“I think they both wanted to fight a war fifteen years ago over Raknal V. Ambassador Dax managed to put that off by pulling a rabbit out of his hat, but now it’s coming to a head again. And if it does happen, we’ll all feel the effects.”
“Why are you telling me this, Captain?” Vaughn asked, though he suspected he knew the answer, given that he was at Raknal V when Dax came up with his so-called rabbit.
“To the point, as usual, eh, Commander?” Waving off Vaughn’s slightly abashed look, she said, “It’s all right. To the point, then: I want you to go to Raknal V and check up on things.”
Snorting, Vaughn asked, “Shouldn’t that be Ambassador Dax’s job?”
“Dax isn’t Starfleet. And he has a vested interest in telling us what we want to hear. I’d rather be told what I don’t want to hear—and you’ve always been very good at that.”
Vaughn smirked. “Is that a compliment, Captain?”
“A fact, Commander.” They arrived at Uhura’s office. The doors parted to reveal a small space, with a desk, workstation, and an entire wall decorated with various exotic sculptures, masks, and a Vulcan lute that looked to Vaughn’s eye as if it had to be at least eighty years old. As Uhura took her seat at the desk, she looked at the computer screen on her desk. “Your orders are to observe the situation and report back.” She looked up and fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “I want a full report, Commander. Not just facts—I can get those anyplace. I want your opinion as to the situation on Raknal V, and what it means for Starfleet, and for the Federation. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Then Uhura smiled, and the room seemed to brighten. “One bit of good news—you’ll be going back the same way you went there last time. The Carthage is in the area, and I had her diverted. Captain Haden will be by to pick you up tomorrow. That will give you enough time to make sure that Commander T’Prynn is well and is also soon enough for you to avoid Special Emissary Tartovsky’s wrath.”
“It’s appreciated, Captain,” Vaughn said, referring to both the consideration regarding T’Prynn and Tartovsky and the fact that he’d be back on the Carthage. Now I’ll get to see Ian without having to write the letter.
Chapter 22
I.K.S. Pu’Bekh
When the beams deposited Councillor K’mpec in the Pu’Bekh’s transporter room, he felt a swell of pride. It is good to feel these deckplates beneath my boots once again. Although K’mpec eagerly took his position on the High Council when Kravokh offered it to him nine years ago, he sometimes missed running a space-faring vessel. The Pu’Bekh was K’mpec’s first (and only) ship command. It was like your first kill—nothing else tastes quite so sweet. That was why, when he decided to take this inspection tour of an assortment of Defense Force vessels, he made sure that this ship was at the top of the list. The other stops on his tour were chosen at random, but he saw no reason to pass up the opportunity to revisit an old battleground.
His successor, Captain Mogh, was standing before him. “It is good to see you again, Councillor K’mpec,” the captain said with his usual formality.
K’mpec laughed as he stepped down from the platform, his boots echoing solidly on the stairs. “Why so formal, old friend?” He slapped Mogh on the shoulder. “It is good to see you. How is your son?”
At the mention of his child, Mogh’s face broke into a smile the likes of which K’mpec had never seen on his former first officer before the boy’s birth. “Young Worf is three now. Kaasin tells me he has already learned how to hold the family bat’leth.”
“With any luck, he will wield it more skillfully than his father.”
At that, both men laughed. “He could hardly do otherwise. Kaasin has employed a nurse—I think you’d like her. Her name is Kahlest, and Worf adores her.”
“I look forward to meeting her—and seeing your son wield the weapons of a warrior.” He slapped Mogh on the shoulder. “Come. It has been too long since we shared a meal and a mug of warnog.”
“Indeed it has. And such a meal has been prepared—for three.”
“Anh?” K’mpec didn’t like the sound of that.
Mogh’s old formality quickly returned. “An old family friend is on board, sir. When he heard you would be taking this tour, he arranged to be on board as well. He wishes to speak with both of us.”
K’mpec frowned. He did not like surprises. Still and all, he followed the captain out of the transporter room. Trailed by two guards—Mogh’s own personal guard and the one that had been assigned to K’mpec—they proceeded to the captain’s cabin.
