Diplomatic Implausibility (13 page)

As Worf suspected, the prime minister had performed very few of the tasks Tiral had assigned her that directly related to dealing with the rebels. Worf handed Tiral the padd on which Wu had compiled the report. Tiral glanced at it, then snarled and threw it across the room. Worf had anticipated this action, which was why he had transferred the report to one of the
Gorkon’s
padds.

“She will die immediately,” Tiral said.

“That would be unwise,” said Worf. “Then the rebels will know we are on to them, and they will go deeper into hiding. As it is, there has been no rebel activity since the
Gorkon’s
arrival yesterday.”

“That could be a coincidence,” Tiral said.

“Possibly. But it is more likely that they are keeping a low profile as long as the Defense Force has an official presence here—and they would not wish to create a bad impression on the very Federation representative they have asked for. But as long as they think that we do not know of their inside person, they will believe they have an advantage. And they have quite a large one, as it is.”

Klag frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I have studied the reports the governor’s security staff made regarding rebel activity. The rebels have been surprisingly successful, and the governor has had great difficulty in capturing any of them.”

Glaring at the governor, Klag said, “Perhaps that can be attributed to poor management.”

“Watch your tone, Captain,” Tiral said.

“My
tone?” Klag stood up from his desk. “When I first arrived here last week, Governor, you were more than happy to blame the High Council for your misfortunes. Since I came back, however, it seems to me that most of the blame can be laid at your feet.”

Worf stepped in. “The answer to why the rebels are so successful cannot be found so simply, Captain. No one is capable of that level of incompetence.” Both men looked inquisitively at Worf. “As I said, I have studied the reports. The rebels have appeared seemingly out of nowhere and returned there when they were finished. There is no evidence of any kind of transporting technology at work—all sensor scans have turned up negative. While it is true that the governor’s security force is made up primarily of Defense Force rejects and cowards, they are generally capable of reading a simple scanner.”

Tiral cursed. “I should have known. I appealed to your
sense of honor, Captain. Instead, I get lies, insults, and slander against my staff!”

“If I commit slander, Governor,” Worf said, walking over to pick up the padd Tiral had thrown, “then so do you. I merely quoted your last report to the High Council.”

Worf thumbed the padd over to the appropriate report and handed it to Tiral. The governor regarded the padd’s screen, and his own words, angrily.

Klag sat back down at his desk. “Since you say that putting the prime minister to death is unwise, Ambassador, I assume you have an alternative? Beyond simply leaving her alive so as not to alert the rebels, that is.”

“Yes.” Worf took the padd back from the scowling Tiral. “I suggest that Commander Drex be assigned temporarily to Governor Tiral, in order to aid him in putting the rebels down. It will not raise suspicions among the rebels, as it is the sort of assignment one might expect.”

Tiral lumbered toward the door. “I expect Commander Drex to report to my office within the hour,” he said, and then left, the guard following on his heels.

As soon as the door closed, Worf said, “Drex’s true function will be to locate the rebel base. In addition, I will require Lieutenant Toq’s services.”

“Is the
Gorkon
your ship now, Ambassador?” Klag said snidely.

“Need I remind you that I command this mission, Captain?”

“You keep insisting on doing so.”

“You keep giving me reason.”

Klag stared at Worf for a moment, then finally said, “Why Drex?”

“Is there any reason why I should
not
have chosen
him? He is, after all, first officer of this vessel, and should therefore be more than capable of handling this duty.”

“In an ideal galaxy, that would be the case, Ambassador.”

“Meaning?” Worf prompted.

Klag rose from his chair. “You know what I mean! Drex is first officer of this vessel due to his family, not his qualifications—a method of advancement you should be intimately familiar with, son of Mogh. Or should that be ‘son of Martok’ now? After all, you do enjoy the benefits of being part of his House far more than you did from being the son of a forgotten warrior three decades dead.”

