Worf looked down at the youth, with barely enough hair on his face to be properly called a beard. “I said much has changed. I have seen a great deal in my lifetime, Lorgh, things I would never have imagined possible before they actually occurred. Praxis destroyed. Peace with the Federation. And now—now, Ch’gran has been found. We live in peculiar times.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” Lorgh said with a deference that was in every way convincing, and utterly false.
“Of course you would.” Once the general would have been happy to play these games, but he was far too old to have the patience for them now. “It is, after all, your function to observe your surroundings.”
Lorgh scowled. “My job is to aid you, General. I can assure you—”
“I did not say ‘job,’ Lorgh, I said ‘function.’ Precision of language is important in my line of work—as it should be in yours.”
“Sir, my line of work is yours.”
“If you insist on referring to your cover story as a line of work, so be it. But do not insult me by pretending to be anything other than the Imperial Intelligence agent you are.”
To Lorgh’s credit, he showed no surprise, nor did his facial expression change in any way. “Sir, you cannot think that I would try to undermine your work here.”
“You are here to ensure that these negotiations do not conflict with whatever the High Council’s agenda is regarding Raknal V and the Ch’gran colony.” Throwing caution to the wind, Worf picked the warnog back up. “I do not doubt that you will also serve me as my aide.”
“How did you know, sir?” Lorgh continued to speak in the deferential tones of an aide. That was no doubt for the benefit of anybody observing them. Worf was sure that, just as I.I. had sent their own operative, Cardassia and the Federation had done the same. Typically, the Federation’s was out in the open—the dark-haired lieutenant standing over by the Federation food table with one of the Carthage crew. Cardassia’s equivalent of I.I. had probably used more covert means, as I.I. had, and assigned someone to go undercover as an aide to Legate Zarin. Worf took pleasure in his surety that Zarin had no clue which of his staff was serving that function.
Answering Lorgh’s question, Worf said, “I have spent my life observing people. The battlefield on which I wage war is that of the courtroom and the negotiation table, and language is both my weapon and that of my opponents. Language of the body speaks as loudly as that of the mouth, often more so, for fewer hear the words they speak in that tongue.”
“It is a pity I.I. never drafted you, sir.”
Worf snorted. “Your flattery is misdirected, Lorgh. I am no warrior. I.I. requires a level of martial skill that I have never achieved. The Defense Force, at least, has a place for those of my class who do not live up to the exacting standards of front-line warriors.”
“You’d be surprised what I.I. requires, sir.” Lorgh let that comment hang for a moment, then continued. “In any case, I have no intention of undermining these negotiations—unless your intent is to do other than what you have been ordered.”
Another snort. “Unlikely—and that you would even think so—”
Lorgh held up a hand. “I merely raise the possibility, sir. After all, no one would have imagined General Chang to be a traitor once. Indeed, his statue in the Hall of Warriors on Ty’Gokor had been all but built. Yet now, his name is spoken of only as a curse.”
Worf smiled at that. “I faced General Chang once, in the courtroom. It was shortly before his disgrace—in fact, it was a part of it. I had been instructed to serve as advocate for the humans Kirk and McCoy when they were accused of assassinating Chancellor Gorkon. Chang himself chose me, and I followed his orders. I knew the humans to be innocent of the charges, but I did not disobey. If I had, he would have killed me where I stood and assigned another to take my place.”
“Sir, I’m aware of all of this.” Lorgh sounded genuinely confused—perhaps the first genuine emotion he’d displayed in Worf’s presence. “Why do you tell this story now?”
“I had thought that I escaped Chang’s disgrace after the near-disaster at Khitomer. Instead, I was passed over for promotion repeatedly, given the worst assignments in the office of legalities, cases that one gave to a novice advocate. It was made clear to me that Chancellor Azetbur knew of my role in the cover-up of her father’s death, however tangential.” He forced down the last of his warnog. “As I said, I am no warrior. I could have challenged those who insulted my honor by treating me this way, but all that would do is deprive my son of his father, my mate of her husband. So I obeyed. And I continued to obey until enough time passed, Azetbur fell from power, and I became a general. Now I represent the Empire on the day of one of its most historic moments. I came to this by obeying my superiors, Lorgh.” Worf had been looking at the representation of the Betreka Nebula on the viewscreen during his entire diatribe. Now heturned and fixed Lorgh with what he hoped was a penetrating glance. “If I wished to disobey, I would have done so much sooner than this.”
