The Art of the Impossible

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  He entered the drinking establishment where they were to have their meeting. The diamond-shaped door slid open slowly, briefly stopping halfway before finally opening all the way. That, sadly, set the tone for the entire place. The décor was no doubt the height of human fashion eighty years earlier, but it also looked like it hadn’t been maintained in almost as long. The tables were cracked and balanced unevenly on legs that had fallen off and been given inadequate replacements, the cushions on the chairs were split open or missing, and the trays on which the bored-looking servers brought the drinks were worn and gray.

  One of those servers gave Lorgh a sharp look upon his entrance. “Can I help you?” she asked in a snide tone. She wore a pink outfit that revealed more than it concealed. Lorgh found the sight of so much soft, human flesh to be nauseating.

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  Her face indicated a mind that was torn between not believing Lorgh and not caring much one way or the other. The latter apparently won out, as she shrugged, indicated a table in the corner with her head, and said, “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “I’ll have a—”

  “I said I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then she turned her back on him.

  Lorgh knew that wasn’t an insult to quite the same degree among humans as it was among Klingons, but he decided to accept it as such in any case.

  It was considerably more than a minute before the server finally came to take his order. Knowing that this establishment was unlikely to have any proper drinks, he ordered an Altair water.

  Just as she brought it over, the diamond door slid hesitantly open once again, and Elias Vaughn entered. Lorgh noted that the human was walking gingerly, which made sense, given the gravity of his injuries on Raknal V months ago. What impressed Lorgh was that he was walking at all. If a Klingon suffered a like injury, the legs would not have been salvageable, and would have been amputated. A Klingon warrior—or I.I. agent—would probably insist on Mauk-to’Vor at that point, since one cannot go into battle without legs, and a warrior would rather die than be forbidden combat.

  Vaughn had proven to be a valuable resource. They had first met aboard the Carthage during the Betreka Nebula incident, and they had remained in contact on and off in the decade and a half since—each had found the other a useful font of information at times, and the constant exchange had served to allow both of them to do their jobs more efficiently. Neither of them had informed their superiors or colleagues that he used the other as a source. I.I. knew only that Lorgh was visiting one of his confidential informants; he assumed that Vaughn’s own people knew exactly as much.

  Lorgh wondered if symbolism as much as practicality entered into Vaughn’s reasons for choosing this as a meeting place. Deep Space Station K-7 was the nearest Federation outpost to Sherman’s Planet, one of several border worlds in dispute during the hostilities that led to the Organian Peace Treaty. Under the terms of that treaty, the Klingons and Federation had to show who could develop Sherman’s Planet most efficiently; the Federation won that battle a year later. The Great Curzon had used Sherman’s Planet as one of the precedents for his Raknal V solution at the Betreka Nebula. Now Vaughn, coming off an injury sustained at Raknal V, was meeting here with Lorgh, a contact he first made near that world.

  Then again, this human has never struck me as one to appreciate that type of symbolism.

  It didn’t take Vaughn long to spot Lorgh, even in the corner—he was one of only half a dozen customers in the place, and the only Klingon—and so he immediately walked over and took the seat opposite Lorgh.

  “You seem to be recovering nicely.”

  “I suppose,” Vaughn said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Sipping his Altair water and trying not to gag, Lorgh said, “I feel the same. Especially now that you have finally grown a beard. It is unfit for a warrior to be without one.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  The server came over; Vaughn ordered something that sounded like t’qIla’, which turned out to be a clear liquid that came in a very small glass.

  “I believe you requested this meeting,” Lorgh said by way of getting the conversational ball rolling.

  Vaughn sipped his drink. “Yes, I did. The incident on Raknal V was the result of sabotage by Romulans.”

  At that, Lorgh’s eyes narrowed. He’d been investigating the Romulans for months, and learning some disheartening things about the direction their government was taking, but this was a new wrinkle.

  Lorgh chose his next words carefully. “I take it by the fact that the official report listed the building’s collapse as an accident means that either you wish to keep the Romulan involvement a secret, or that you have no proof.”