Worf snorted. “Benefits? Since boarding this vessel, Captain, I have endured slights and insults from you, and a constant flaunting of my authority, though you have been careful to stop short of undermining it. You seem to be doing this solely out of a misbegotten belief that I owe a position granted me by the Federation Council and Starfleet Command to the chancellor of an allied empire. I fail to see how that benefits me.”

Walking around his desk to face Worf directly, Klag said, “You expect me to believe that your being part of Martok’s House had nothing to do with your appointment?”

“What I expect, Captain, is for you to follow my orders for the duration of this mission. For me to expect anything else would be—optimistic.”

With that, Worf turned to leave the captain’s office. As the doors parted, he turned back around to face Klag. “One other thing, Captain.”

“Yes?” Klag said.

“If you ever speak ill of my father again, I will kill you.”

Klag actually smiled. “If I ever speak ill of your father again, Ambassador, I welcome you to make the attempt.”

Worf inclined his head and left, heading straight for the bridge.

He entered to see Drex standing in front of the command chair. Alert lights flashed, but did not give off noise; Drex was obviously running a battle drill.

“Shields!” the first officer yelled, sparing a quick glance at the door to see that Worf had entered. Drex then turned back to the viewscreen, ignoring the ambassador.

“At maximum,” Rodek said.

“Ready disruptors.”

“Locked on target.”

“Fire!”

Rodek pressed a button on his console.

“Direct hit,” Toq said. “Enemy shields at thirty percent.”

“Another spread, gunner,” Drex said.

“Aye, sir,” Rodek said, then added: “They’re firing on us.”

“Evasive!”

“If you insist,” Leskit said, entering commands into his own console, “but it won’t help.”

The lights dimmed to mimic the impact of the enemy fire. “Return fire, gunner! Operations, damage report!”

Toq gazed at his console. “Shields at seventy-five percent. Minor damage to secondary hull.”

“Enemy taking evasive action, Warp 7,” Rodek said. “Disruptors missed.”

“Pursue and overtake, pilot, Warp 9.”

Leskit manipulated his console in uncharacteristic silence, though, of course, Worf did not feel any change
in the ship around him—it was simulated warp speed, after all.

“In weapons range now, Commander,” Toq said.

“Lock quantum torpedoes and fire, gunner,” Drex said.

“Firing,” Rodek said. “Direct hit. Enemy destroyed, sir.”

As always, Rodek sounded like he was giving a report on gaseous anomalies. The rest of the bridge crew, however, cheered. Worf was not sure why. As battle drills went, this was singularly uninspired.

“Stand down from drill,” Drex said. The alert lights stopped blinking at the command. Then Drex turned to Worf. “What do
you
want?”

“I wish to speak to you and Lieutenant Toq in my quarters when you are off shift. I have an assignment for each of you.”

“Really?” Drex said with a sneer.

“Really,” Worf replied with unconcealed annoyance. “I will see you in my quarters when the shift ends. Do
not
be late.”

Drex was late.

Toq arrived right on time, saying that Drex would be along “shortly.” Worf was not entirely displeased, as he hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Toq since beaming aboard.

Worf had first encountered the young man in the Carraya system. Worf had heard that there might be living victims of the Khitomer massacre—to which Worf had thought himself and his nurse the only survivors—in a Romulan prison camp in that system. Mogh, Worf’s father, was rumored to be one of them. When he arrived, Worf had discovered that the rumors were partly true:
several survivors of Khitomer had been taken into Romulan space and lived on the planet, in peace, with the Romulans who had taken them prisoner—though Mogh was not among them. Worf’s father had truly died at Khitomer, as Worf had long believed. They had even raised families—in one case, the Romulan overseer had married a Klingon woman, and had a daughter.

But the Klingon children that had been raised on Carraya knew nothing of their heritage—until Worf, at this point trapped in their prison, started to teach it to them. Toq had been one of those children. Reluctantly, the Romulans had agreed to let Worf take the children who wished to leave back to the empire, on the condition that none of them reveal the truth about Carraya. Worf had created a cover story—that they had been the only survivors of a vessel that had crashed several years earlier—and had helped them reintegrate into Klingon society.

