K’mpec frowned, his complex crest furrowing. He knew that name. After a moment he placed it as connected to Raknal V. Calling up the records of that, he saw it: Kater Onell was the ship-master of the freighter that crashed into the Chut.
He wondered if Mogh knew this, and if that explained his enthusiasm. So much for this being over, eh, Commander?
“Sir, we have gotten through to Qo’noS. I have Councillor Kravokh for you.”
K’mpec was impressed. He had expected to get one of Kravokh’s functionaries at best. “Put him through.”
Kravokh’s angular face appeared on the viewscreen on K’mpec’s desk. “Report, Captain.”
“Our assignment to this system has been justified. A Cardassian ship called the Boklar attacked the communications relay in this system. We are in pursuit.”
“Excellent. And you have proof?”
“Yes.”
“Most excellent. This is a great day, Captain. With this, perhaps we can finally convince the Federation to take Raknal V away from the unworthy Spoon Heads and then, finally, Ch’gran can be ours.” Kravokh leaned forward. “I want that ship captured, Captain. I want whoever the gul of that ship is—”
“Gul Onell.”
“Fine, I want Onell to stand before the Council and speak for all to hear that he destroyed Klingon property at the order of their Central Command. Then he will be executed, and we will have all the justification for taking Ch’gran that we will need.”
K’mpec thought the councillor was jumping ahead of himself a bit. “And if we do not find the Boklar?”
Kravokh shrugged. “Then we will demand it through channels. We have proof now, after all. I want that proof sealed, Captain—under the best protection your guards can give it. And no matter what it takes, I want that ship intact and its gul alive, even if you are to leave Klingon space, am I understood?”
“It will be done.”
“Good.”
After Kravokh cut off the connection, K’mpec leaned back and smiled. His ambitions had always stretched far beyond that of the captain’s chair, and currying favor with Kravokh—who was looking more and more to be the favorite to succeed the ailing Ditagh—could only benefit K’mpec now.
At least, the reports were that Ditagh was ailing. He had been less and less visible over the past few months—though some argued that he was already insubstantial, so becoming invisible was not much of a stretch. The current chancellor seemed to be in favor of strengthening the Empire but had never actually implemented any plan to do so. Kravokh, at least, had the welfare of the Empire in mind, though he seemed to think the restoration of Ch’gran would do the most good to restore the Empire to greatness. K’mpec wasn’t so sure—but he also knew that losing Ch’gran would be a disaster.
K’mpec also questioned the wisdom of pursuing the Boklar out of Klingon jurisdiction. True, most of the space between here and Cardassia was either unclaimed or belonged to the Federation, but engaging the Boklar after they left Klingon territory would muddy the issue. They needed to take the Boklar in Empire space.
Mogh’s voice came over the intercom. “Sir, we have picked up the Boklar on long-range sensors. They are on course for Cardassian space, but still within our borders.”
“Can we catch them before they cross the border?”
“Yes, sir, if we increase to warp eight.”
“Anh!” he grunted, then moved quickly to the bridge. We will get them, he thought gleefully.
As K’mpec entered the bridge, the pilot said, “Speed increasing to warp eight.”
Standing next to the operations console, Mogh added, “At this rate, we will overtake the Boklar in three minutes—long before they reach the border.”
“Arm torpedoes, and fire a minimal spread at their engines as soon as they are within range.” He turned to face the gunner, a heavy-ridged older lieutenant with gray-and-white hair, and spoke in a quiet tone, enunciating every word even more than usually. “The ship is to be taken intact. If it is not, I will hold you responsible.”
“Sir!” the lieutenant said quickly, understanding that the penalty for the Boklar being destroyed would be the gunner’s own life.
Mogh then approached the command chair and spoke quietly to K’mpec. “Sir, the Akril-class vessels have impressive firepower. I do not doubt the ability of the Pu’Bekh to win any battle, but if we hamstring ourselves—”
Matching Mogh’s quiet tones, K’mpec interrupted. “Our orders are to take the Boklar intact and bring Gul Onell back to the Homeworld for trial.”
