Dax started to pace the hall, looking each councillor in the eye as he spoke. “Yet here I stand before you, sixteen years later, and what have you done? Instead of fighting like warriors, you skulk like vermin!”
Several members of the Council rumbled in outrage. Recognizing the obvious rhetorical technique, K’mpec was not among them. Still, had anyone other than the Great Curzon made this statement, their lives would be forfeit—but had it been anyone other than the Great Curzon, they would not be speaking before the High Council in the first place.
“The Klingon colony on Raknal V is a joke, a model of inefficiency run by a drunken former ship captain. The equipment is substandard, the work uninspired, the population barely interested in sustaining their own lives. Hundreds have died due to incompetence, mismanagement, or the dozens of small battles that have erupted between Klingon and Cardassian. Now a Starfleet officer has been killed, a man with a widow and child who cry out for vengeance. What is it we may tell them?”
K’mpec admired the effectiveness of Dax’s oratory. Humans, of course, did not cry for vengeance when their loved ones died—they simply cried. That, and whined about the injustice of it all, as if it were some great revelation that the universe was cruel. But that did not change the fact that an honorable ally died on a Klingon world for no reason other than the apparent incompetence of Klingon builders—or Cardassian sabotage, but K’mpec believed the Federation report that the Cardassians were not responsible.
“I ask you, Councillors—honorable Chancellor—is this how the heroes of Ch’gran are to be remembered? Are the pioneers who paved the road to space with their sacrifice—with their blood—to be remembered as the instigators of a drawn-out, futile conflict? Are we—”
“Enough!”
K’mpec’s attention had been focused on Dax. He turned now to see Kravokh standing in front of his chair of office, his face contorted in fury.
And something else—something K’mpec never imagined he would see in the eyes of a leader of the High Council: fear.
“I have let you speak out of respect for all you have done, Ambassador, but do not try the Council’s patience any further! You are not one of us, you cannot understand the importance of Ch’gran to our people!”
“I understand completely, Chancellor, that is why I think it is important to—”
“Raknal V will be a Klingon world! We have not attempted to take it by force because we abide by our agreements. Do not ask any more of us, Ambassador, or we will be forced to test the limits of our willingness to placate our allies.”
“Are we allies?” Dax asked, a wry smile on his face. “I see an empire that has engaged in a massive military buildup without informing its allies of its purpose or number. I see an empire that has rejected every trade overture made by the Federation over the last ten years. I see—”
“Chancellor!”
K’mpec followed this new voice to its source: the large entryway opposite Kravokh, through which ran a young man in a warrior’s armor.
“Why do you come before us?” Kravokh asked sharply, though to K’mpec’s ears he sounded almost relieved at the interruption.
“We are invaded! The outpost at Narendra III is being attacked—by Romulans!”
Council Chambers then burst into a chaotic jumble. Speculations, accusations, denials, all of them ran rampant through the hall.
“Are they mad?”
“The Romulans would never attack!”
“We must destroy them!”
“Narendra III is of no consequence.”
“We must have vengeance!”
But all K’mpec could think was, Lorgh was right. Curse his beady little eyes, I.I.’s information was correct.
“Enough!” Kravokh’s voice silenced the chamber. To Dax, he said, “Ambassador, for obvious reasons, we must suspend your—discussion until this crisis is resolved. You are welcome to stay in the First City for as long as you wish. We will summon you when we are ready to proceed.”
Dax, to his credit, was completely conciliatory. “Of course, Chancellor. If there is anything I or the Federation can do to be of assistance, please inform me immediately.”
With that, the Great Curzon took his leave.
Once he was gone, Kravokh snarled. “Summon General Krin immediately! Why were we not warned of this possibility?”
The councillor to K’mpec’s left muttered, “We were.”
K’mpec growled, but his fellow councillor was correct. I was a fool. And thousands will die on Narendra III to pay for my foolishness.
“We must be cautious,” said one councillor whom K’mpec knew to be sympathetic to the Romulans. “These could be the actions of renegades among the Romulans. They have been inactive for over thirty turns—why attack now?”
Another who had no clear position on the Romulans said, “Their leader is weakened. Perhaps he wishes to go out in a blaze of glory.”
