“It is not that simple,” Worf repeated. “The empire cannot simply allow you your independence. That would be a sign of weakness.”
“Yes, and we all know how Klingons hate to seem weak. But it does not matter. We will fight until the Klingons are gone.”
“Or until they kill you,” Worf said. “The empire has been patient with you thus far, in part due to the distractions of the war. You may see it as indifference, but sooner or later, they will grow weary of you and destroy you.”
Re’Trenat started to circle Worf like a predator about to leap on its prey. “We are prepared to die.”
Worf stood his ground, keeping his eyes on re’Trenat. “What makes you think you will die? There is nothing to be gained by making a martyr of you or your people. No, they will kill the innocents, the workers you claim to be fighting for.”
“They’ve tried that.”
“Only on a small scale. That scale will escalate. How far are you willing to go?”
“As far as we have to.” The rebel leader stood on his hind legs and walked up to Worf. Worf looked up at him, unblinking. “You can have Governor Tiral destroy this base, Ambassador. You can seek out other rebel bases and destroy them. You can line up another hundred thousand al’Hmatti and have them shot. None of it will make a difference. I am merely the most overt example—but none of the al’Hmatti will tolerate a Klingon presence on our world any longer. And we will fight for that to our dying breaths.”
Worf nodded. He had, in truth, expected this, but he had also needed to hear it directly from the rebel leader—he needed to know how far they would go.
“For what it is worth,” he said after a moment, “the Federation will not allow you to be exterminated as a race.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” re’Trenat said with a small chuckle. “I am prepared to die, Ambassador, but I’m not eager to.”
“I am waiting to hear from my government. We will speak again soon.”
“I look forward to it,” re’Trenat said, and unlike em’Rlakun, he sounded sincere.
“One last question, re’Trenat.”
“Yes?”
“What is that symbol you all have shaved into your heads?”
Moving one foreleg to his left cheek, where the symbol was shaved, re’Trenat said, “You really don’t know our language, do you? Unlike Klingon, Ambassador, our written language takes the form of pictograms. This one is for victory. We will not stop until we have achieved it, or we have died.”
Worf nodded. “In that, you share much with your foes.”
“Perhaps,” re’Trenat said.
“I will be in touch.” Worf activated the communicator on his wrist. “Worf to Gorkon. Two to beam up.”
The sound of an alert klaxon blared through the communicator. “That will not be possible, Ambassador,” said Toq. “We’re under attack by a Kreel squadron.”
Chapter Eight
KLAG ENTERED THE BRIDGE at a dead run, completely ignoring the pain that lingered in his battered form. “Report!”
Though technically in command until Klag’s arrival, Toq had remained at his operations station. “A squadron of six Kreel ships came out of warp and are closing on our position.”
“Has the ambassador returned from the surface?” Klag moved to his command chair. Behind him, Leskit hobbled to the helm—garnering the pilot more than a few stares of confusion, since he was wearing only a loose, long shirt and his omnipresent neckbone necklace.
Toq said, “No. I have been in contact with him, however, and he’s aware of our situation.”
“Good.” He had the feeling that, if Worf was on board, the ambassador would insist on being on the bridge again, and Klag didn’t need the distraction. Besides, if the Gorkon did fall today, both Worf and Drex would survive on taD, and perhaps complete the mission.
“Take us out of orbit, pilot,” he said to Leskit. “Attack posture. Gunner, ready all weapons and put tactical display on main screen.”
A computer-drawn image appeared on the screen. A green light indicated the Gorkon’s position, six red lights designated the Kreel, and two yellow lights, one large, one small, represented taD and its moon. The Kreel ships were arranged in an ellipsoid pattern: one in front, four in a diamond formation behind them, and then the sixth in the rear. The computer automatically numbered the ships, since Kreel vessels didn’t come with any kind of identification markings—not that anyone ever felt the need to program a way of identifying them into Defense Force computers. Kreel ships didn’t deserve names.