Lorgh said nothing in response to that—at first. The general took advantage of the silence to grab a handful of gagh.
Finally Lorgh asked, “How did you know, sir?”
Still deferential, eh, Lorgh? Worf smiled at that. “How did I know what?”
“You said you knew that Kirk and McCoy were innocent of killing Chancellor Gorkon.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I could see into the humans’ hearts. Kirk was a warrior born, not one to hide behind assassins. If he wished the chancellor dead, he would have faced him like a Klingon. As for McCoy, he had no heart for such things. It was not within him to kill, whether face-to-face or in the shadows. No, only a fool would think them capable of such an act.” Now, he scowled. “The galaxy, however, is full of fools. That one, for instance.” He pointed at the Trill ambassador, who was now holding forth with Captain Qaolin and Commander Garrett.
“You mean the great Curzon Dax?”
To Worf’s disgust, Lorgh spoke with what sounded like genuine reverence. Then again, disguising his true feelings is part of what he does. I can only pray that it is so here, or I will be forced to think even less of him. “Great by his own lights, perhaps, but not mine. He is an opportunist who has taken advantage of warriors of lesser intellect and great ego to insinuate himself into Klingon society—all in aid of furthering his cause as a diplomat.”
“Should he not use all the tools at his disposal? Besides, he respects our ways as few outsiders do.”
“Believe that if you may,” Worf said disdainfully as Dax let out one of his belly laughs—ostentatious by Trill standards, though weak by Klingon ones. “For my part, I would rather the Federation had sent Riva.” The general grinned. “He, too, is an arrogant petaQ, but with that chorus he carts around, he at least makes a better show of it.”
“More theatrical, sir?” Lorgh also grinned. “I was not aware that you were a proponent of such things.”
“The courtroom and the negotiating table are as much theater as they are battlefield, Lorgh.”
“That is very true, sir, as I have learned in my service.”
Lorgh implied that it was his service to Worf, but the general knew he meant otherwise. But why court eavesdroppers? “Of course.” Then again, why let him pretend he is what he is not? “You may reassure your superiors, Lorgh, that I will do all that I can to make sure that Ch’gran is not soiled by Cardassian filth.”
“Ch’gran must be preserved, it’s true,” Lorgh said, “but so must the Empire. A full-scale war right now would be unwise.”
“I.I. preaches that we shirk battle?” Worf asked, feigning surprise.
“The High Council preaches that we fight this battle at the negotiating table.”
Worf’s instinct was to simply fight and be done with it—but he thought that secure in the knowledge that he would not be among those fighting. No, he thought, I will continue to obey as ever I have done. Let others dictate where the d’k ta
hg is to be thrust. I am content simply to be the blade.
The Klingon general was deep in conversation with one of his aides, so Dax instead approached Captain Qaolin, who was chatting with Commander Garrett. That’s a good sign, he thought. It’d be a better sign if all the Cardassians weren’t on the other side of the room, but a high-ranking Klingon having a pleasant conversation with a high-ranking Starfleet officer is never a bad thing.
For Dax’s part, he thought that joining the chat wasn’t a bad thing either, especially when that high-ranking officer happened to be a devilishly attractive woman. Rachel Garrett had a most pleasant face—it wasn’t what Dax would call conventionally attractive, but her soft skin combined with a pair of penetrating brown eyes to make for a face Dax wouldn’t have minded getting to know the person behind a lot better.
“Ah, you are Curzon Dax?” Qaolin said.
“Indeed I am, Captain.”
Qaolin gave a small bow. “I am honored. I served with Captain Koloth, and he spoke highly of you.”