  “The latter, believe me.” Vaughn sounded especially angry. Lorgh remembered that the Starfleet officer who died in the building was a comrade of Vaughn’s. “If we could expose their involvement, we would. Unfortunately, they had an agent on-site who dropped a building on Commander Troi and myself and made off with our evidence. Bringing accusations of Romulan sabotage into Raknal without anything to back it up will only make a disastrous situation worse.”

  Lorgh tapped the glass that held his Altair water, which he had no intention of finishing. “You brought me this information for a reason, I assume.”

  “You know as well as I do that Qaolin is furious that we didn’t blame the Cardassians for sabotaging that building, even though everyone assumes they did.” He snorted. “From what I was hearing on Raknal before the Carthage left, half the Cardassians on the planet thought Monor orchestrated it, and they’re on his side. Meanwhile, the Cardassians know they didn’t do it, and are blaming us for spreading the rumors.”

  Grinning, Lorgh said, “Sounds like a difficult situation.”

  “What I need to know from you is what the High Council’s position is.”

  Lorgh’s grin fell. “Divided. Some wish to strengthen our ties with the Federation, some wish to strengthen our ties with the Romulans, some think we need to find our own path.”

  “What about the Cardassians?”

  The grin came back. “They die well.” Skirmishes with the Cardassians had increased in the months since the latest Raknal V disaster, with the Klingons being on the winning side more often than not. Kravokh’s recruitment drives for enlisting in the Defense Force and his initiatives to construct newer ships had borne fruit. The Klingon military was stronger than it had been in fifty years. As long as no more moons explode, we should thrive, he thought wryly.

  None of that, however, was the human’s concern—nor would Lorgh’s glib response truly satisfy the human’s need for information. The question was, how much was Vaughn’s intelligence about Romulan involvement in the Betreka Sector worth?

  More to the point, how much was it worth to Lorgh’s own investigations for the Federation to be more aware of the situation?

  “The fervor which gripped our people sixteen years ago over the recovery of Ch’gran has abated with time, as all things do. True, we would prefer to have it in our possession than it be in the hands of murdering outsiders, but the number of dead without any true gains made by their sacrifices makes us weary.”

  Vaughn frowned. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Kravokh. He is obsessed with Ch’gran. Everything he does seems geared toward our wresting Ch’gran from Cardassian control. The benefits to the Empire are merely a fortuitous side effect—but one that masks his true intentions, and also prevents those who oppose his obsession from doing anything about it. I fear that his insistence on keeping our eyes on Cardassia will blind him to the dagger that the Romulans will insert in our backs.” Lorgh thought a moment, then decided to open up further. “And that dagger will come soon. I have information that Praetor Dralath suffers from an incurable blood disease called T’Shevat’s Syndrome. That, combined with his declining popularity and the age of their emperor, points to a man who is desperate enough to attempt something foolish
.”

  “Like start a war?”

  Lorgh nodded.

  Vaughn sipped the rest of his drink in silence. Then he rose. “Thanks for seeing me. You’ve been a tremendous help. The next one’s on me.”

  Again, Lorgh nodded. Obviously, Vaughn felt he had gotten the better end of this particular information exchange. Which means that next time, he will be even more forthcoming. Good.

  I just hope that revealing so much to the Federation benefits us as I pray it will. I.I.’s attempts to convince the High Council that the Romulans were a threat had fallen on deaf ears, mostly because of K’mpec’s efforts in blocking I.I.’s every move. Part of Lorgh thought it would be best to simply remove K’mpec, but—his animus for I.I. aside—he was an effective councillor. He was a consensus builder, and a charismatic leader who had avoided the factionalization of the Council. That made him an ideal candidate to succeed Kravokh, and perhaps truly unite the Council for the first time since Azetbur’s time.

  If only he will come to my way of seeing things…

  Throwing common sense to the wind, Lorgh finished his Altair water, and also departed the bar. His work on Deep Space Station K-7 was done.