“We’re receiving a message from the Kreel,” Toq said.
This ought to be good, Klag thought. He was tempted not to listen to it—what could the Kreel possibly have to say to him?—but he decided that he needed the laugh. “On audio.”
“Klingon vessel Gorkon. This is the Glione. You standaccused of the destruction of Kreel property—to wit, thevessel Zabag—and of murdering forty Kreel nationals—towit, the crew of the vessel Zabag. You have been tried andconvicted, and this fleet is to carry out your death sentence. If you surrender, you—”
“Audio off,” Klag said. It wasn’t even that good a laugh, he thought with an internal sigh. And only the Kreel would think that a mere six ships comprise a fleet.
Leskit turned to the captain. “Permission to quake in my boots at this dire threat, Captain.”
Toq laughed. “You’re not wearing boots, Leskit.” Laughter spread through the rest of the bridge.
Grinning, Klag said, “Quake on your own time, pilot. For now, change course to one-eight-seven mark nine and proceed at full impulse when I give the order. Gunner, on my mark, I want a full spread of quantum torpedoes at ships one and three.”
“Yes, sir,” said Leskit.
“Weapons locked,” Rodek said, “and the lead ship is firing on us.”
“Not even waiting for a reply before carrying out their sentence.” Klag let out a derisive snort. “Typical. Evasive maneuvers, and prepare to fire and change course.”
Leskit and Rodek said, “Yes, sir,” simultaneously.
“Ships two and four also firing,” Rodek added.
“Fire torpedoes and change course,” Klag said.
Rodek said, “Torpedoes away.”
“Course one-eight-seven mark nine,” Leskit said.
Toq said, “Multiple phaser hits to aft. Shields at eighty percent.”
According to the screen, the six ships maintained formation as they followed the Gorkon. “Maintain course,” Klag said. “Continuous aft disruptor fire on lead ship.” He thought a moment. “Is the Sompek still in this sector?”
Toq paused to check his console. “Yes, sir. They are half an hour away at maximum warp.”
“Signal them that there is a battle they may join if they wish.”
Leskit looked over at him. “Captain, at this speed, we’ll be in the system’s asteroid belt in three minutes. I take it you wish to lose them in the belt?”
“No, I wish the Kreel to think that’s what we’re trying.”
Sure enough, the Kreel changed formation, as Klag had hoped. Three of them hung back and went into a triangle formation, while the other three lined up in a tighter pattern and continued firing on the Gorkon. The rear three ships would remain outside the belt, with only the front three attempting to navigate the hazardous asteroid field.
“Shields now at seventy percent,” said Toq. “And a message from the Kreel. They say we can’t hide in the asteroid belt.”
Good of the Kreel to follow the lyrics to the song, Klag thought as he got up and walked over to Leskit, who was flying one-handed while maintaining the pressure on his wound. “Lieutenant, when we are forty thousand qelI’qams from the perimeter of the asteroid belt, I want you to change our heading to three-two-zero mark one-eight and put us between the two sets of ships.”
“Assuming I can do it one-handed, sir,” Leskit said, shooting the captain a look.
Klag laughed. “If we live through this, Leskit, I’ll
bandage your wound myself.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Captain.”
“Kreel are gaining on us and continuing to fire,” Toq said. “Shields at fifty-five percent.”
Rodek added, “Lead ship is breaking off attack. Their structural integrity field is failing.”
Klag moved over to the tactical station. “Is that the ship that sent the message?” he asked Toq.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The captain smiled broadly. To Rodek, he said, “Keep focusing your fire on that lead ship. When we change course, I want rapid disruptor fire on all six ships.”
“The computer will not be able to target the ships that quickly.” Rodek spoke in his usual matter-of-fact tone.
“You’ll have to do it manually, Lieutenant. If you’re not capable of that—”
“I never said that, sir.”
“Good,” said Klag.
“Fifty-five thousand qelI’qams to belt perimeter,” Leskit called out.
