The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

“All things being equal, I’d agree with you, Monor,” Kell said. “But we don’t have much choice. The Council won’t authorize more funds for a conflict, and we can’t commit the resources.”

  “Especially if it’s both the Federation and the Empire we have to deal with.” Zarin took another sip of his kanar.

  “Bah,” Monor said. “The Federation is soft.”

  “So is a gree worm, but if you poke it with a stick, it’ll squirt acid on your face.” Zarin leaned forward on the couch. “The Federation hasn’t lost a single war since its founding. I somehow doubt that we’re in a position to be the first to defeat them.”

  “A cowardly attitude,” Kell said with disdain.

  “No, a realistic one.” Zarin didn’t like what he was saying any more than Kell did, but he also knew that he was right. He just hoped Kell wasn’t stupid enough to let pride get in the way of common sense.

  Kell let out a long sigh, and refilled his glass with more kanar from the large carafe in the center of the table. “Sadly, you’re right. For the moment at least, we’ll have to play along with this idiotic charade.”

  “What about the Obsidian Order?” Zarin asked. He hadn’t been able to trace the Order agent in his delegation, but he just knew there was one there.

  Shrugging, Kell asked, “What about them? They’ll probably send someone—or several someones—to the planet to spy on the Klingons. Let them. It’s probably better for all of us if we don’t know the specifics of what they’re doing. If they gather useful intelligence, it’ll be shared with us if we need it. If they get caught, we’ll be able to deny everything.”

  “Not to mention the entertainment value,” Zarin said with a smile. “If they do get caught, I mean. I’ve heard stories about what Klingons do to spies. There are several people in the Order I’d like to see get that treatment.”

  All three of them laughed at that. Zarin had no love for the Obsidian Order, and it came as no surprise to the legate that Kell and Monor felt the same. One of these days, he thought, we need to do away with those shadowy imbeciles once and for all. Cardassia is ill-served by their backstabbing ways. Perhaps when this office is mine, I’ll be able to implement that plan.

  Kell stood up. “Monor, I hereby appoint you the prefect of the northern continent of Raknal V. The Sontok is to be your flagship. Whatever you need, requisition it from Zarin.”

  Monor nodded. “If that’s what we have to do, then dammit all, that’s what we’ll do. That’s the problem with these young officers, they don’t know when to shut up and follow orders. In fact—”

  “The important thing,” Kell said, cutting off yet another of Monor’s rants, for which Zarin was grateful, “is to make sure that we are victorious.”

  “That won’t be as easy as it looks,” Zarin said. “Most of the zenite we need is on the southern continent.”

  “Yes.” Kell smiled. “I have to give credit to that Trill ambassador—he put us in charge of what the Klingons want and the Klingons in charge of what we want. But we are Cardassians—Raknal V is ours, and we will not give it up. I am hereby instructing you both to do whatever it takes to ensure that we secure our claim to it. Am I understood?”

  Zarin smiled. “Perfectly.”

  Chapter 13

  Qo’nos

  It had been a long time since General Worf had set foot in the Council Chambers. The huge green edifice that stood at the center of the First City on Qo’noS towered above all the other buildings, looking down on the rest of the city—and, symbolically, the rest of the Empire. Originally constructed on top of the First City’s highest point as a stronghold of some emperor or other in the dark times before Kahless, when Klingon warred against Klingon in fierce, bloody conflicts, it had been refurbished and rebuilt many times. The most recent of those was after the explosion of Praxis, the fallout from which had come close to destroying it.

  Worf admired the design of the main chamber, in which the High Council met. A wide, high-ceilinged space with directed lighting casting harsh shadows, the room’s focal points were the raised metal chair and the trefoil Klingon emblem behind it. As Worf entered the darkened room, that chair was occupied by Chancellor Ditagh.

  Of course, “occupied” may have been too meager a verb. Ditagh’s broad-shouldered form had to practically squeeze itself into the metal throne that had served as the Empire’s seat of power for over three decades.