  The much more difficult work lay ahead.

  Chapter 28

  Risa

  The sun shone gently on Curzon Dax’s face as he relaxed in the reclining chair. It has been far too long, he thought. He hadn’t had a proper vacation in over a year, and it had been considerably longer than that since he’d been to Risa.

  The world was everything Dax could want in a vacation spot, especially after months of dealing with a group of Gallamite delegates who nit-picked every aspect of a trade agreement. His reward for thirteen weeks of staring at delegate brains (and what evolutionary quirk of fate led to a species with transparent skulls?) was to spend a week at his favorite place to relax. Risa had a regulated atmosphere that was heavenly to most humanoid species, an open policy of happiness, and a desire for all its inhabitants to have a good time.

  For today, at least, his first day back after so prolonged an absence, Dax just wanted to turn off his brain and relax. He had deliberately left all his work in his office on Earth, and even his staff didn’t know where he was, just that he was “in-disposed.” No one could find him, no one could conscript him to negotiate a treaty or settle a dispute or keep people from killing each other—at least not this week.

  And so he lay on the recliner, thinking about nothing. He brought no reading material, had not even gotten a Horga’hn. Frankly, he was too tired for jamaharon. No, for today at least, I am simply pretending that the galaxy outside Risa does not exist.

  He closed his eyes and started to take a nap.

  When he no longer felt the sun on his face, he woke up, assuming night had fallen—only to realize that the sun was still up, it was simply being blocked by a man wearing a red Starfleet uniform with a lieutenant commander’s symbol on the shoulder patch.

  “You know, I was just saying to myself, ‘Self,’ I said, ‘the absolute last person in the entire universe that I want to see right now is Elias Vaughn.’ So naturally, you show up to ruin my vacation. Do me a favor and go away, would you please?”

  Vaughn didn’t move. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Ambassador Dax. I need you to come with me.”

  Dax let out a very long sigh. “I’m on a holiday. And what’s more, how did you find me?”

  Smirking slightly, Vaughn said, “You’re getting predictable in your old age, Ambassador. When I realized that nobody on your staff knew where you were, I figured you came either here or to Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet. Risa was closer, so I tried here first. Luck of the draw.”

  “Luck of the irritating, more like. Look, Vaughn, I’m sure that whatever it is that led you to track me down seems very important to you, but it isn’t important to me. What’s important to me is lying in this recliner for a week.”

  “The death of innocent people isn’t important?”

  Dax closed his eyes and exhaled. “Don’t get melodramatic with me, Vaughn. People die all the time. It’s the one guarantee of living.”

  “Yes, but those responsible should try to atone, should they not?”

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, Dax said, “Vaughn, when I came here, I had a splitting headache, the unfortunate result of thirteen weeks spent negotiating with a tiresome collection of Gallamites. The headache was this close—” he now held the thumb and forefinger very close together in the air between him and the lieutenant commander “—to going away when you showed up. Now it’s back, full bore. I’m about half a step away from having you forcibly removed from the planet—and don’t think I’m bluffing, I’m quite well known to the higher-ups hereabouts, and they’ll take my side a lot sooner than someone uncouth enough to wear his uniform to a resort. Kindly tell me why you’re here so I can ignore you and get back to my nap.”

  “Do you remember Ian Troi? He’s dead.”

  Dax blinked. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” He meant it, too. Troi was a good man.

  “He died on Raknal V, investigating a building collapse—that building then fell on both of us. I managed to get out, he didn’t. The kicker is that the building was sabotaged by Romulans.”

  “Romulans?” Dax sat up. His headache grew worse, but the involvement of Romulans on Raknal V changed everything. “What the hell do they have to do with it?”

  “A very good question to which greater minds than yours are trying to come up with answers,” Vaughn said dryly.

  “I sincerely doubt that you know any minds greater than mine, Vaughn, though I don’t expect you to admit it, either.”

