The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Ekron sighed, expecting this. In fact, there wasn’t any hint of Klingon involvement, and the investigation team’s preliminary report indicated that it was, in fact, an accident. But Raknal V had been plagued with accidents for each of the five years that the Klingons and Cardassians had been sharing the world, and the plague had grown more virulent with time. Where both governments supported the Raknal project in the beginning, as time went on, supply ships came fewer and farther between, and the supplies they carried were less and less state-of-the-art.

  Try telling Monor that, Ekron thought with a sigh. At least he wasn’t calling the Klingons “Foreheads” on public broadcasts. That would stir things up even more. And he had finally—after five years of steadfast refusal—given Ekron permission to investigate the possibility of transplanting hevrit to this world. It might not be enough to save the species, but Ekron felt it was his duty to try. The hevrit were as much a part of Cardassia Prime as Cardassians themselves were. If the people of the home planet deserved to have their lot in life improved by colonization, so too did its animal life.

  “We will determine who is responsible for this heinous act against our people, and the responsible parties will be brought to justice. I give you my personal assurance as prefect of Raknal V that all of those responsible will be punished.”

  I wish he’d let me read his speeches before he gives them, Ekron thought, not for the first time. Too much repetition makes him look like an idiot. Monor could not afford to look like an idiot in public, especially now.

  “We’ll find out what happened, and you can be assured that appropriate action will be taken. This planet will be ours, of that you can all be assured. No one will take away from Cardassia what rightfully belongs to Cardassia, least of all a bunch of upstart aliens who think they can scare us off with cowardly sabotage. They have endeavored to elude blame for many of the so-called ‘accidents’ that have befallen loyal Cardassians in the past, all the while refusing any attempt to cooperate on endeavors that would save lives on both sides. They have continually refused to coordinate their orbital control center with ours, resulting in several near collisions in space. It is only a matter of time before a tragedy even more tragic than the tragedy that befell the aircar victims today happens again.”

  Ekron tried not to gag at the tortured syntax.

  The prefect leaned forward in his chair. “Be strong, my fellow Cardassians, and be vigilant. We will overcome these tragedies and emerge a stronger people for it!”

  With that, he leaned back. Ekron deactivated the live feed, and the monitors all across the northern continent went back to the prerecorded bulletins and messages.

  Knowing full well that the protest would fall on deaf ears, Ekron nonetheless felt compelled to say, “Sir, there’s no evidence that the Klingons had anything to do with it.”

  “One of those damned Foreheads was seen near the site.”

  Ekron closed his eyes and counted to five. “Sir, that was a merchant named Kall—he’s well known in that sector. He’s a private citizen. We’ve checked him thoroughly, as has the Order.”

  Monor made a snorting noise as he got up from his desk. “As if you can trust anything from those imbeciles. I want that ‘merchant’ arrested and interrogated.”

  “Sir, Governor Qaolin will object if you do.”

  “Let him.”

  It took all of Ekron’s willpower not to say, That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one who has to listen to the objection. Monor always made Ekron take any communiqués from the Klingons, refusing to speak to the “Foreheads.”

  Instead, he said, “What if they go to the Federation?”

  “Then they’ll be exposed as the cowards I’ve always said they are. Let them fight their own damn battles. Besides, they haven’t freed Parrik yet, have they?”

  “No.” Parrik was a Cardassian accused of sabotaging a Klingon mine and had been imprisoned for six months, interrogated who knew how many times, with no sign of a trial, nor any proof of his involvement in the landslide that—like this aircar collision—was probably a simple accident. But Monor wants some of his own back, and I suspect this is how he’ll get it.

  “Schedule another broadcast for sunset,” Monor said. “By then, we’d better damn well have more information, and I’ll be ready to announce another curfew.”

  Ekron winced, but did not argue. “Curfew, sir?” he prompted by way of determining the nature of this latest futile gesture.

  “Yes. All non-Cardassians must be indoors before sunset.”