“Another hit!” Toq said—and Klag could hear the worry in the boy’s voice. “Shields at forty percent!”
“Forty-five thousand qelI’qams,” added Leskit, somewhat more calmly.
“Shields on Kreel vessel number two down to ten percent. Damage to their hull,” Rodek said.
“Forty thousand,” Leskit said.
“Standby—execute,” Klag said. He had a tremendous urge to clench his right fist.
The Gorkon swung around on an elliptical course that took it right into the midst of the Kreel ships. The two remaining front ships were caught off guard, and continued firing into the asteroid belt several times before compensating. The three rear ships had their shields up but were unable to return fire before Rodek got each of them with a disruptor blast.
Then, however, each of the Kreel ships got shots off.
“Evasive course, two-nine-zero mark four, execute!” Klag cried.
“Heavy damage to Kreel ships, sir,” Rodek said. “Number five is destroyed, and number one remains out of action.”
Toq added, “Our shields are now down to twenty percent, sir. A few more shots, and we will be defenseless.”
“Klag to engineering. I need more power to the shields.”
“All nonessential systems have been diverted to tactical and life support, Captain,” said Kurak’s tinny voice over the speakers. “You’ve got everything you’re going toget.”
When Emperor me’Grmat XIX woke up, he couldn’t breathe.
Naturally, the servant summoned a doctor immediately, and the fluid was cleared from me’Grmat’s lungs. By lunchtime, everything was fine, and he was the picture of health, for a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old al’Hmatti.
He didn’t tell the physician, of course, that he hadn’t wanted the help. If this was how he was to die, then he was ready for it. But he could neither breathe nor talk—and besides, the doctor knew that she would be put to death by the Klingons if she didn’t do everything in her power to save the emperor.
He lay on his cushion, his appointments for the day all canceled while he rested.
Or so he thought. In midafternoon, a servant came in. “Your Eminence, you have a visitor.”
“I beg your pardon?” me’Grmat said.
“It’s the Federation ambassador, Your Eminence. He insists on being granted an audience.”
Rolling over onto his side, me’Grmat sighed and said, “Let him in.”
The emperor had heard about Ambassador Worf, of course. His arrival with the Gorkon was all the servants had talked about for days. Some said he was supposed to solve the problems with the rebels. Others said he was a Defense Force agent posing as a diplomat. Me’Grmat had to admit to confusion as to why the ambassador would want to see him. The emperor was probably the one al’Hmatti left on the planet who had no congress with the rebels whatsoever. Unless you counted re’Trenat’s constant pleas to the emperor, but me’Grmat preferred not to.
The Klingon who entered was short, like most of their race, and he naturally wore a thermal suit. Another Klingon, a female, followed behind him. Both of them had been injured—the ambassador had a bandage on his left shoulder, and the female had abrasions on her face and her hair was uneven, as if something had sliced off half the hair on her right side.
“Forgive me for not rising,” me’Grmat said, “but my doctor prescribed bed rest. She seems to have a quaint idea that she’s going to keep me alive. In any case, I am me’Grmat XIX. You must be the ambassador everyone is talking about.”
“I am Worf, son of Mogh. I wish to speak to you.”
“Obviously, your wishes are often granted. I wasn’t supposed to see anyone today.”
“This was the best opportunity,” Worf said, walking closer to the cushion. A servant dashed in with a chair that had been liberated from some other room and set it near me’Grmat. Worf sat in it. The female stood by the entryway—must be his bodyguard or something, me’Grmat thought.
“Oh?”
“The Gorkon is currently otherwise occupied, so I thought I would take this opportunity to meet with you.”
“While I’m flattered, Ambassador, I can’t really see why you would wish to see me.”
The ambassador’s mouth twisted somewhat—me’Grmat realized that it was a smirk. “Prime Minister em’Rlakun said much the same thing when I met with her—and that meeting was quite educational. However, it was re’Trenat who suggested I speak with you. When I realized that I would be on-planet for longer than anticipated, he suggested coming to see you.”