With a grinding rumble, the door opened to reveal the smell of fresh rokeg blood pie, racht, bregit lung, and plenty of warnog. K’mpec smiled, and both his stomachs—which had grown distressingly wide in his years on the High Council—rumbled in anticipation.
That smile turned into a frown when he saw the room’s occupant.
“Lorgh.” The word came out as a low rumble from deep within K’mpec’s throat, almost harmonically balanced with his hungry stomachs. “This I.I. petaQ is your ‘old family friend’?”
“Yes,” Mogh said simply. The door closed behind him, leaving both guards outside. Mogh took a seat, as did Lorgh. K’mpec remained standing, staring angrily at the I.I. agent.
Smiling widely, Lorgh asked, “Aren’t you glad to see me, K’mpec?”
“I have no use for you, Lorgh, nor for the rest of your organization.” K’mpec practically spat the words.
“We’re aware of your designs to have Imperial Intelligence disbanded, K’mpec.”
K’mpec snorted. “I have made no secret of it. Nor do I make a secret of this, now: I will not eat with you. I will not drink with you. Leave this ship, or I will have you put to death.”
“This is my ship, K’mpec.” Mogh, as ever, spoke in a respectful, professional tone. “And Lorgh was a friend to my father. That makes him a friend to me.”
That was foolish, K’mpec admonished himself. If K’mpec took any action against Lorgh, Mogh would feel the need to avenge it. Mogh was passionate about few things, but family loyalty was one of them. The more time had passed, the more certain K’mpec was that Mogh had made sure that the Boklar and Gul Onell were destroyed nine years ago to avenge his father’s death at Onell’s sister’s hands. Three years ago, Mogh and his mate, Kaasin, had their first child, a son, whom they had named Worf after the boy’s grandfather. If Lorgh was a friend to the dead general, then he was a friend to Mogh, and therefore a friend to K’mpec as long as he considered Mogh a friend.
K’mpec had been able to use Mogh’s actions against the Boklar in his favor, as they put him in the good graces of Kravokh when he rose to power. K’mpec had aspirations of his own, after all. And Mogh was now a ship captain, who owed that posting to K’mpec, and who, in turn, commanded great loyalty. It was an alliance K’mpec could not afford to jeopardize just because he despised Imperial Intelligence and all it stood for.
At least not now.
“Very well.” K’mpec sat his ample frame down in the third chair, gathering his floor-length cassock around him. “I will hear your words, Lorgh.”
Chewing on a couple of serpent worms, Lorgh said, “That is quite generous of you, K’mpec.” He swallowed his racht, washed it down with some warnog, then let his own smile fall. “I can assure you, what I have to say is of great moment.”
“So you indicated.” Mogh stuffed a piece of bregit lung into his mouth.
Lorgh looked at the captain. “Years ago, your father told me of knowledge he had of certain Klingon Houses’ dealings with the Romulans. The House of Duras, for example, sold ships to the Romulan military.”
“That was decades ago,” K’mpec said dismissively as he cut off a slice of blood pie.
“So was Praxis. But its destruction led to economic ruin for many strong Houses—and opportunities for smaller ones to improve their fortunes. There are many Houses—some of whom have ample representation on the Council—who owe a great deal to Romulan assistance gi
ven during the last four decades.”
K’mpec frowned. He knew that several of his fellow councillors had favored keeping good relations with Romulus. K’mpec hadn’t given it much consideration one way or the other, seeing as how the Romulans had remained isolationist for the most part since Tomed.
Mogh asked, “How much of this is due to the influence of the House of Duras?”
“It is safe to say that it is considerable.”
“Based on what?” K’mpec asked.
Lorgh regarded K’mpec with a withering expression. “Intelligence we have gathered.”
This provoked a deep-throated growl from K’mpec. “Be wary, Lorgh. I do not appreciate being lectured to by the likes of you.”
“I.I. knew of some of this, but since General Worf’s death, I have pursued the matter more closely. I have learned two things. One is that many on the High Council are linked to the very Houses that owe the Romulans a considerable debt.”
“So you said. Have you any proof?”
Lorgh smiled. “Nothing I could present in a meqba’, but I do trust my sources.”