“Sir, we have the sensor logs from the relay. What need do we have to keep these Cardassian animals alive?”
K’mpec’s instinct was to remind the commander of his place and of the foolishness of questioning his orders. But K’mpec also preferred underlings who thought for themselves. The question being, is Mogh thinking for himself, or thinking only of the vengeance he claims he does not feel the urge to undertake? This bloodthirstiness was completely understandable—the Cardassians had, after all, invaded—but may have had ulterior motives. Either way, K’mpec felt the need to explicate. “Do not underestimate the power of a living witness and of physical evidence, Commander. We can tamper with our own sensor logs, after all.”
Mogh nodded, in seeming understanding. “I withdraw my objection, Captain.”
“Weapons range in thirty seconds,” called out the gunnery lieutenant.
“Prepare to fire,” Mogh said with a smile.
“In range.”
Clenching his fist, Mogh cried, “Fire!”
K’mpec watched as the torpedoes traveled through the distortion of warp space, traversing the gap between the Pu’Bekh and the Boklar, then striking the latter ship’s shields, disrupting them.
“Direct hit. They are coming out of warp.”
“Stay with them, pilot,” Mogh barked. “Arm disruptors and raise shields.”
From the operations console, the officer posted there said, “They are hailing us.”
A rumble sounded in K’mpec’s throat. “I have nothing to say to invaders.”
The officer smiled. “Sir!”
“Coming about,” the pilot said.
“Fire!”
Disruptor fire now struck the Boklar’s shields even as the Cardassians fired their own phasers at the Pu’Bekh.
“Shields down to ten percent!” The gunnery lieutenant’s voice was tinged with surprise and outrage.
“It would seem the Cardassians have improved their arsenal.” K’mpec pounded a fist on the armrest of his chair. “Damage to the Boklar?”
“Minimal, sir.”
“We must bring down their shields. Continuous fire.”
Disruptors and torpedoes burst forth from the Pu’Bekh’s weapons arrays, pounding at the Boklar’s shields. The disruptors finally brought the shields down, with the final torpedo striking the Cardassian vessel’s hull.
A cheer went up from around the bridge, even as more Cardassian phaser fire struck the Pu’Bekh.
Consoles then sparked around the bridge. “Shields dow—” the gunner started before the deckplates behind him exploded in what sounded to K’mpec’s veteran ears like a plasma fire. K’mpec turned to see that the gunner had been thrown halfway across the bridge and into a bulkhead. Mogh, to his credit, immediately ran to take the gunner’s position.
“Programming torpedo pattern,” he said.
The gunner managed to clamber back up and return to his post. K’mpec noted that he seemed to have even more white in his hair now. “Thank you, Commander.”
Mogh gave the lieutenant a curt nod and made way for him.
“Firing torpedoes and disruptors.”
Seconds later, just as the torpedoes were striking the hull of the Boklar—and after the disruptors had already started cutting through the vessel’s hull—the Cardassian ship exploded in a fiery conflagration that forced K’mpec to avert his eyes from the viewscreen momentarily.
Furious, he unholstered his hand dis
ruptor even as he turned around to face the gunner. Growling in inarticulate rage, he fired.
The gunner’s screams seemed to echo long after his body had disintegrated.
K’mpec had no choice. He had already stated to the entire bridge that the destruction of the Boklar would mean the gunner’s life.
Yet it had been Mogh who programmed the torpedoes’ firing pattern.
Then again, the disruptors struck the Boklar first. It is quite possible—likely even—that it was the disruptors that provided the fatal blow.
Either way, it no longer mattered. “Damage report.”
“Shields and cloak are gone,” the operations officer reported. “Multiple hull breaches on the lower decks—we have had to evacuate the entire undersection. Warp drive offline; engineering estimates a day to repair.”
“Communications?” Mogh asked.
“Functioning.”
“Good,” K’mpec said, falling more than sitting back in his command chair after reholstering his disruptor. “Make contact with the Homeworld.”