  Once, Ekron would have pointed out that such an action would only serve to antagonize the citizenry, make everyone nervous, create more tension in a situation already laden with it, and, worst of all, stall trade and the economic outlook of the colony. This time of year on this continent, night accounted for seventy percent of a planetary rotation, so much of the business that was conducted on Raknal was done after dark. And a great deal of it involved aliens, particularly Yridian merchants, not to mention the occasional Ferengi.

  However, raising such objections only got Ekron yelled at and, after all these years, Ekron had had enough of Monor’s rants. He used to consider them part of his job. Of course, he also used to consider a planetside assignment to be a hardship, something to be experienced briefly before retreating back to the constructed environs of a space vessel. After five years on Raknal V, however, he couldn’t imagine serving for any length of time in the regulated atmosphere of a ship—nor had he any desire to listen to Monor’s rants more than absolutely necessary.

  So he simply said, “Very well, sir.”

  “Damn right it’s very well. We’re not going to let those Foreheads stop us, or let them take what’s ours from us. It’s our planet, dammit, we found it. Why, in the old days, we wouldn’t have put up with all this competition nonsense. We’ve become soft, Ekron, that’s the real problem.”

  “Yes, sir. If you’ll exc—”

  But Monor was determined to rant. “I swear to you, I don’t know what’s happening to us. I hear that some resistance movement has started on Bajor. Can you believe that? Damn fools in Central Command have let the Bajorans’ spirituality lull them into a false sense of security. Now they’re facing guerrilla attacks. Mark my words, nothing good will come of that. We can’t afford to let anything like that happen here.”

  Ekron refrained from pointing out how impossible that was. “Yes, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have t—”

  “And what’s more, you just know that Qaolin’s going to try to find some way to make us look bad here. He’ll go screaming at Dax, telling him that this is proof that we can’t handle the planet. And that damned Trill will listen to every word he says. You know those Foreheads call him ‘the Great Curzon,’ like he’s a damned circus performer or something. It’s enough to make you weep, it really is.” The prefect stared at Ekron. “What are you still doing here, Ekron, don’t you have work to do?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Relieved, Ekron beat a hasty retreat.

  “Be strong, my fellow Cardassians, and be vigilant. We will overcome these tragedies and emerge a stronger people for it!”

  Governor Qaolin switched off the recording of Prefect Monor’s tiresome speech. “This,” he said to the other occupant of his office, “is what I have had to put up with for five years, General.”

  General Worf nodded. His hair had gone completely white since the last time Qaolin had seen him, which was shortly after the colony on the southern continent was established half a decade ago. He seemed more tired, too—though Qaolin supposed he could have just been superimposing his own fatigue on the general. The governor had not expected to find himself stuck on this rock for a seeming eternity. All the stories he’d heard about sailing on the Barge of the Dead through Gre’thor weren’t anywhere near as awful as what he endured daily administrating the Klingon colony on Raknal V.

  “I take it the prefect’s accusations are baseless?” Worf asked.

  “Of course they are.” Qaoli
n was surprised at the question. “We do not need to expend any effort to make Cardassians fail, they do so quite well on their own.”

  “What of Monor’s accusations regarding the orbital control centers?”

  Qaolin snarled. “More lies. It is true that we have not been cooperative, but it is not for lack of trying. Both sides assign orbital paths to ships that conflict with those assigned by the other side. We have had several near misses because of this. But Cardassian sensors are not sufficiently acute to do the job properly. We have offered to provide a minimal upgrade in exchange for shared duties, only to be rebuffed. They assume that their sensors are adequate to the task and accuse us of trying to sabotage their equipment—and of deliberately causing the difficulties. As if we need to.” His hand going to his d’k tahg involuntarily, Qaolin stood up and said, “I swear to you, General, I almost wish that something would happen to force a war between our people. Then it would give me the excuse I need to plunge my weapon into Monor’s unworthy heart.”