  Vaughn stared at Dax with his steely blue eyes for several seconds. Finally, he spoke. “Do you remember what I said to you on the Carthage sixteen years ago?”

  Dax sighed. “Yes. You said that this wouldn’t come to a good end and that it would blow up in our faces.”

  “I’d say I’m two for two on that score, Ambassador. Hundreds of Klingons and Cardassians have died, and now a Starfleet officer’s been killed. This idiocy has gone on so long, the Romulans are using it as an opportunity to foment chaos for their own reasons. It has to stop.”

  “Agreed. Though I doubt I’ll be able to get Prefect Monor and Governor Qaolin into a room together so they can kiss and make up.”

  “No, but you might use some of that clout with the Klingons that you’re so proud of to get them to focus. They’re pouring all their resources into developing their military for a fight against Cardassia while ignoring the planet that’s the source of the conflict.” Vaughn’s eyes were fairly smoldering. “I’m not leaving this planet without you, Ambassador. One way or another, you’re coming with me to clean up this mess that you’ve made.”

  “Relax, Vaughn, you sold me the moment you mentioned the Romulans. Although I am impressed. I didn’t think you had this level of fire in you.”

  “Ian Troi was a good friend. He died because of your carelessness.”

  “Don’t try to put that on me, young man,” Dax said, standing up. A breeze blew through his white hair. “You said yourself that Romulans killed him by dropping a building on his head. Troi took an oath that he would die in service of the Federation if called upon to do so. I took no such oath, but I did promise to oversee the development of Raknal V.”

  “Obviously it has not developed as you hoped.”

  “Obviously,” Dax snapped. “Well, let’s be off. We can take whatever ship you and your intelligence friends commandeered for the purpose.”

  “Fine, we can go back to your room and pack. Where is it?”

  Dax grinned. “No need.” He indicated the short-sleeved shirt and shorts he wore. “This is all I brought with me. I didn’t expect to need any clothes beyond this. I intended to purchase a Horga’hn tomorrow, you see.”

  “Your self-confidence is—”

  “Well earned,” Dax interrupted, his grin widening, “I assure you.”

 
Vaughn scowled. “If that were the case, we wouldn’t still be tallying the damage from your solution at the Betreka Nebula, would we?”

  “Touché,” Dax said with a dismissive gesture. “Shall we?”

  As they walked toward the resort’s exit, Dax couldn’t resist one final shot. “By the way, I see you’ve grown a beard. I don’t like it. Looks like a sehlat died on your face.”

  Chapter 29

  Qo’nos

  For years, K’mpec had heard stories about “the Great Curzon,” mostly from Captain Kang, who had gone so far as to name his firstborn after the Trill. So, when the High Council received a request from the ambassador to speak before them, K’mpec had been looking forward to finally seeing the person behind the legend.

  What he got was a small, middle-aged, white-haired, smooth-foreheaded humanoid who was indistinguishable from any other small, middle-aged, white-haired, smooth-foreheaded humanoid. Except for the spots. Hardly the subject of song and story.

  However, the body was just a shell. The true heart of a warrior cannot be seen with the eyes—and Kang was also not one to name his firstborn after a weakling. So K’mpec gave the Trill the benefit of the doubt as he stood before the assembled Council, one of the high-ceilinged chamber’s giant floodlights shining down on him, making the black spots that ringed his face almost glow.

  “Councillors—Chancellor Kravokh. I thank you for allowing me to speak before you.”

  Kravokh nodded. “Your service to the Klingon Empire and its people is well noted by the Council, Ambassador.”

  “Again, thank you. It is one of those past services that I wish to discuss with you now. Sixteen years ago at the Betreka Nebula, I proposed—and you all accepted—an arrangement whereby the Klingon Empire and the Cardassian Union would each be given a continent on Raknal V to develop. Whoever proved better able to exploit the planet would be granted full control of it—as well as the sacred remains of Ch’gran. I did this because I knew that a true Klingon would not shirk such a challenge, indeed would rise to it, and fight like warriors to the end.”