  The rest of the High Council stood in a semicircle on either side of Ditagh, with Worf standing in front of them in the room’s center, a spotlight shining on his face. That, along with the backlighting behind Ditagh’s chair, made the forms of the Council indistinct and shadowy.

  “What are your thoughts, General Worf?” Ditagh asked.

  Worf considered his words carefully. “My thoughts are not relevant to these proceedings. I have presented my report. I now await further orders.”

  One of the councillors—a fierce-looking, angular-faced man named Kravokh—said, “Ch’gran must be ours, no matter what. It is our most sacred relic!”

  “It’s hardly that,” said another councillor whose face Worf could not make out in the dark room and whose voice he did not recognize. “It certainly is not worth going to war over.”

  Ditagh turned angrily on the councillor. “Not worth going to war over?” He seemed shocked at the near sacrilege of the statement, and Worf had to admit to a bit of surprise at such words coming from the mouth of a warrior.

  “I have no great love for the Cardassians, Chancellor, nor do I have any cowardice in my heart. But I also will not take food from the mouths of my children in order to fight a distant war against spoon-headed inferiors in order to retrieve a thousand-year-old ship hulk.”

  Another councillor stepped forward. After a moment, Worf recognized him as K’Tal, one of the younger councillors. “The Great Curzon understands the Klingon heart. He has given us a way to battle the Cardassians without engaging in a war that will cost us so much, and still retain our honor.”

  “We cannot afford to lose Ch’gran,” Kravokh repeated.

  “I’m with Kravokh. We must take Ch’gran.”

  “And how will we fight the Cardassians? Shall we divert from the Romulan border?”

  “The Romulans have not been a concern since Tomed.”

  “They’re just waiting for us to turn our backs on them. And if we divert our forces from elsewhere, we become vulnerable to the Tholians, the Kinshaya…”

  “Are we to tell our children that we abandoned our heritage so easily?”

  “Are we to bury our children for useless relics?”

  “Ch’gran is not useless!”

  Worf closed his eyes. This was getting out of hand. The last time he had been in Council Chambers was during the reign of Azetbur. Worf had no great love for the daughter of Gorkon, but at least she ran an orderly chamber. After her death, a man named Kaarg had risen to power—with Ditagh as one of his supporters. Indeed, there were rumors that Ditagh had killed Azetbur on Kaarg’s behalf. Kaarg had wasted little time in doing what he could to dismantle what Azetbur had built, starting by formally banning any women from serving on the High Council. No such law had existed, but no woman had ever risen to power as Azetbur had, either. Although Worf’s active involvement in political doings on Qo’noS was minimal at the time, he knew enough to see that Kaarg’s attempts to return to the glory days prior to Praxis were premature, as the Empire was still far too reliant on the Federation for support. Instead of moving forward, the Empire had been in a sort of holding pattern—with some, like the House of Duras, turning to the Romulans for support.

  Now the Council had fallen into squabbling and arguing within minutes of the commencement of discussion of a critical political decision, and Ditagh showed no sign of even an interest in calming it down. Have we fallen so far? Worf wondered, and was distressed to see that the answer was yes.

  “Chancellor!” Worf shouted, trying to make Ditagh hear him over the din. When that failed, he shouted again, eve
n louder.

  “Enough!” Ditagh finally cried in a booming voice, which silenced the chamber. “You wish to speak, General?”

  “I do.” Now Worf was in his element. He had remained silent out of respect for the Council and the tenuousness of his own position in the Empire. But this Council was worthy of no one’s respect, and that made his own position his to determine. Whatever he had done wrong in his life, he was always skilled in the verbal combat of the courtroom, and now he found himself again entering that oratorical arena.

  “You asked me my thoughts earlier, and now I believe them to be more relevant than I imagined.” He started to pace across the dark room. “For many turns, the Federation has aided us. Despite a history of mistrust and warfare, despite over a century and a half of conflict, they came to our assistance when we were in need, and have asked nothing in return. They have shown us only honor and respect.