  “Perhaps. But now would not be the right time.”

  “There is never a wrong time for war, General.”

  Worf gave Qaolin a withering gaze. “It is easy for you to say that, Governor. You are not on the Homeworld. You do not see the posturing of the High Council as half of them insist we no longer need Federation aid, and cry out for closer ties to the Romulans.”

  Qaolin spat on the floor. “Romulans? Those honorless petaQ are not worthy to blacken our boots! Besides, I thought they closed their borders.”

  “Their government did. But the Romulan aristocracy is like a pipius—its tentacles spread everywhere. I do not trust them. And I do not trust our government to act sensibly as long as Chancellor Ditagh allows this petty squabbling to go on.” The general shook his head. “He does nothing to unite the Council, instead allowing it to grow more fractious, while our shipyards remain barren, our people starve, and once-noble Houses fall into ruin.” The general turned to Qaolin. “We must win this planet, Governor. We must regain Ch’gran. It is all that may save us in the end.”

  “Perhaps it is, General, but I do not think I am the one to win it.” Qaolin stared at the general, and finally decided that he had to ask the question. “Is there any way I may be reassigned? I am a ship commander, not a planetary governor. The colony virtually runs itself, and the duties I do have can be performed by someone more—politically adept than myself.”

  “I am afraid not. The High Council agrees on little in these dark times, but one thing they are in harmony on is that you are best qualified to run this colony and to win Ch’gran for us.” Worf frowned. “Do you not consider it an honor?”

  “I consider winning Ch’gran an honor, General,” Qaolin said with another snarl, “and you have made it clear that it is an urgency as well. But I do not consider running this colony to be an honorable way of winning it. It is better suited to the shadowy machinations of I.I., not the true battlefield of a warrior.”

  Worf tilted his head. “Odd that you should say that.”

  Qaolin frowned. “Why?”

  “It was at the specific recommendation of Imperial Intelligence that you were assigned as governor, and at I.I.’s insistence that you remain.”

  The governor stared at the general in open-mouthed stupefaction for several seconds.

  Then he threw his head back and laughed.

  Even from beyond the grave, you manipulate me, Yovang. Foolishly, Qaolin had believed that he could easily deal with whatever consequences arose from killing the I.I. agent aboard the Wo’bortas five years ago. Now, he knew what those consequences were: exile to this nightmare of a posting.

  “This amuses you, Governor?”

  “No. But there are times when laughter is the only rational response.” He sat back down. “Very well, General. I shall continue to see to the Klingon needs of this continent, and I will win Ch’gran for us, and I shall save the Empire, and we will survive and be strong again.”

  Laughing bitterly, Worf said, “I will settle for the first two. The others will take care of themselves over time.”

  “You think so?” Qaolin asked in surprise. “For one who has spoken so cynically, you seem unusually confident.”

  “We are Klingons. Eventually, we will be victorious.”

  Qaolin reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of bloodwine and two mugs. “In that case, General, drink with me, to our future.” He split the bottle between the two mugs and handed one to Worf. “May it be far more glorious than our present.”

  To that, they both drank heartily.

  “Orbital Control, this is the Gratok. We will be achieving orbit in five minutes. Please verify flight plan.”

  Stifling a yawn, Talik, the traffic controller on duty touched a control. “This is Orbital Control, Gratok. Sending flight plan now.” Talik entered the standard flight plan for the zenite-bearing freighters like the Gratok. It would give them one orbit before departing for Cardassia Prime with the precious zenite shipment.

  “Flight plan received, Orbital Control. Staying awake up there, Talik?”

  At that, Talik smiled. “Barely. I don’t suppose you have any holovids to send over, Kater?”

  “Don’t tell me you watched all the ones I sent last month?”

  “All right, I won’t tell you.” In fact, Talik had traded them for a bottle of real kanar—not that swill they provided at the commissary, but the good stuff. But since he got the kanar for when he finally worked up the courage to ask Kater Onell for an evening out, he could hardly tell her about it now. “So when’re you due back?”

