

  “Yes.”

  Troi smiled even as he scratched his neck. Lieutenant Vaughn had packed quite a lot of disdain into that one syllable. Not the party type, apparently.

  They entered the lounge together, and Troi found his ears assaulted by a cacophony of sound. I’m willing to bet most of it is from the Klingons, Troi thought with a wry smile. He’d never actually met any Klingons (or Cardassians, for that matter) until today, but he knew their shared reputation for boisterousness.

  The lounge didn’t have any external windows, but someone had thought to activate the large viewscreen that took up most of one bulkhead—it showed the Betreka Nebula, the swirling gases and particulate matter making for a lovely backdrop. Ever the scientist, Troi was hoping they’d get the chance to explore the nebula in more depth on this mission. Garrett had already given him a we’ll-see on the subject.

  Speaking of the Carthage first officer, she walked over to greet Troi. The commander held a glass filled with an amber liquid. Knowing Garrett, Troi thought, it’s bourbon. “Lieutenants, pleased to see you both,” she said. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

  “We, ah, don’t,” Troi said. “We just bumped into each other in the hall.”

  “Well, help yourselves to refreshments,” Garrett said, indicating the entire room. “And please, mingle. The object of this reception is to help everyone relax.”

  Troi looked around the lounge, and didn’t see much by way of relaxed people. Numerically, the room’s occupants were more or less evenly split among the Klingon delegation, the Cardassian delegation, and Federation representatives. Though several Carthage crew members were distributed around various parts of the room—no doubt following Garrett’s urgings to mingle—everyone else was keeping to themselves. Troi also noted that Captain Haden hadn’t put in an appearance yet. But then, he had left most of the details of this to Garrett. Vance Haden had never had much patience with this sort of thing.

  Three tables had been laid out with food and drink. The near table with the odd-smelling, ostentatious—and in some cases, wriggling—food and the smoking beverages had to have been the Klingon food. The far table with various peculiar-looking egg and fish dishes was probably Cardassian. In the center of the lounge was a table covered in raw vegetables from several different Federation worlds, slivers of sandwich meats from Earth, fruits from Trill, gristhera from Andor, and a bowl of allira punch from Betazed. Troi especially appreciated the latter, as he’d gotten all but addicted to the stuff during his six-month tour on that planet.

  Of course, I had plenty of it the last few weeks, he thought with a happy smile. He had returned to the Carthage from his honeymoon less than a week ago, and he missed Lwaxana terribly.

  Garrett added, “I wish more people were intermingling.”

  “The food could perhaps have been arranged differently, Commander,” Vaughn said.

  “Really?” Garrett said with the pleasant, small smile that the entire complement of the Carthage had learned to fear. “I wasn’t aware that catering was a skill cultivated by Starfleet special operations.”

  So that’s who he is, Troi thought.

  Vaughn shrugged. “No, but observation is. Not that any of these people are inclined to talk to each other socially in any case, but by keeping the different foods so far apart, you guarantee that each nation will stay near the food and drink they’re most comfortable with.”

  “Yes,” Troi said, “but if we put the Klingon drinks near any of the Cardassian food, it’d probably cause a chemical explosion.”

  Garrett let out a small exhalation that might have been a laugh. “Mr. Troi raises a good point. Excuse me.” She went off to speak with one of the Federation delegates.

  “Have you ever had allira punch, Lieutenant?” Troi asked after an uncomfortable pause.

  “No.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Come with me.” He led the older man to the Federation table and scooped some of the punch into a glass for Vaughn.

  “I take it you enjoyed your honeymoon?” Vaughn asked.

  Troi almost droppe
d the glass. “Uh, yes. How’d you—?”

  Vaughn came very close to smiling. “I could try to impress you by telling you that I saw the wedding ring, and I know that Vance Haden would only allow that kind of bending of the uniform code if you were recently married, and also observe that you have the glow common to a newlywed—but the fact is I read your service record on my way here.”

  Suddenly, Troi grew nervous, even as he handed Vaughn his punch. Why is a special ops goon checking my service record?