“Yes, well, re’Trenat has always had an inflated sense of my importance.”
“He is not the only one,” Worf said, pulling a reader of some sort out of a pocket in his thermal suit. “I have been reading the underground publications that have been disseminated of late. They all speak very highly of you, despite the fact that you continually speak out against the rebellion. And Tiral obviously thinks you’re worth keeping alive. You may be the only person on this planet who is admired by both sides.”
“You’re a diplomat, Ambassador. You should therefore appreciate the art of the compromise. I suppose I once earned that respect from all parties. But now I am simply content to do what I am told by those who gave me this position. If that means speaking out against the rebels, so be it.”
“Interesting,” Worf said, rubbing his chin.
“Fascinating,” me’Grmat said.
“What?” Worf asked, looking perturbed.
“Well, for one thing, until you rather snidely said, ‘what?’ just now, I found myself unable to read your facial expression at all. I’ve been working with Klingons all my life, and you’re the first one who didn’t wear his emotions on his fur, so to speak. I suppose that’s necessary in your line of work.”
Worf did not reply to that, but instead said, “I have been assigned to find a peaceful solution to this planet’s difficulties. According to re’Trenat, you are the most peaceful person on this world.”
Laughing, me’Grmat said, “And again you betray your emotions. Like any Klingon, you have trouble wrapping your snout around the word peaceful.” He sighed. “In any case, Ambassador, I’m not sure such a solution is possible. Perhaps I am what re’Trenat calls me. My primary concern is to die in my bed. And you don’t need to hide your disgust. I know how Klingons feel about that—that you should die with a bat’leth in your hand and a song in your heart. But that holds no interest for me. I wish to simply live out my life in as quiet a way as possible. If that means supporting Tiral, then I shall do it.
“But I will tell you this, Ambassador. This planet is caught in a cycle. Neither side will give up. Death will not deter the al’Hmatti—that’s been fairly proven by this point—and it never deters a Klingon. I suspect your task to be impossible.”
“According to re’Trenat, my task is simple: get the Klingons to leave.”
“But that won’t happen, will it?”
“Not easily, no. Though there is another possibility: relocating the al�
��Hmatti.”
Me’Grmat could not help but laugh heartily at that. So much so, in fact, that he fell into rather a nasty coughing fit. By the time it ran its course, he looked up to see Worf standing over him, a look of concern on his face. “I’m fine,” me’Grmat managed to get out. “Really. It’s my own fault for laughing so hard. Or perhaps yours for saying something so funny.”
“You do not believe relocation to be a legitimate option?”
“No, I most certainly do not. Ambassador, this is our home. The Klingons invaded. It seems to me that they should leave before we should.” Once again, me’Grmat sighed. I seem to spend all my time sighing these days. “Not that either side will. I’m sorry, Ambassador, but you’ve wasted your time coming here. I am just an old man who is waiting for the afterlife to get its act together and take me away. While I appreciate the kind words re’Trenat had for me, they are of no consequence.” Another sigh. “I believe this audience is at an end.”
Worf nodded. “So it would seem. Thank you for your time, Your Eminence.”
Blinking, me’Grmat said, “What?”
“Is something wrong?”
“You called me, ‘Your Eminence.’”
“That is the proper form of address for the emperor, is it not?”
“Oh, it is, it is, but . . . Ambassador, in all the years I’ve been emperor, you’re the first Klingon ever to use that address. Thank you.”
Worf inclined his head, and then departed without another word. The Klingon female followed him.
An interesting individual, me’Grmat thought. A pity Iwon’t get to know him.
Vall stood at his station in engineering, listening to Commander Kurak tell the captain they had everything they were going to get.
Except, of course, they didn’t. But can I tell her that without getting killed?
Then he looked at the shield displays—twenty percent, and falling. Four ships were moving into position around the Gorkon and continuing to fire—though their phaser blasts were weaker and coming less frequently now.
DIPLOMATIC IMPLAUSIBILITY Page 16