Mogh stepped up to stand beside K’mpec. “It is not what we had hoped,” the commander said. “But when I look back on this day, it will be one of celebration. I will not mourn the loss of the cowards who invaded our space to fight a mere communications relay. I will instead see this as a victory against an unworthy foe who deserved nothing less than what they received.”
K’mpec regarded his first officer carefully. There was, once again, no glee in his voice, no joy in victory, simply a recitation of duty. As usual. But the captain did not know whether or not Mogh had been responsible for the destruction of the Boklar or not.
What he did know was that the actions of this day would have long-term consequences. Already, K’mpec was beginning to formulate ways he could work them to his advantage.
Chapter 17
Cardassia Prime
“An excellent meal, Kurrgo.”
The Klingon smiled widely at the Hallitz family—a Cardassian man, his wife, their five children, and one grandchild—as they moved toward the exit of his restaurant. In his heavily accented Cardassian, he said, “It is my pleasure to bring food to your plate, my friends.”
“I still don’t know how you can get such fresh pipius claw,” the father said, shaking his head.
“I have my sources,” was all Kurrgo would say in reply. In fact, his “source” was a Ferengi who made regular trips across the border—though those trips were getting less regular of late.
“Careful,” the father said with a chuckle. “I’ll have my son-in-law check into your ‘sources,’ and then we’ll be able to get by without you.” The eldest daughter’s husband—and father to the grandchild—was a respected gul in the Cardassian military. His duties prevented him from joining the rest of the family for meals with any regularity, though he was, at least, posted to Cardassia Prime.
The mother snorted. “As if I could prepare Klingon dishes with anything like Kurrgo’s skill.”
Kurrgo bowed. “You honor me with your praise.”
“I merely speak the truth,” the mother said. “Thank you again.”
“Mother, my food was moving. You said you’d tell them!” That was the grandchild, a girl of only three.
Kurrgo squatted down so he was face-to-face with the young girl, whose name, Kurrgo recalled, was Alyn. Her ridges were barely starting to form—her skin was almost as smooth as a Romulan’s. “You ordered racht, little one. Racht is best served live.”
Alyn pouted. “I don’t like it when my food moves. It’s icky.”
“Perhaps. But then, if it does not move, it’s too easy to catch. You see, we Klingons believe in conquering our food, hunting it. The hunt should not end just because the food has already reached the plate.”
The girl brightened. “So it’s like a game?”
“Exactly! So next week when you and your parents come here, treat the racht as if it were trying to get away from you—and you must hunt it with your fork!”
She smiled. “Okay!”
They all laughed, and soon the family departed, heading for an evening home before the trials of the workday began again the following day. The mother, Traya Hallitz, had been brought here once for a business-related meal. Kurrgo remembered the day well, for she had come in with her nose wrinkled, her lips pursed, and had refused to order anything beyond a glass of water. Her companion—one of Kurrgo’s regulars—had laughed and insisted that she at least try the rokeg blood pie. She refused at first, but he had managed to get her to take a bite of bok-rat liver.
To Traya’s own great surprise, she loved it. She wound up ordering a full meal, and a week later, she brought her husband—a self-proclaimed lover of exotic foods—and eventually, the entire family made it a weekly ritual to have their evening meal at Kurrgo’s.
It was from exactly such types that Kurrgo made his business. After all, while he was a decent chef, there were better ones in the Empire. To follow in his parents’ footsteps and open an eatery on Qo’noS or one of the other Klingon worlds would only allow him to be one of many—and not the best. So Kurrgo instead struck out into the unknown, determined to bring the joys of Klingon cuisine to foreign planets.
Ten years, and several false starts later—it had taken years to pay off the massive debts incurred by his failed attempt to open an establishment on Tellar; apparently too few Tellarites found Klingon food sufficiently appealing to keep a restaurant afloat—he found himself thriving on Cardassia Prime. The expansion of the Cardassian Union had led to a great curiosity among the natives as to the wonders of the galaxy, including the types of foods eaten by all the new species they were encountering every day.