  “And what have we given them? We have gone back on our word. We swore to send only one ship to the Betreka Nebula, yet we sent an entire fleet. And when they learned of our deception, did they challenge us, as was their right? No. They offered us more aid—a solution that would permit us to at last bring Ch’gran home in a way that allows us our honor.”

  He looked upon each member of the Council, even the ones he could not see clearly, in succession as he continued. “There should be no debate, and that there is one shows everyone in this room—including myself—to be a coward. We have been given only one choice, and we must take it, or risk losing even more of our honor than we already have by betraying our allies.”

  Now he fixed his gaze upon Ditagh. “If Ch’gran is to be returned to us, then we must earn it. Ambassador Dax—” Worf refused to refer to him as “the Great Curzon,” even if the chancellor did “—has given us a battlefield on which we can win, if we are worthy. If we are, then Ch’gran will be restored to us. If we are not, then we do not deserve it.”

  A silence fell over the Council Chambers. All eyes turned either to Worf or to Ditagh—for the general’s part, he locked gazes with the chancellor. The large Klingon was the first to break the gaze, which disappointed Worf. Ditagh was simply a shadow of Kaarg, himself a shadow of the days of yore before Praxis. The Empire needed new blood, not this clinging to the old ways.

  “The general is correct,” Kravokh said. “We must have Ch’gran back, and we will. For we are Klingons! Let us take the southern continent of this Raknal V!”

  Several voices cried their assent in the dark. Worf did not bother to look to see who they were; instead he kept his gaze upon Ditagh.

  “Very well,” Ditagh finally said. “We will agree to the terms of the Great Curzon’s proposal.”

  “Chancellor,” Worf said, “I request the honor of appointment as planetary governor of Raknal V.”

  “No.”

  In truth, Worf was not entirely disappointed. He had no interest in such duties, but being in a position to be the one who restored Ch’gran to the Empire was an opportunity he could not pass up.

  “Imperial Intelligence has specifically requested that Captain Qaolin be given the position and the responsibility. He was the one who led the mission that learned of Ch’gran’s discovery, so the honor should be his.”

  “Of course,” Worf said, understanding, though he could not imagine that a ship captain would find such administrative duties to be fulfilling. But then, perhaps Qaolin was ambitious.

  My ambitions are solely to restore myself to a semblance of normalcy. To make our House strong again for Mogh and Kaasin and their children.

  “You may return to the Betreka Sector aboard the Wo’bortas, General,” Ditagh said, “and we shall commence the process of returning Ch’gran to its rightful place. Qapla’!”

  “Qapla’!”

  Worf turned and departed the Council Chambers.

  Chapter 14

  Romulus

  Praetor Dralath had never liked the look of his chief aide, Timol. Of course, as the leader of the Romulan Senate, it was well within his purview to have the woman killed, but she had proven quite useful to him over the years. She was very young, and very attractive, but not aggressively so. Her features were arranged in a particularly aesthetic manner, her form lithe and athletic, but no one would ever list her as one of the Empire’s great beauties—a distinction that would not go to a politician in any event. Still, her innate good looks made it easy to be distracted by her. She knew this, of course; in fact, she cultivated it. It was one of the primary reasons why she had been so useful—men told her things they would never tell someone less attractive, and she was sufficiently charming and self-effacing about her looks that women trusted her.

  The very qualities that made her invaluable made her dangerous. Dralath both admired and feared that.

  Now Timol came to him for their morning meeting to go over the dispatches and see to the day’s itinerary. Running the Romulan Star Empire was a difficult task, and one that required more meetings than Dralath was entirely comfortable with. Power was all well and good, but he had to spend so much time dealing with people.

  All things considered, he preferred to avoid it as much as possible—hence the meeting with Timol. She was his buffer to the outside world. The Empire already was closed off from the rest of the galaxy—ever since Tomed, Romulus kept its distance from the politics of the quadrant. Dralath had no patience for it—they had enough to deal with at home.