Now Toq, whom Worf had not seen since bringing the young man aboard the
Enterprise,
regaled him with tales of his exploits since joining the Defense Force, ending with his advancement to second officer of the
Gorkon
by challenging and defeating Lieutenant Kegren.

Just as he finished the tale of his promotion, the door chime went off.

“Enter,” Worf said.

Drex came in.

“You are late,” Worf said.

“I am first officer of this ship, Ambassador. Other duties commanded my attention.”

“Those duties will have to wait. From this point forward, you will be detached to Governor Tiral’s service.” Worf quickly explained about Prime Minister em’Rlakun. “As far as the governor is concerned, you are simply aid
ing him. However, your true purpose will be to discover the whereabouts of the rebel base. Assuming, of course,” he added, “that you are up to such a task.”

Drex growled. The first time Worf had heard that growl at Quark’s bar on Deep Space Nine, Worf had been less than impressed. It hadn’t improved with age. He sounded more like a shuttle with engine trouble than a warrior expressing displeasure.

“If you do not think me capable, Ambassador—”

“What I think does not matter. Anyone less than the first officer would be construed as an insult by Governor Tiral. Appearances must be maintained, so I have been forced to settle for you. You will report to the governor’s satellite immediately.”

Snorting, Drex turned and left Worf’s quarters.

I have done what I can, Martok,
Worf thought to his House head.
Either Drex will excel in this task—to spite
me, if for no other reason—or he will fail and prove his
worthlessness. I hope for your sake that it will be the for
mer.

“What of me?” Toq asked.

“I need you to search through unclaimed and Federation space in this sector for a planet similar to taD.”

Toq frowned. “May I ask why, sir?” he asked.

“It may be necessary to relocate some or all of the al’Hmatti. I need to know if that is a viable option. Limit the search to locations no more than two weeks away at Warp 6.” That was the most they could expect out of a Starfleet colonization ship—huge vessels equipped to move vast numbers of people.

“Very well,” Toq said. He sounded as if he wanted to ask why that was considered any kind of option—it was not a very Klingon solution—but he refrained from doing
so.
At least Toq understands the chain of command,
Worf thought sourly.

Relocation was not an ideal solution, and Worf— remembering his recent mission on the
Enterprise
to the Bak’u planet—certainly would only pursue it if the al’Hmatti themselves agreed. But before he could even propose it to them, he needed Toq to determine if it was even feasible.

As Toq left, Wu entered. “Mr. Ambassador, we have a bit of a problem. The rebels just attacked a topaline refinery.”

W
ORF OBSERVED THE WRECKAGE
of a topaline refinery through the viewscreen of Governor Tiral’s shuttle. Most of the roof of the massive, rectangular structure was gone, exposing the inside to the elements. Green emergency lights still lit parts of it, illuminating the shattered machinery that lay strewn about those floors that remained intact—a large hole had been made through three levels. Worf saw al’Hmatti workers scurrying back and forth trying to survey and repair the damage, many at the direction of thermal-suit-wearing Klingons. Several other shuttles flew in and out of the area, evacuating injured personnel and bringing in repair crews.

“What was it you said, Ambassador?” Tiral said angrily. “That the rebels were keeping a low profile because you and the
Gorkon
had arrived?”

“That was speculation on my part,” Worf said calmly. “Obviously, that speculation was erroneous.”

“Obviously,” Tiral said.

Worf, Drex, and Krevor had beamed over to the governor’s satellite as soon as Wu had advised them of the attack. On their arrival, Drex had commenced his new duties as Tiral’s temporary aide, and Worf and Krevor accompanied the governor to survey the destroyed refinery. Tiral saw no reason for the ambassador to go, but Worf insisted.

Worf was getting tired of having to insist every time he gave an order.

The shuttle pilot said, “Lord Governor, I have Supervisor Grul.”

Tiral nodded. “On screen.”

The visage of an older woman appeared on a small screen to the right of the flight console. For the first time since Worf had met him, Tiral’s pudgy face softened. “What happened, Grul?”