As the Council continued back and forth while awaiting the general’s arrival, K’mpec found himself tuning it out and thinking ahead to the aftermath of the crisis. He needed to mend fences with Lorgh quickly. Whether this was the action of a few renegades, a new Romulan offensive, or something else entirely, K’mpec needed to know everything that I.I. knew.
A day later, K’mpec found himself calling on Curzon Dax. Although he could have taken rooms at the Federation embassy, Dax instead chose to reserve a room at a Klingon boarding house in the First City—one much closer to the Great Hall than the embassy. K’mpec admired the Trill’s fortitude. Few outsiders had the ability to thrive in Klingon accommodations, particularly ones of Dax’s age.
K’mpec found Dax in the small room, sitting at the workstation, several padds lying in front of him unread. He was sipping from a mug.
“Greetings—K’mpec, is it not? Join me.” Dax held up a bottle of bloodwine from one of the lesser vintners. “We can drink to the honored dead.”
That was a toast K’mpec was willing to participate in, especially given the sheer number of honored dead there were to drink to. Exact casualty figures had not yet been tallied, but hundreds of warriors died defending Narendra, not to mention much of the population of that world—and the entire complement of the U.S.S. Enterprise, a Starfleet vessel whose captain, Rachel Garrett, sacrificed herself and her ship trying to save Klingon lives. Already Garrett’s name was being spoken of in Council Chambers—indeed all over the Empire—with a level of respect that few outsiders had earned.
“To the dead,” K’mpec said after Dax had poured him some wine. “May they battle in Sto-Vo-Kor for all eternity.”
Dax said nothing, but slammed his mug into K’mpec’s, some of the wine splashing over the side. Unheedful of it, he drank the remainder, as did K’mpec, who smiled. The wine was weak, but at least Dax knew how to drink like a Klingon.
“I knew her, you know. Garrett. Fine woman. She deserved better.”
K’mpec frowned. “She died well.”
“I have seen more kinds of death than you would believe possible, K’mpec,” Dax said, his voice slurring enough to make one wonder how much bloodwine he had imbibed before K’mpec’s arrival. “I have yet to see one that could be classified as dying ‘well.’”
Perhaps you do not understand us as well as you think, K’mpec thought, but knew better than to say out loud. Death was life’s sole inevitability—how one faced it was the most important thing anyone could do. How can he understand so much about us and not that?
Dax gulped some more bloodwine, then continued. “You are the sixth councillor to visit me since yesterday, K’mpec. Are you also here to tell me that you should cede Raknal V to the Cardassians, and would have done if not for Kravokh’s insistence?”
Interesting, K’mpec thought. In fact, he had intended to say no such thing. But the fact that five councillors did spoke volumes. Kravokh’s support had dwindled even further than K’mpec imagined. Until yesterday, his policies had been good for the Empire, if a bit single-minded. Now, with the emb
arrassment of the attack on Narendra, Kravokh’s Raknal V obsession had cost Klingon—and Federation—lives, and possibly gained them a dangerous enemy. Not that relations between the two Empires were ever all that friendly—the Romulans were tentative allies even at the best of times—but the new Warbird ships that the Romulans had unveiled in the attack on Narendra were as fearsome as anything the Klingon shipyards had produced of late.
And K’mpec could not get the image of Kravokh’s fear-laden eyes from his mind.
“No,” K’mpec said in answer to Dax’s query. “I wish to discuss what may be done to strengthen our ties to the Federation. You were correct in what you said yesterday. Our alliance is weakened to the breaking point.”
“Not on our end,” Dax said. “I think Captain Garrett showed that quite admirably.”
K’mpec rumbled his agreement. “In that spirit, Ambassador, I assure you that the High Council will not forget Captain Garrett’s sacrifice. And if they are in danger of doing so—I will remind them.”
The ambassador and the councillor spent the next hour discussing possible ways to improve ties between the governments, from trade agreements to increased intelligence sharing between the Defense Force and Starfleet. At the moment, it was simply words, but words led to actions, and the Empire needed to take action.