  Timol began with reports from the mines on Remus, which was the usual collection of efficiency reports leavened with the occasional bit of Reman rebellions easily put down by the overseers. The Remans will never be anything but our slaves, Dralath thought with a smile.

  The domestic reports were the usual drivel—acts of sedition put down here, an economic plan involving changes in the tax laws proposed by the Senate there, and other such minutiae that Dralath did not feel the need to concern himself with.

  Next were the intelligence reports. “I believe this will be of some interest to you, My Lord Praetor,” Timol said in the lilting tones of voice that, Dralath knew, she had perfected over the years. “The Cardassians have discovered an old Klingon wreck on Raknal V near the Betreka Nebula. The Klingons tried to stake a claim on the world as well, and the Federation has brokered an agreement between them.”

  Dralath frowned. “An agreement? The Klingons have allowed an agreement to be brokered?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Are these the foes we once feared, the allies we once coveted?”

  “The Cardassian Union and the Klingon Empire do not share any borders, My Lord Praetor, and the Klingons are still weakened. A war now would not be prudent.”

  “Prudence has never been a watchword of the Klingon Empire, Timol.”

  “Times have changed, My Lord Praetor.” She then explained the terms of the agreement, and how the planet would be occupied by both nations until one proved worthy of taking it.

  Nodding, Dralath said, “I see, they’ve made it a competition. That is a language the Klingons do speak.” He rubbed his chin. “Have our agents within the Klingon Empire monitor the situation on Raknal V, but do not inform the Senate. If the Klingons are truly so weakened, we may wish to end our self-imposed exile sooner than planned.”

  “Sir, we do not have any agents as such, only—”

  “I know exactly what we have, Timol. Speak with the appropriate noble houses, they will do the rest.”

  Timol hesitated. “I know at least one such appropriate house that will feel no great urge to aid you, My Lord Praetor.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The new taxes will have a profound impact on Alidor Ralak and his concerns on Romii.”

  Dralath again rubbed his chin. Ralak was the head of a house that had close ties to several prominent Klingon families.

  “Assure him that he has nothing to be concerned about regarding the new taxes—which I will be vetoing tomorrow.”

  “My Lord Praetor, that may not be wise. The eco
nomic impact on the worker class—”

  Pounding the table, Dralath said, “I have no interest in the worker class, Timol! Ralak is not someone I will have as an enemy. It will be done.”

  “Of course, My Lord Praetor.”

  Timol then went on to the rest of the agenda, but Dralath barely paid it any mind. We will be watching you, he thought at the High Council on Qo’noS. You will sit in your chambers and rebuild your pathetic empire and beg the Federation for help and forget all about us. But we will be here, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  Part 2

  A Heavy Iron

  Chain Descends

  2333—2334

  Chapter 15

  Raknal V

  “My fellow Cardassians, I’m sure most of you have heard about the aircar collision on the outskirts of Raknal City.”

  Noting that Gul Monor—or, rather, Prefect Monor—used the word “collision” rather than “accident” to describe what happened, Ekron stood to the side of Monor’s desk while the communications system sent the prefect’s image out to all the monitors on the northern continent. This bulletin was interrupting the usual governmental messages, and would be repeated several times until an update was warranted. Normally, such bulletins would be part of the regular news reporting, but the prefect wanted the people to hear about this from his own lips. “Let them know I’m on top of things,” he had said. Ekron had agreed with the sentiment in principle, but in reality he feared that Monor’s tendency to digress would dilute the message somewhat.

  “I’m saddened to say that four loyal Cardassian citizens lost their lives in the crash. I have personally sent the proper authorities to look into this incident, and I can assure you all that they will not rest until the truth about this crash comes to light. And to forestall the questions that I’m sure all of you, as equally loyal Cardassians, might have, let me say this: we have not ruled out Klingon involvement.”