“Koloth speaks highly of few save Koloth in my experience, Captain, so the fact that he spoke highly of another in your presence is flattery indeed.” He held up his warnog, which was among the worst replicated beverages he’d ever had. I knew I should have had some shipped in from Qo’noS. “To Koloth.” After choking down the drink, he asked, “How is the mad old razorbeast?”
Laughing, Qaolin said, “Mad and old as ever. He won’t die, though.”
After sipping her own drink—bourbon, from the smell of it—Garrett asked, “Has anyone tried to aid him in that process?” She smiled knowingly.
“Oh, many have tried to send his soul to Sto-Vo-Kor, Commander, believe me. None have lived to make a second attempt. It is perhaps less accurate to say that he won’t die—more that no one has been worthy of performing the deed.”
“Most definitely,” Dax said with a grin.
The captain regarded Dax. “I am glad that it is you who leads this negotiation, Ambassador. You understand the Klingon mind—and the Klingon heart.” He put a hand on Dax’s shoulder. “I know that you will return Ch’gran to its rightful place.”
“What I will do, my friend, is preserve the peace. But you can be assured that I will not do so at the expense of Klingon honor.”
Qaolin smiled. “I can ask no more. Qapla’, Dax.”
With that, the captain excused himself to talk to one of the other Klingons.
“I thought for sure he was gonna head-butt you,” Garrett said with a grin. Dax noted that Garrett had an unusually wide smile for her face, and the grin completely changed the structure of her visage. Among other things, it changed her eyes from intelligent to mischievious.
“It was a risk,” Dax said with mock gravity.
Garrett swallowed the rest of her bourbon, then shook her head. “Next time, I use my own sour mash.”
Dax let out a laugh at that. “It couldn’t be any worse than the warnog. I’m wondering if perhaps we’d have been better off not replicating everything.”
“Perhaps. Do you really think you can do this?”
Blinking, Dax said, “Do what?”
Garrett gestured at the Cardassian legate and then at the Klingon general. “This. What you told Qaolin you could do. The Cardassians have a legitimate claim, and the only reason the Klingons even know about it is because they were spying.”
“True, and if it were just a simple case of finding a wreck, I’d agree with you. What you must understand, my dear, is that Ch’gran is one of the sacred stories of the Emp—”
“I’m fully aware of the spiritual significance the Klingons put on this lost colony, Ambassador.” Garrett spoke snappishly, and Dax realized that he perhaps should not have put on his patronizing tone when speaking to a commander whose service record included more than one trip to Qo’noS. “Gul Monor found the functional equivalent of an old burial ground. Even so, there are such things as salvage rights.”
“There’s also such a thing as prior claim.” Dax let out a sigh that was probably unnecessarily theatrical. “It’s a bit of a legal hair that needs to be split, not aided by the fact that there are no treaties between Cardassia and the Empire—nor, for that matter, between Cardassia and the Federation. Whatever gets decided on this ship may well have an impact for generations to come.”
“And you get to shape it. How nice for you.”
Garrett spoke in the most pleasant of tones, but Dax could hardly miss the snide undercurrent. “It is my job, Commander Garrett. Both the Cardassians and the Klingons are approaching this situation with caution, but for all the wrong reasons.”
“What do you mean?”
Now Garrett sounded like she was genuinely curious. Good, Dax thought, perhaps now I can get back in her good graces. He knew, of course, that the commander was a married woman, but that didn’t make her any less pleasant company, and Dax didn’t like the idea of an attractive woman not finding his own company as pleasant as he found hers. “Because of that very legal hair, cautious heads need to prevail—we tread over ground that is fraught with a veritable minefield of procedural dangers.” In a sweeping gesture, he pointed at both the Klingons and the Cardassians, each standing near their own table of food. “But that’s not why they’re being cautious. They’re concerned about the distances involved, and whether or not they can afford to commit to a prolonged conflict.”
Garrett shook her head and started walking toward the Federation food table. “Who would have thought forty years ago that the Klingons would be holding back from a war for economic reasons?”
Dax laughed. “My dear, you cannot possibly be old enough to remember anything from forty years ago.”
“No,” Garrett said as she grabbed some vegetables and placed her empty glass on the table. “In fact, I was born the year after Khitomer.”
