“So what do we do, just give them the planet?” Klag said with disdain.
“That may be an option,” Drex said.
Angrily, Klag rose from his chair. “Might I remind you, Commander, that the chancellor—your father—has made it clear that the planet must remain under Klingon rule?”
To Klag’s surprise, Drex said, “I can speak my own mind, Captain.”
Worf said, “And I answer to the Federation, not Martok. This is my mission, and I will proceed as I see fit. When the rebel base is located, I will beam down to meet with them, alone. You will not inform Governor Tiral that we have found the base until after I return, if then. Is that clear, Captain?”
Klag was about to argue, then stopped short. That voice in the back of his head chose that moment to ask, Why are you arguing with him? Your orders were very simple: conduct the ambassador to taD and aid him in his mission. His mission, not yours. If he wishes to beam down alone, let him. Perhaps he’ll get himself killed and do us all a favor. And if not, it’s not your concern.
So Klag simply sat back in his chair and said, “It’s quite clear, Ambassador.”
“Good. Inform me when Toq has located the base.”
Chapter Seven
WORF LOOKED OVER THE MAP Toq had created, based on the young lieutenant’s sensor sweep of taD on the computer screen in the ambassador’s cabin. Toq himself was also present, going over what he had found, pointing out where readings were spotty, and also the areas that seemed to have the greatest activity.
Of course, Worf could have figured all that out himself, but Toq had insisted on leading the ambassador through the map.
“This appears to be the primary base of operations.” Toq pointed to an area highlighted in yellow. “We’re getting occasional emissions, and most of the life signs have come from there.”
“Good. Thank you, Toq.”
“Ambassador . . .” Toq started.
“Yes?”
“I understand that you are going to the planet alone.”
“Yes.”
Toq opened his mouth, closed it, then stood ramrod straight. “May I speak freely, sir?”
“Of course.”
“You should not go alone!” Toq said, sounding almost pleading. “The rebels hate us! You will be shot on sight!”
“Bekk Krevor will accompany me. She will ensure that I remain safe.” As it was, she was only doing so because Klag insisted. Worf would have preferred to go alone, but he would not be responsible for Krevor being derelict in her duty—especially since that would require Klag to have her put to death.
“It is not enough. You should go down in force.”
“If my objective were to make war with the rebels, I would do that very thing. But I am attempting to settle this conflict peacefully.”
“Why?” Toq asked, gesturing wildly. “We are warriors!”
Worf smirked slightly. It is difficult to believe that this is the same boy who told me on Carraya that he had no interest in being a warrior. “A true warrior picks his battles carefully, Toq. Simply crushing the rebels would not bring victory—it would only complicate an already difficult situation. It will take more than simple might to end the conflict with the al’Hmatti.”
Toq inclined his head. “If you say so, sir,” he said dubiously. “But I still think you should at least take one more guard. I would be happy to volunteer for that duty, sir.”
“That will not be necessary.”
“I am simply concerned for your welfare, Ambassador. No one appreciates your combat skills more than I—but I’ve been reading dozens of life signs down there, at least. You would be horribly outnumbered. I simply wish to guarantee your safe return to this ship.”
Worf remembered speaking those very words to Commander Riker just before he went off to the Pagh—ironically, to serve with Klag. And he had said it after giving Riker a particular piece of equipment—one that wound up helping Riker salvage the near-disaster that the Pagh captain had made of their mission.
“Perhaps you can aid me, Toq. Are there any emergency transponders on board?”
“Of course.”
“I will require one, as will Krevor. If either of us activates it, beam us both back immediately.”
Toq grinned. “Yes, sir. It will be my pleasure.”
“One other thing.” He handed Toq a padd with the schematics for the portable scattering field generator he’d been working on. “Can the Gorkon’s replicators create this?”
Toq looked over the specs. “We can, sir, but at that size, it will only work for a few minutes.”
“That should be sufficient. Have one replicated by the time I’m ready to beam down.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant turned and left. Before the door could close all the way, it opened again to let Wu in.
“Sir, I hate to be a bother, but Commander Kurak says that she can’t give me access to the comm systems without your direct authorization.”
Worf blinked. “That is ridiculous.”
“I thought much the same thing, sir, but the commander didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue. Under the circumstances, I thought it more prudent to simply obtain your permission.”
“QI’yaH,” Worf muttered. It would be a nice change if someone on this vessel—other than Toq—cooperated. “Worf to Kurak.”
A crashing sound came over the speakers.
“Commander?” Worf asked.
Then a whizzing sound, followed by more crashing.
Then laughter. Male laughter.
Then Kurak’s voice: “Go away!”
Then the connection was cut.
Worf looked at Wu. The aide was grinning widely. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “we can wait until later.”
“No,” Worf said, “we cannot. Kurak is obviously off duty, so we will speak to the present duty officer. Come with me.”
Worf purposefully exited his quarters. Wu and Krevor both struggled to keep up with his long strides.
He entered engineering. Various crewmembers attended to their stations. “Who is the duty officer?” he bellowed.
“Uh, I am, sir.”