  This time Vaughn really did smile. “Relax, Lieutenant—I read everyone’s service record.” In fact, Troi was relaxed—but, he noted, Vaughn was finally starting to do so. “The note about your recent marriage just happened to stick in my head, is all. I met your wife once a few years ago. She’s quite a woman.”

  Troi’s face split into a huge grin as he said, “Yes, she is. I’m a lucky man.”

  Vaughn held up the glass. “To the happy couple.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Troi then suited action to words. The punch wasn’t as good as what they’d had at the reception on Betazed, but that was fresh, not replicated.

  “Not bad,” Vaughn said. “A bit acidic for my taste, but quite pleasant. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Not just for that—for defusing that little contretemps between me and the commander.” He took another sip. “I suspect that my presence here is a bit of an annoyance.”

  He wasn’t kidding about being observant, Troi thought as he grabbed a carrot and a stalk of celery. “So why are you here anyhow?”

  “To be a bit of an annoyance,” Vaughn said dryly. “We may be allied with the Klingons, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to do something so silly as trust them. There’s too much bad blood there, going all the way back to Broken Bow.”

  Troi smiled at that. The first aliens to land on Earth and make contact with humans were the Vulcans in the twenty-first century, who did so after Zefram Cochrane’s famed Phoenix warp-speed flight. The second was a Klingon, who crash-landed ninety years later in an American cornfield and blew up a silo. Both, in their own way, set the tone for future relations—the former as a valued ally in forming the Federation, the latter as an implacable enemy until very recently.

  “And considering that the last time we made peaceful overtures to the Cardassians they used it to sabotage our relationship with Legara IV, Starfleet Command is concerned about them as well.”

  A new voice said, “And heaven forfend we disregard the concerns of Starfleet Command.”

  Troi turned to see a white-haired Trill dressed in a brightly colored tunic and pants that made Lwaxana’s outfits look almost subdued. “You must be Ambassador Dax,” Troi said, offering his hand. “Ian Troi.”

  Dax tilted his head quizzically. “Troi? You mean you’re the one who succeeded in roping down the infamous Lwaxana?” He returned the handshake with his right hand, after moving a large Klingon mug to his left.

  Troi wondered what it was Dax was choking down, and how, exactly, he did it. Just from here, the smell was enough to put Troi off his allira. “I wouldn’t call it ‘roping down,’ sir, more like going along for the ride.”

  “Aptly put,” Dax said with a hearty laugh. “You have my respect, Mr. Troi. From all I’ve heard, Lwaxana is quite a woman. I’m sorry I missed the ceremony.”

  “We tried to keep the guest list down to a manageable few thousand,” Troi said wryly. “Plus, of course, my side of the family.”

  Another laugh. “Such a wonderfully open-minded people, the Betazoids. Literally, if it comes to that. Was it a proper ceremony?”

  Troi nodded. “Of course. Betazoids don’t have a nudity taboo—what would be the point, really? Their concept of privacy is a lot more fluid than ours in any case, being telepaths and all. I was worried that I’d be self-conscious during the wedding, but I barely even noticed—either that I was naked or that everyone around me was as well. There was a—purity to it, I suppose you could say. It was very refreshing.”

  Vaughn finally spoke. “A rather philosophical attitude for a science officer.”

  “I find that science works better with philosophy behind it, Lieutenant,” Troi said with a smile.

  “Indeed it does,” Dax said. “You might be able to learn something from this one, Vaughn.”

  Pointedly ignoring the comment, Vaughn turned to Troi and said, “Actually, Lieutenant, one of the reasons why I remembered your service record in particular was because you were the second human I came across serving on this ship who was married to a Betazoid.”

  Troi sighed loudly. Here we go again. “Yes, it’s true, I’ve done it all just to suck up to Commander Garrett.” He said the words with a grin on his face. It led to another of Dax’s hearty laughs, and something resembling a smile from Vaughn. “Seriously, it’s a complete coincidence that both the commander and I married Betazoids. That hasn’t stopped half the crew from giving me a hard time about it, of course. But actually I met Lwaxana while I was stationed on Betazed. I was part of the team that upgraded their orbital defense system. We met, we fell in love, I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her—”

  “And so you proposed?” Dax said with a grin.

  “No.”