Before K’mpec could object further to this foolishness, Mogh said, “What is the second thing you have learned?”
K’mpec had to force himself not to call his former first officer a fool for even listening to this, but he held back. Lorgh, curse him, had chosen his words wisely when he mentioned the involvement of the House of Duras. The rivalry between that House and Mogh’s own went back several generations. In fact, K’mpec had contributed to it when he chose Mogh as his first officer over Ja’rod, the current House head. Regardless, if the House of Duras was involved, Mogh would be interested.
“The current Romulan praetor, Dralath, is losing the support of his people and the military. The former are chafing under economic restrictions that threaten to crush them, and the latter grow frustrated with their continued isolationism. Their emperor is an old weakling. Dralath may decide to restore his position by making a strike against us.”
K’mpec stood up. “I will listen to no more of this idiocy. I do not know what game I.I. is playing, Lorgh, but you may remove my piece from the board.”
Mogh also rose. “K’mpec, at least hear him out.”
“I have heard all that I need to. If Romulus has such influence over the High Council, why would they attack us? And why would they break over thirty years of hiding now?” With that, K’mpec turned and moved toward the door. “I assume the guard you assigned me can escort me to my cabin.”
As the door opened at K’mpec’s approach, Lorgh said, “We are letting ourselves be distracted, K’mpec. This ongoing conflict with the Cardassians, tension with the Federation when they have been naught but our staunch allies—it leaves us vulnerable. Romulans are like wam serpents: they can sense weakness, and then they strike.”
“Mneh.” The grunt was all K’mpec could bring himself to say as he departed. Let Mogh believe this I.I. fool. I will have no part of it.
Lorgh’s final comments were not entirely wrong, of course. Kravokh had insisted on being aggressive with the Cardassians and with the exploitation of Raknal V to a degree that was well out of proportion to the rewards that would be gained. Yes, Ch’gran needed to be restored to the Klingon people, but after so long, it would hardly have the impact on the populace as it would have fifteen years ago. Unfortunately, that single-mindedness led Kravokh to avoid coming to any kind of decision regarding the Federation. Kaarg and Ditagh’s incompetence had let the alliance that Gorkon and Azetbur built begin to crumble, and Kravokh was doing nothing to rebuild the foundation.
But the Romulans? No. I will believe such tales when they come from the mouth of one I can trust. Never will such a mouth belong to an agent of Imperial Intelligence.
Chapter 23
U.S.S. Carthage
“When you gonna be home ’gain, Daddy?”
The plaintive tone in his daughter Deanna’s voice made Ian Troi’s heart break. It had only been a few months since he’d last gotten home to Betazed—and that only because Captain Haden had found an excuse for the Carthage to be in the sector—but to a seven-year-old, a few months was an eternity.
“Soon, Durango, I promise,” he said, using the nickname he’d given her during one of their joint readings from Troi’s large collection of Westerns. “Daddy has to finish another mission on his ship, and then we’ll all be together again, okay?”
Deanna pouted. “Okay,” she said, not sounding in the least bit happy about it. “Why do you have to be far away all the time?”
“Because Daddy’s doing what he loves.”
“Don’t you love me and Mommy?”
His heart broke all over again. “More than you could ever know, Durango. And when I come home, you’ll see just how much.” He smiled. “I may even have a surprise for you.”
At that, Deanna’s black eyes widened. “A surprise? Really? What’ll it be?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”
“I guess.” Deanna didn’t sound convinced. But this was one area where Troi would never give in. After years of being unable to surprise his wife, thanks to her telepathy, he took great joy in being able to at the very least surprise his children, at least until they developed telepathic skills of their own as teenagers.
Assuming that at least one of them lives that long. The thought fell into his head unbidden, and he banished it quickly, along with the image of poor Kestra’s face that accompanied it.
“I can’t stay on too much longer, Durango, so why don’t you put Mommy on, okay?”
“Can we read Cowboy Ralph again when you come home?”
Troi sighed. The Cowboy Ralph adventures by a twenty-second-century hack writer named Ernest Pratt were Deanna’s favorites—and also by far the worst in Troi’s extensive collection. Does she like Zane Grey or Larry McMurtry? No, she goes for Ernest Pratt. There’s no justice. However, he gamely said, “Of course we can, Durango. Now put Mommy on, okay?”