For the first decade or so, business had been good. He finally paid off all his debts, both the ones incurred on Tellar and those he took on in order to get this place going, and the restaurant started to show something resembling a profit—or at least made enough for him to live comfortably.
At last, he had won. He had brought Klingon cuisine to Cardassia.
Sadly, of late, Cardassia seemed less and less interested in the Klingon cuisine he offered. The growing number of incidents between the two governments had resulted in a downturn in business. The regulars like the Hallitz family weren’t the problem—it was the walk-in business, the curious thrill-seekers, the adventurous tourists, and, of course, the occasional visiting Klingon, desperate for a taste of home. Those were fewer in number with each passing month, and Kurrgo could not survive on his tiny base of regulars alone—especially since the price of importing the necessary ingredients had skyrocketed on account of the strife between the two governments. Most of that, of course, was artificial gouging by that damned Ferengi, but he was also the only one who was willing to cross both borders and acquire the necessary foodstuffs for Kurrgo.
As he said good-bye to a retired doctor who came every night for a bowl of taknar gizzards, Kurrgo thought, Speaking of whom, that little troll should have been here yesterday with that fresh supply of targ s. Where is he?
He looked around. And where is Larkan? He should have been here an hour ago. It was the height of the dinner hour, and all four of his waiters should have been present. Though the crowd was sufficiently thin that the three who had made it in were more than enough to handle the load. Still, it was the principle of the thing…
After seating a couple—Gran Marits with his latest conquest—the young Cardassian errand boy that Kurrgo had hired the previous month came running up to him. “It’s Lig on the comm.”
“Finally,” Kurrgo muttered. He went into the back, and Lig’s big-eared, small-eyed face appeared on Kurrgo’s battered old viewscreen. The image started to lose focus until Kurrgo slammed the comm unit on the side. Then Lig came into full view, making Kurrgo regret going to the trouble. The Ferengi’s face was easier to look at when you couldn’t see it.
“We’ve got a big problem,” Lig said without preamble. “My ship’s been impounded.”
“What? What for?”<
br />
“Apparently, the tariffs on goods coming from Klingon territory have quadrupled in the last week. The customs officer made some comment about how we have to pay a higher price if we want anything that comes from ‘those murderers’ entering Cardassian space.”
“Murderers?” Kurrgo slammed his fist into the table. “What are they talking about?”
“Don’t you watch the newsfeeds?”
Kurrgo snarled. “No, but I have heard people talking. I thought it was just talk, though, not action.”
“It is now. The tariff has gone up by a thousand leks.”
“So why have they impounded your ship?”
Lig’s eyes went wider than Kurrgo had thought them capable of getting. “Because I don’t have a thousand leks in my pocket, you idiot! Plus, they’re levying additional fines for violating the tariff law, not to mention storage charges for the impound.” Smiling grimly, Lig added, “There are so many additional charges, you’d think this was a Ferengi customs-house.”
“I’m glad you admire them.”
“Mind you, they didn’t say anything until they found the targ s. Until then, everything was business as usual. As soon as they saw that, though, they started double-checking everything, down to the stembolts. And let me tell you, the extra charges all apply just to the targ s.”
Kurrgo sighed. “What are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do? I’m going to sit here and wait for you to come and pay all these fees so I can have my ship back. Then you can have your blessed targ s and I can get out of this madhouse.”
Kurrgo was outraged. “You expect me to pay your tariffs? I thought that was covered in our agreement!”
“This is a special case.”
“No, Lig, it is not.” Kurrgo leaned into the viewer. For emphasis, he grabbed a carving knife. “I have already paid for those targ s. Our contract obligates you to pay any transportation fees or tariffs. You are within your rights to charge me for the goods based on what you’ll have to pay, but you cannot change the price of delivery after full payment has been made.”
Lig sighed. “Leave it to me to go into business with the one Klingon who actually reads his contracts.”
The Art of the Impossible Page 16