  That prompted another laugh from Dax. “What stopped you, man?”

  Not actually looking at Dax, Vaughn said, “Not all of us act on every impulse that pops into our heads, Ambassador.”

  Troi noted the frown that Dax gave Vaughn at that comment. Before Dax could reply to it, Troi said, “The problem was that I had no interest in abandoning Starfleet, and she couldn’t really leave Betazed. But when the project was over, there wasn’t a Starfleet position available for me on-planet. I was transferred here to the Carthage, and I waited six months to see if the feelings were just as strong if I was dozens of light-years away.” He smiled. “They weren’t. They were stronger.”

  “So then you proposed?” Dax asked.

  “Didn’t have the chance to.” Troi shook his head ruefully. “That’s the problem with telepaths, they never give you a chance. I had it all planned out. I had arrived on a shuttle that landed on Betazed in midafternoon. We were going to go straight to our favorite restaurant on the coast, and I was going to do the whole bit—getting down on one knee, giving her the ring. So what happens? The moment I stepped off the shuttle, she said, ‘Of course I’ll marry you, my darling boy,’ and she kissed me right there in the spaceport.”

  Vaughn raised an eyebrow in an almost Vulcanlike manner. “What was it you said before about different senses of privacy?”

  Troi chuckled. “We may as well have been alone for all that I noticed. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

  “We should all be so happy,” Dax said, raising his mug in salute, then drinking the remainder of its contents. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to refill my warnog and try to put the Klingon negotiator at ease.” He shook his head, and spoke in more serious tones. “They both sent military people—a general and a legate. That’s going to keep things complicated.”

  “That’s what Starfleet Command is worried about,” Vaughn said, “and why I’m here.”

  “Yes, of course, Lieutenant,” Dax said, his smile returning. “Far better to go into a tense situation and add a person whose very presence will make it all the more tense. As usual, Starfleet shows a command of logic that would make a Vulcan gibber. Peace will not come about from two people rattling sabers at each other.” Grabbing a gristhera, Dax turned to head across the lounge. “A pleasure meeting you, Lieutenant Troi.” With a nod, he added, “Vaughn.” And then he headed toward the Klingon delegation, in particular a white-haired general with a most sour expression on his face.

  Vaughn shook his head. “I don’t see any way for this to end well. Klingons aren’t known for their negotiation skills, and Cardassians aren’t known for much of anything except self-interest.”

  “Still, they must want to settle this peacefully if they
asked for our help.” Troi popped a cherry tomato into his mouth after he was done speaking.

  “Please,” Vaughn said disdainfully. “Dax can carry on all he wants about saber-rattling, but they’re only rattling them because their sabers have been weakened. Neither side can afford the kind of prolonged conflict that would normally result from what happened here last month. Instead, they’re biding their time, going through with this charade until they can find an advantage. If Dax thinks he’s actually going to accomplish anything here, he’s fooling himself.” Then he let out a breath. “Sorry, old habits. I’ve never been too keen on diplomats. They tend to have their heads firmly lodged in their hindquarters, and have absolutely no sense of the reality of their surroundings.”

  Troi smiled as he gulped down the rest of his allira. “Somehow, Lieutenant, I don’t think anyone will ever accuse you of having no sense of the reality of your surroundings.”

  At that, Vaughn actually laughed. In fact, it was only a small chuckle, but given how taciturn the lieutenant had been up until now, it was the functional equivalent of one of Dax’s belly laughs. “I certainly hope not. And please, call me Elias.”

  “If you insist, but only if you call me Ian.”

  “Very well, Ian—would you mind pouring me some more of that punch?”

  Somehow, General Worf managed to choke down the liquid that Commander Garrett had insisted was warnog. It took all of his self-control to keep from spitting it out and dumping the remainder in his mug on the hideous carpet of this Federation ship’s lounge.

  Then again, he thought, it was not that long ago that I would have done so regardless of the quality of the warnog. Klingons did not drink with the enemy, and until recently, the Carthage would have been nothing but an enemy vessel.

  “Much has changed,” Worf muttered to himself as he set the mug down on a nearby table.

  “What was that, sir?” his civilian aide, a young man named Lorgh, asked.