Especially with regard to the Federation. If we are not careful, we will make enemies of the entire quadrant. We are far past the point where we can rely solely on our own strength.
When he returned to his office in the Great Hall near the Council Chambers, K’mpec was met by one of his aides. “There is news, sir,” the young woman said. “Praetor Dralath has been overthrown. He has been replaced by an aristocrat named Narviat.”
K’mpec smiled. It seems you overplayed your hand, Praetor. Then again, the defiant resistance of the Klingons combined with the Enterprise’s sacrifice made their invasion something less than successful.
The aide added, “And you have received a private message.” She handed him a padd.
Dismissing the aide with a wave of his hand, K’mpec sat and thumbed the padd. It scanned his DNA, then decoded the message—which turned out to have the Imperial Intelligence seal.
Lorgh’s face then appeared on the padd’s display. “I see you finally wish to hear my words, K’mpec. A pity it comes too late for the inhabitants of Narendra III. I will contact you soon.”
An alarm sounded on K’mpec’s workstation: Council was returning to session. K’mpec almost didn’t get up. What is the point? He knew that the pro-Romulan faction of the Council would see the overthrow of Dralath as a reason not to go to war with them.
But no—he had promised Dax that he would remind the Council of Garrett’s sacrifice, and he suspected that such a reminder would be needed now.
A week after his arrival on Qo’noS, Curzon Dax put through a communication to Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan. It was coded with several encryptions that Sarek and his son, Ambassador Spock—who had a facility with computers unmatched in the Federation—had developed. Dax derived a certain amusement from the contortions the Imperial Intelligence eavesdroppers would go through attempting to decode the communiqué, but Dax had every faith in Sarek and his son’s abilities to keep the conversation private.
When Sarek’s face appeared on the tiny viewscreen, Dax’s first words after the pleasantries were of the Vulcan’s son. “How was the wedding?”
“It was a most satisfactory affair.”
Dax grinned. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I’ve always wanted to meet Spock. But leaving Qo’noS now would be unwise.”
“Of course. What way twists the High Council?”
“Every which way, apparently. This situation has gotten intolerable.” He leaned back in the uncomfortable Klingon chair. “And it’s all my fault. My actions at the Betreka Nebula have led to this disaster.”
Sarek raised an eyebrow. “You can hardly blame yourself. Your solution sixteen years ago was both sound and logical. That events have transpired the way they have is not due to any fault in that logic.”
Smiling grimly, Dax said, “Loath as I am to disagree with you, old friend, I’m afraid I must. Who else am I to blame? The mistake was mine because the solution wasn’t sound and logical. It was emotional and stupid, and if I’d been thinking, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“As you yourself observed at the time, the Klingon mindset is ideally suited for a competition such as what you proposed.”
“The Klingon mindset, yes.” Dax leaned forward. “But not the Cardassian mindset. They resented this whole thing from the beginning. I suspect that their disdain for this enterprise is what has led to their continued open hostilities with both the Federation and the Empire. How many have died from this conflict? What about the hundred people on the Chut, and all the blood feuds that the Klingons started as a result of that? What about Ian Troi?” He leaned back again, suddenly feeling exhausted. “And what about Narendra III?”
“You can hardly be held responsible for the ambitions of a Romulan praetor.”
“No, but I can hold myself responsible for giving Chancellor Kravokh something to focus on that distracts him from the possible Romulan threat. I’ve seen a great deal of death in my time, Sarek. I’ve lived over half a dozen lifetimes, outlived everyone I’ve ever cared about, with only recent exceptions—and I fully expect to outlive them, as well, even if I die myself. The joys of joining.” Dax pursed his lips. He hoped Sarek’s encryptions were as good as they were supposed to be; Sarek was one of the few non-Trill who knew that he was both an old man named Curzon and a centuries-old symbiont named Dax, and he didn’t fancy the idea of I.I. finding out—especially this way. But he needed to say this. “So many joined Trill let themselves become inured to it—they allow each lifetime to harden them, make them accustomed to death. But do you know what I’ve learned from Lela and Torias and Tobin and all the others?”
Sarek came as close to a smile as he was ever likely to. “I presume that you learned to treasure life precisely because you have seen how fleeting it is.”