“What in Kahless’s name do you think happened, you
stupid
petaQ?
Damned rebels is what happened. Did they
take your brains when they made you governor?”
She looked at Worf, standing next to Tiral.
“Who’s that?”

“This is Worf, the Federation ambassador. This is what the High Council finally sent in reply to my calls for help.”

Grul snorted.
“About time the Federation showed
some sense and got another Klingon to be ambassador.
Well, let me tell you what will solve the problem, boy—crush the damned rebels.”

“One cannot crush what cannot be found,” Worf said neutrally.

“Yeah, well, wish I could help you there.”

“What happened, Grul?” Tiral asked again.

“They came out of nowhere. One minute we’re pro
cessing the latest batch from the southern tap, the next
there’s a bunch of al’Hmatti with shaved cheeks all over
the place. No warning, no alarms, nothing until after they
were deep inside. One of them planted a bomb. Kiln and
Takus tried to disarm the thing, but they couldn’t do it.
And if those two couldn’t, nobody could.”
She sighed.
“Now they never will.”

Tiral growled. “They died well, at least.”

Grul waved her right arm in a dismissive gesture.
“Bah. They’re probably already in
Sto-Vo-Kor,
getting
drunk.”

Worf scowled. “And there was no sign of how they penetrated your security, nor where they went after they planted the bomb?”

“That’s what I meant when I said, ‘They came out of
nowhere,’ boy,”
Grul snapped.

Letting the comment go, Worf asked, “Any prisoners?”

“None breathing. They killed four others, too—three
guards and one of my supervisors. Good people. Not how
they should’ve died.”

“Were any al’Hmatti killed or injured?”

Grul snorted.
“Does it matter?”

“Yes. How many?”

“A couple were injured when the bomb went off. But
the only fatalities or major injuries we’ve found so far
were Klingons,”
Grul said bitterly.

Tiral nodded. “There’s a Defense Force commander named Drex at the satellite. He’s helping me out for the time being. Send your report to him.”

“Fine. Can I get back to work now?”

“Of course, Grul, thank you. I’ll check back later. Tiral out.”

The screen went blank.

“She raised me,” Tiral said suddenly. “My parents
were killed at Narendra III. She was my nursemaid. When I was appointed governor, I put her in charge of the refinery. She is the main reason why topaline production has increased since I took over here. If the rebels had killed her . . .” Tiral closed his gray eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared straight at Worf. “You had best accomplish your mission with dispatch, Ambassador.” He turned to the pilot. “Bring us to the capital. I wish to announce the next round of executions.”

“That would be foolish,” Worf said.

Whirling, Tiral said, “I suspected you would be squeamish about this kind of thing, Ambassador. After all, you were raised by
humans.”
He spat the word out as if it were chilled bloodwine. “If you wish to spare your stomachs, you can return to the satellite. There’s a transporter right behind you.”

“You misunderstand,” Worf said coldly. “I am
not
human. I fully comprehend the laws regarding the treatment of
jeghpu’wI’,
including the policy of random executions to keep them in line. My objections are not moral, but tactical.”

Tiral gave Worf a questioning look. “What?”

“Using random executions against sedition will either deter it or encourage it—allow it to be used as a rallying cry. It should be obvious to you by now which is the case here.”

“It is
policy
—
”
Tiral started.

“Governor, have you ever read any of the publications you instructed em’Rlakun to suppress?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because when fighting a battle it is generally wise to know your enemy.” He pulled a padd out of a pocket in his thermal suit, and thumbed through several displays to
the one he wanted. Handing it to Tiral, he said, “The rebels have been using the executions as a propaganda tool against you and the empire.”

As Tiral read the display, his mouth twisted into a vicious snarl. “Damn them!”

“It may be
policy
to kill random citizens in response to this bombing. But it will also aid your enemy’s cause and weaken yours. That is a poor position to take.”

Tiral handed the padd back to Worf. “Very well,” he said, nearly choking on the words. He turned to the pilot. “Return us to the satellite. There is nothing more we can do here.”