Worf turned toward the hesitant voice. It belonged to Vall, sitting at the environmental controls. Every time Worf looked at the assistant chief engineer, he felt as if he was back in the Federation. How has he survived in the Defense Force this long?
“Lieutenant, I have just been informed by my aide that he was denied access to the Gorkon’s communications systems.”
Vall nodded. “Yes, sir. Commander Kurak said he needed authorization from the ambass—” He cut himself off and blinked. “That would be you, sir.”
“Consider my authorization given, Lieutenant.”
Fidgeting in his chair, Vall said, “Sir, I really think that Commander Kurak needs—”
Worf stood over the lieutenant, placing his hands on the arms of the chair, effectively blocking Vall from getting up. “Consider. My authorization. Given.”
Vall gulped. “Your, ah, your aide’s welcome to—to use the comm systems any time, Ambassador.”
“Good. He needs to use them now.”
Clapping his hands, Vall said, “Of course, Mr. Ambassador. I’ll, ah, I’ll just need you to stop looming over me, sir, so I can get up and, ah, and conduct Mr. Wu to the console.”
Worf stood up straight, allowing Vall to rise from his chair.
“Right this way,” Vall said to Wu, and the pair of them moved toward a corner in engineering.
Krevor approached Worf. “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking—why do this in person? Why not just use the intercom?”
“Some things require the personal touch, Bekk. And intimidation is a skill that needs to be practiced.”
“I’ll remember that, sir.”
Klag slew the Vorta again. He thought it would be better this time—he’d finally gotten the smells right, for one thing, and it got his blood boiling—but there still seemed to be something lacking.
It was just too damned easy.
Every time he relived the Battle of Marcan V in the holodeck, it got easier. He wondered if the scenario as he had programmed it—based on his memory of the incident—matched what had truly happened.
Klag had told the story of Marcan V many times in the months since the battle—including once, very recently, to a strange tavern full of fellow ship captains. A song had been written about his exploits and sung at one of the many postwar festivities on Qo’noS—Klag had yet to grow tired of listening to the recording. Typically, Klag had embellished the stories with retellings, and he wondered if those embellishments had also been programmed into the scenario.
Only one way to find out, he thought.
“Computer, restart program with new parameters,” he said. “Create a new plan of attack for the Jem’Hadar based on Dominion War battle reports. And,” he added, suddenly inspired, “replace the seven Jem’Hadar with seven different ones, chosen at random. Create them using information from available prisoner-of-war and intelligence databases.”
The computer screen blinked the word wait for several seconds before flashing the word ready.
Klag smiled. “Begin.”
Once again, Klag stood at the Pagh wreckage. Once again, he moved toward where the Jem’Hadar ship crashed.
A Jem’Hadar materialized sooner than expected and cut Klag down.
The holodeck had a mortality fail-safe—after all, there was no honor in dying at the hands of a hologram—so the Jem’Hadar did not actually kill Klag. The blast from the creature’s weapon did, however, break a rib or two.
“Computer, restart program.”
The second time, Klag brought a scanner with him. He managed to slay the first Jem’Hadar—just as the second one materialized behind him and “killed” him.
The third time, the first one attacked Klag’s right side, leaving him defenseless.
The fourth time, Klag managed to get through three of them before he was stopped.
The fifth time, he didn’t even make it past the first one.
The sixth time, he threw nostalgia to the wind and substituted a disruptor for the mek’leth. He killed four Jem’Hadar that time.
The seventh time, he was stopped before he even saw any Jem’Hadar.
The eighth time, he realized two things. One was that the circumstances on Marcan V were unique. The adrenaline surge he had gained from the anger at seeing his crewmates massacred made up for the inherent tactical flaw of going after seven Jem’Hadar while crippled—and was impossible to re-create on a holodeck.
The other was that, his long hours of practice notwithstanding, he was a very long way from being properly skilled at fighting one-handed.
“Computer,” he said, breathing heavily now from his exertions, and from the multiple injuries he’d sustained in eight straight hand-to-hand fights, “delete Marcan V program.” No more living in the past.
Klag left the holodeck and headed for the medical ward.
He strode purposefully down the corridor, not allowing the great pain he was in to show. He was the captain, after all. And it’s time I started acting like it.
Rodek passed him in the corridor. “Captain,” the gunner said respectfully.
“Lieutenant.” Realizing that Rodek was reporting for his shift—a watch during which Klag was also supposed to be on the bridge, especially with Drex currently detached to Tiral—Klag added, “I will be on the bridge shortly. I have something to discuss with Dr. B’Oraq. Toq is in command until I return.”
“Yes, sir,” Rodek said, and Klag noticed the distaste in
Rodek’s voice. Rodek had never been particularly demonstrative in the past.
“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir. At least, nothing with which you need concern yourself. It is—personal.”
“If you have a personal problem with Lieutenant Toq, I suggest you keep it to yourself, Rodek. The first time I see evidence of it on the bridge will also be the last.”
“Yes, sir,” Rodek said.
Klag nodded, and continued on his way to the medical ward. That felt good, he thought.