A smile brightened the seven-year-old’s face. “Okay, Daddy. I love you!”
“I love you, too!”
Deanna ran off, her black curls bouncing, and Lwaxana’s lovely face filled the screen a second later. “I’m sorry, dear one, but I couldn’t bear to read that Cowboy Fred any longer. So she’s been a bit deprived of her precious Eastern books lately.”
Troi laughed. “It’s Ralph, and they’re Westerns.” Sometimes Troi was convinced that his wife deliberately misremembered things in order to draw attention to herself. Of course, everything about Lwaxana was designed to do that. “And it’s not a problem. I’m just glad she still likes them.”
“Is it true that you’ll be coming home after this assignment?”
“Captain Haden’s approved my leave. But they need me for this one—we’re going back to Betreka.” He smiled. “It’s actually like old home week. We’re ferrying Elias to Raknal V.”
“Dear Elias. How is he?”
“We haven’t picked him up yet, but I’m sure he’s fine. Of course, I haven’t seen him since—”
“That reception on Babel ten years ago, wasn’t it? That was such a lovely time. Elias can be quite the gentleman when he isn’t being all special-operations stuffy.”
Troi closed his eyes, counted to ten in Greek, and then said, “Of course.” In truth, they had both last seen Elias Vaughn at Kestra’s funeral, but Troi had long since given up trying to get Lwaxana to cease her attempts to eliminate all evidence of Kestra’s existence. She had erased all her journals from the day she learned she was pregnant with their first daughter until after the funeral, would not speak of her, nor acknowledge any event connected with the girl. Troi found it maddening and frustrating—and an impediment to his own ability to grieve—but after seven years, he had surrendered to the inevitable. To try to address it now would only lead to an argument. Troi had never won an argument with Lwaxana in his life—which put him in company with the rest of the universe—and fifteen years of marriage
had taught him that it was better to avoid the issue altogether.
She’ll deal with it when she’s ready, and not a minute before. In the meantime, both Troi and their valet, Mr. Xelo, had kept a few mementoes of Kestra hidden from Lwaxana for when that day finally came.
And Deanna deserves to know about her sister, he thought, before her telepathy develops and she yanks that knowledge out of my head.
Lwaxana said, “You should ask Elias to come with you when you visit. It would be wonderful to see him again, and he could meet Deanna.”
Not bothering to point out that he met Deanna at Kestra’s funeral, Troi simply said, “That would be nice. I’ll ask him.” Besides, Deanna was an infant then. “Given his usual work schedule, it’s as likely as not that he won’t be able to, but it couldn’t hurt to ask.” Glancing down at the time stamp on the screen, Troi noted that he’d already gone over his allotted personal comm time by three minutes. “I need to go, love.” He smiled. “You know how much I miss you?”
“Of course I do, imzadi ,” she said with a mischievious grin. “I wouldn’t be much of a telepath if I didn’t.”
“Oh, right. Explain to me again how your telepathy works over subspace?”
“You can be such a killjoy, Ian Andrew Troi,” Lwaxana said with a smirk.
“So how much do I miss you?”
“As much as I miss you.”
For a moment, they simply locked eyes. Troi took in every line of her face, every facet of her beautiful smile and her lovely dark eyes.
Then, finally, he said, “I have to go. Be well, imzadi. I’ll see you soon.”
“Not soon enough.”
Reluctantly, Troi cut the connection. The screen embedded in the wall of his quarters went dark.
“Bridge to Troi.”
Troi sighed. Can’t I just bask in the glow of my family for a few more minutes? But it was not to be. He knew what was involved when he took his oath after graduating the Academy. Despite everything, though, he couldn’t bring himself to resign his commission. He was happy in Starfleet—it was where he belonged. One of the advantages to being married to a telepath was that Lwaxana understood that implicitly—in fact, she probably understood it better than he did—and wouldn’t hear of him resigning, and settling for a job he wasn’t as content with in order to make his family happy. “When the time is right,” she had said once, “we’ll know it, and then we can be a family together. For now, it’s right that we be a family apart.”
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