Dax shook his head. “As usual, you know me as well as I know myself.”
“Not a difficult task. You vastly overrate your own self-awareness.”
“No doubt,” Dax said with a bitter chuckle, especially given that he recalled Sarek’s father Skon saying something similar to Tobin Dax once. “But that’s why this hurts so much. It’s not enough that Garrett and Troi and General Worf and so many others are dead—it’s that I’m the one responsible. More to the point, I have to live with, and go on living with it for a very long time.” Dax let out a short laugh. “But enough of my existential ramblings. You know what’s truly ridiculous? Klingon Imperial Intelligence warned Kravokh about a possible Romulan attack, and he ignored it. His entire being has been focused on the Cardassians and on regaining Ch’gran. It’s costing him support. Some of the other councillors are managing to patch up the damage—one in particular, K’mpec, is proving to be a valuable ally—but Kravokh is still focused on Ch’gran to the exclusion of all else.”
“Klingons do have a tendency toward single-mindedness—especially when it relates to something they hold sacred, or something they fear. Since warriors do not admit fear, that makes them all the more fanatical when confronted with it.”
That got a rise out of Dax. “And what, pray tell, is the logic in telling me something you are damn well aware that I already know?”
Again, Sarek’s almost-smile. “Because, my former pupil, you are not asking the right questions.”
Rubbing his chin, Dax thought a moment. “Why is Kravokh so focused?”
“That would be a right question,” Sarek said with a nod.
Dax thought back to his address to the Council. In particular, he remembered the expression on Kravokh’s face when he cut Dax off.
“Fear.” He stared at the viewscreen. “Kravokh is afraid of something. Something having to do with Raknal V—or, more likely, Ch’gran.”
&
nbsp; “If you learn the answer to that question, it may lead you to the path you obviously wish to tread on.”
Grinning, Dax asked, “And which path is that?”
“You will learn that when you find the answer.”
Again, Dax shook his head. “You’ve been reading Zen philosophy from Earth again, haven’t you?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. In any case, you’re right. I need to find out more about our esteemed chancellor.” He grinned. “And I know just the man to help me.” Putting a respectful look on his face, Dax said, “Thank you, Sarek. As usual, you have helped me focus.”
“Pray, then, that you do not outlive me, for who shall give you that focus after I am gone?” Before Dax could formulate an adequate retort to that, Sarek held up his hand in the Vulcan salute. “Peace and long life, my pupil.”
Dax returned the gesture. “Live long and prosper, my teacher.”
After Sarek’s face faded, Dax contacted Starbase 343 and put in a request with the communications officer there for her to track down Elias Vaughn.
As he walked alongside K’mpec toward the entryway to the seat of the House of Mogh, Lorgh felt a combination of uneasiness and pride. The latter was due to the fact that K’mpec was walking alongside him, and not behind him in an attempt to slide a dagger into his back. If all those Klingons—and Starfleet officers, if it came to that—had to die at Narendra III two turns past, at least their deaths had benefitted the Empire. In general, the Enterprise’s sacrifice led to many new trade agreements between the Federation and the Empire, a strengthening of the bonds that Chancellors Gorkon and Azetbur forged fifty-three years ago.
In particular, K’mpec had come to realize the value of Imperial Intelligence. K’mpec had gone from implacable enemy to I.I.’s greatest advocate on the High Council in a mere two years.
A servant opened the door for Lorgh and K’mpec silently, leading them into the sitting room. It was a massive space, with grand double-door entrances (most propped open) to every other room on the ground floor, as well as a staircase leading to the second level. Each piece of furniture sat next to a pedestal on which statuary rested; the walls were hung with weaponry, primarily from the Third Dynasty, and an especially fine tapestry that took up the entire south wall, rendering Kahless and Lukara at Qam-Chee. Lorgh recognized the work of Danqo, an artist renowned for sewing tapestries from the fur of animals he killed with his bare hands—though Lorgh knew that he had become sufficiently renowned that he now had a massive estate where he bred the animals, which were mostly killed by assistants hired for the purpose. Still, only the richest Houses had Danqo’s work.
The Art of the Impossible Page 24