“Then you are fortunate, my dear,” Dax said as Garrett took a bite of some irrel. “You’ve never been alive during a time of conflict between the Federation and the Empire. As lamentable as the destruction of Praxis was, I have to say that it was the best thing ever to happen to either of our nations.” He poured himself some allira punch. “Can I interest you in a glass?”
“God no,” Garrett said emphatically, “I can’t stand that stuff. My husband tried to ply me with it on our first date, and it almost prevented the second date.”
“Lucky for him, you got over it, then.”
“Mmm.”
Dax frowned. Trouble in paradise, perhaps? Still, he knew better than to query someone about their marriage difficulties. One of only two results was possible: she would go on for hours about those difficulties, which was the last thing Dax wanted to hear, or she would clam up and lose her charm as a conversational companion.
He turned his gaze over toward one of the tables, where Vaughn and young Mr. Troi were now sitting, having as animated a conversation as someone with Elias Vaughn’s utter lack of social skills could have. “Tell me, Commander, you wouldn’t happen to know whose ridiculous idea it was to send him along, do you?”
“You mean Lieutenant Vaughn?” Garrett asked as she poured herself a skahtchansohde. “I’m honestly not sure. All I know is that our orders were to pick up the lieutenant along with you and your staff at Starbase 47 and bring you all here. Then we were to host the negotiations.”
Dax shook his head. “Probably some admiral insisted on it. Unfortunately, he’s as likely to make a mess of things as help. He’s an even bigger impediment to the process than the general and the legate.”
Garrett smiled. “He’s just here to observe, Ambassador. I doubt he’ll even be that heavily involved in the process.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” Dax said gravely. “I’ve known far too many intelligence types, and there are two universal truths about them. One is that they are constitutionally incapable of not being heavily involved in the process, even when they’re not supposed to be.”
“And the other?”
Taking a bite of a celery sti
ck, Dax said, “Their heads are so firmly lodged in their hindquarters that they have no sense of reality. It’s the sort of thing that can get us all killed if we’re not careful.”
At the sound of the doors parting, Dax turned to see the imposing figure of Vance Haden finally putting in his appearance. Large, dark-skinned, with a full head of hair that the captain kept cut close to his scalp, and wide, round eyes that appeared to see everything, Haden had earned a reputation as a hardass, but not an unreasonable one.
He headed straight for Garrett and Dax. “Number One. Ambassador. Good to see you both.” Haden had a deep, rich voice that Dax frankly envied. “How’s the reception going?”
“A little more segregated than what I was hoping, sir,” Garrett said ruefully.
“We knew this was going to be a hard row to hoe, Number One. I’m just glad they’re all in the same room and not killing each other.”
Dax smiled. “An auspicious beginning, I’d say.”
Haden didn’t return the smile. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Dax. I’m holding you personally responsible for keeping it that way. Because if anything happens to my ship, it’s your ass I intend to put in the sling. Do we understand each other?”
Although Dax was completely unintimidated by Haden’s attempt to intimidate him, the ambassador did at the very least respect Haden’s position. He couldn’t blame the captain for being apprehensive. “We do.”
“Good. I’m also keeping us on yellow alert until these negotiations are concluded, with the crew at general quarters. I don’t know much about the Cardassians, but I do know how Klingons act when they start getting their bowels in an uproar, and I don’t want any of my people caught in the cross-fire.”
Wonderful—another bit of tension to add. This business will get out of control if just the slightest thing goes wrong.
Taking another bite of celery, Dax thought, I’ll just have to make doubly sure that nothing goes wrong.
“The biggest problem, of course, are these young children they have coming up through the ranks. It’s almost as if all standards have gone completely out the airlock. They get into formation like a group of lifeless gritta, and no passion, no enthusiasm. If Cardassia’s going to be what it should be, we need young people who enjoy their work. Now you take my second, Ekron—he understands how things should be. When I was coming up through the ranks, you didn’t have to order anybody to do their jobs, they did it without asking. Now, it’s like yanking out a molar just to get someone to take a damn sensor reading.”
The Art of the Impossible Page 7