  “I’m not, I’m afraid. The zenite yields are too small to justify coming so far out. The company’s sending a smaller ship to do the next run.”

  Panic gripped Talik. He’d spent months working up his nerve. Kater, after all, was a freighter captain; he was just a lowly traffic controller. Just the fact that she was willing to talk to him beyond the confines of duty was impressive enough, and was, in fact, the only reason why he even considered the possibility of asking her to dinner. “You—you mean you’re never coming back?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say never , but probably not for a few months at least.” She laughed. “Don’t worry, Talik, I’m sure you’ll find someone else to send you war vids.”

  Talik couldn’t give a good damn about war vids just at the moment. His love life had been in the waste extractor for years now. No woman had even been interested in talking to him, aside from Kater, and the only comfort women he could afford weren’t ones he had any interest in letting near him; he had never been partial to elderly women with strange sores on odd parts of their bodies. “It’s—it’s not th-that.” He tried not to sound like a stammering idiot. “I was kind of hoping—I mean, I was kind of—”

  Before he could blunder through the rest of the sentence, he heard an explosion. After a second, he realized that it was coming over the comm line. “What the hell was that?” Kater screamed.

  Talik checked his sensor display. “Kater, I’m reading an explosion in your engineering section.”

  “I’m glad you’re reading that. Our internal sensors are down.”

  “You’re also off course.” Immediately, Talik hit the panic button, which sent out a broad-band message on both subspace and soundwave frequencies, instructing all ships in orbit to get out immediately, either by returning to the planet’s surface or leaving orbit altogether.

  The voice of Talik’s supervisor, Hamnod, sounded from behind him. “What’s happening?”

  “Freighter Gratok has experienced some kind of engine failure. They’ve lost attitude control.”

  Hamnod was a large man with a belly that protruded sufficiently far in front of him that most of those in Orbital Control joked that his stomach arrived five minutes before he did. That belly was rubbing up against Talik’s console now, as the supervisor peered at the shatterframe display that gave the usual view of about eighty percent of the space around Raknal V. The only th
ing missing was the area on the far side of the planet—a blind spot at one hundred and eighty degrees from their position, and, not coincidentally, where the Klingons had set up their orbital control center. At present, the only bodies showing on the display were the Gratok—which was bouncing around like mad; its guidance systems and gyroscopic mechanisms were obviously completely destroyed—and Orbital Control itself. The supervisor then pointed a pudgy finger at a new item on the display. “What is that?”

  Talik frowned. It wasn’t a Cardassian ship, which meant either an unregistered ship or a Klingon ship. Talik sincerely hoped it was the former. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a shouting match with a Klingon.

  The new arrival just came into view from the blind spot. It was also on a course that would take it directly into the path of the Gratok, if both ships held course.

  “Get that thing out of there, Talik,” Hamnod said.

  Good thing you’re here, I never would have thought of that, Talik thought as he opened a channel to the ship. He had heard a rumor that Hamnod spent most of his off-duty time with the very comfort women that Talik would never go near. Even if it wasn’t true, Talik had always taken it as gospel. It was certainly in character for the fat supervisor.

  “Unidentified ship, this is Orbital Control. Please leave orbit immediately, we have a ship in distress, and we cannot guarantee your safety.”

  There was no response from the ship, but Kater cut in. “Talik, our warp core’s going to go any minute, and I can’t get the ejection systems to function. I don’t think we’re gonna make it.”

  “Yes, you are,” Talik said stupidly. “Just as soon as I get this ship out of the—”

  “What ship? I’m blind out here.”

  Hamnod had been doing a sensor check. “It’s a Forehead ship—the Chut. Passenger ship heading to Qo’noS.” The corpulent supervisor leaned into Talik’s comm unit. “Attention Chut, this is Orbital Control. If you do not change course immediately, you risk collision. Please, leave orbit now.”