B’Oraq was finishing off a report. Two of the engineers had spent their off-duty time doing bat’leth drills, and one had cut the other’s arm open. Pretty standard stuff. B’Oraq had to admit to being bored. She missed the war. Then, at least, she was always busy. Now, though—they had been in space for a month, and seen only two battles, both of which had been won handily by the Gorkon with minimal injuries. She had only disposed of two bodies, and her days mostly consisted of the usual contusions of everyday life.
Then the captain walked in.
The doctor’s first thought was that Klag had come in to tell her that he’d changed his mind and she had to get rid of the prosthetics. This was based partly on the determined stride with which he entered, as if he had something important and dangerous on his mind.
Her second thought was, He’s in terrible pain. This was based on his near-collapse the minute the door closed and no one but B’Oraq could see him. Only the fact that he fell to his left kept him from striking the deck—he braced himself against the wall with his one remaining arm.
“What happened to you?” B’Oraq asked as she ran to him, medical scanner in hand.
“Holodeck,” Klag said through gritted teeth.
She guided him slowly to a biobed and ran the scanner over him. “Seventeen broken ribs, multiple blaster-fire burns, fractured pelvis ...” She gave up reading all the injuries aloud. “What were you doing in there, Captain, reliving the entire war?”
“No, just my little corner of it. And I’ve come to a realization. You were right.”
B’Oraq had grabbed a bone-knitter, and now almost dropped it. “What about?” She started applying the knitter to Klag’s chest.
“My arm. I must report to the bridge once you are done healing me here, but at a later time—I think I will want to talk further about doing something about my lack of a right arm.”
B’Oraq smiled. “I look forward to it, Captain. I’ve got the latest prosthetics that can—”
“You misunderstand me, Doctor,” Klag said, his mouth twisting into an expression of disgust. “I have no interest in grafting one of those foul contraptions onto my shoulder.”
Blinking, B’Oraq said, “In that case, Captain, I’m—well, confused. What other way can we ‘do something’ about your arm?”
“After our last conversation, I took a look through the files in your medical database—to see what I can expect from my Federation-trained medical officer. I noticed that the precursor to prosthetic attachments was live transplants.”
The doctor couldn’t help but laugh. “Captain, transplants are an outmoded, barbaric form of medicine. You can only use a limb from a recently deceased Klingon with the same blood type as you, and your body may reject even a compatible transplant. With the prosthetic, there’s a ninety-five-percent chance of success—with a transplant, even if I can find a viable donor, there’s only a sixty percent chance at best.”
Klag slammed his one fist onto the biobed. B’Oraq hastily switched off the bone-knitter. As it was, Klag’s actions moved his body sufficiently that B’Oraq came within a crest’s-breadth of fusing one of Klag’s ribs to his lower aorta.
“I am a warrior! Perhaps you do not know what that means, Doctor, but I do. I will not place a machine on my person and call it part of me. If I am to restore my warrior’s prowess by replacing my arm, I will do it with the limb of a warrior.”
“Captain, if you wish me to heal you, you have to sit still,” B’Oraq said, trying to keep her voice calm. But her head was swimming. She struggled to keep her hand steady as she turned the bone-knitter back on. “Let me understand this correctly. You not only wish me to perform an antiquated medical procedure on you that may not even work, but it has to be with the limb of a warrior. Not just any Klingon whose biology is compatible with yours.”
“Whether it is biologically co
mpatible is irrelevant.”
Maybe to you, B’Oraq thought, but wisely chose not to say out loud.
“What matters,” Klag continued, “is whether or not the arm belongs to someone who is worthy of having his deeds continued on my person. Your task, Doctor, will be to assemble a list of donors. You will make whatever medical determinations need to be made, but I will approve the list on the basis of their worthiness to be part of the Hero of Marcan.”
Shaking her head, B’Oraq said, “Sir, the chances—”
“Those are my orders, Doctor. Are you finished?”
Moving the bone-knitter down toward Klag’s hip, she said, “With the ribs, but there’s still—”
She was interrupted by the door opening once again. Leskit and Kurak entered, the latter supporting the former, who had a long gash in his left thigh. They were both out of uniform—in fact, they were out of almost everything, each wearing only a long, loose shirt.
“You didn’t tell me you had a sword there,” Leskit was saying.
“I never expected us to make it all the way to—Captain!” she said quickly upon sighting Klag, who sat up at the intrusion.
B’Oraq took Leskit from Kurak and brought him to another biobed. “What happened?”
“Slight accident with a sword,” Leskit said. “It’s minor.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” B’Oraq examined the wound. In fact, Leskit was right, it wasn’t that bad. The cut was long, but not very deep, and would be simple to repair.
However, since the captain’s injuries were more serious, B’Oraq handed Leskit a bandage. “Put pressure on it. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
She started repairing Klag’s pelvic fracture. B’Oraq was more than a little surprised. She hadn’t thought Kurak the type to engage in a shipboard liaison, least of all with Leskit. Such an act required a level of frivolity that B’Oraq hadn’t given the engineer credit for.
But then, she thought, it seems to be my day for beingsurprised by the personnel of this ship.
DIPLOMATIC IMPLAUSIBILITY Page 14