Tiral didn’t even look at Worf for the rest of the journey, which suited Worf fine. He had much to ponder.

Something is wrong,
he thought.
It does not make
sense for the rebels to make such a high-profile move
when they are finally getting what they want.
The symbolism of the attack was as important in this case as the attack itself. The slowdown in topaline production mattered less than the fact that they had damaged a major refinery: a symbol of the empire’s presence. After all, the Klingons would never have come here in the first place if not for the topaline.

But they know that I am here to negotiate a peace at
their request,
he thought.
So why continue with the
assaults?

Perhaps the rebels were factionalized—the group that had advocated contacting the Federation differed from the group that had attacked the refinery.
That would be unfor
tunate.

However, aside from their ill-fated assault on Tiral’s satellite—the fight that the
Gorkon
finished off—the rebels’ campaigns had been fairly successful and well-
organized. That, in turn, bespoke an organized group.

So why continue? What has changed?

And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, he saw it. It was obvious, really.

Worf almost smiled.

As soon as the shuttle docked at the satellite, Worf disembarked and headed for command-in-control, Krevor silently on his heels. Drex was at the workstation Tiral had assigned him.

“What do you want?” Drex asked at Worf’s approach.

“You should shortly be receiving a report from a Supervisor Grul about the refinery attack. Study it carefully. I want to know how the rebels got in and out. However they did so, they used a tactic undetectable by Tiral’s people.”

Drex glowered at Worf. “And you expect
me
to find what the governor could not?”

“I expect you to follow my orders, Commander.”

“Yes,
sir.
Anything
else?”

“No. Carry on.”

Martok, if Drex does not find his own honor soon,
House-mate or not, I
will
have to kill him.

Wu was waiting in the
Gorkon’s
transporter room when Worf and Krevor materialized in a red glow several minutes later. “Report,” Worf said as he stepped off the platform and moved toward the exit.

Reading off his padd as he and Krevor followed the ambassador, Wu said, “You’ve received a few correspondences. Nothing major, but a couple regard matters you’ll need to deal with once we get back to Qo’noS, so you may want to look them over. Also, Lieutenant Toq has found only one suitable world to match your search. It’s
located outside Klingon space—the only planet surrounding a blue giant. Like taD, it’s mostly covered in ice over a saline sea. There was an archaeological survey done about ten years ago—the natives called it Koosbane, apparently, before they died out about seven million years ago.”

“How far?”

“A week at Warp 6.”

Worf nodded. That was something. “Compose a message to Minister T’Latrek. Suggest to her the possibility of the Federation relocating the al’Hmatti.”

“To Koosbane?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

“Let me see the message before you have it sent,” Worf said as they arrived at their quarters. Krevor took up her position outside while Wu and Worf entered.

Wu made some notes on his padd, then said, “Also, I finished compiling the report on Kreel raids in this sector. There have been four attacks on Klingon ships in this area in the last six months.”

“Any commonalities?”

“Rather a big one, actually. Every single vessel they attacked, including this one, had either visited this star system or had it on their itinerary before they were attacked.”

Worf looked up sharply at Wu.

“Quite a coincidence, eh, sir?” Wu drawled.

“Hardly,” Worf rumbled.

Evidently, realizing his sarcasm was ill-timed, Wu cleared his throat and continued: “The encounter with the
Gorkon
was the first time the Kreel had the added defensive capability of the Breen shields, but the other three
were freighters and cargo vessels that couldn’t put up quite the same fight that we did.”

Worf nodded. “Very well. Have you sent the report to Starfleet Intelligence on the Kreel yet?”

“Not yet. Commander Kurak is supposed to give me comm access later today.”

“Good. Add this information to that report. Commander Drex should be sending a report on the refinery raid. I want to see it the moment it is ready.”

“Of course. Is there anything else?”

Feeling his stomachs growl, Worf realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. With an internal smile, he thought,
Mother would be aghast.
“Fetch me some food from the galley. I will be catching up on those correspondences.”

“Very good, sir.”

Kurak headed to her quarters at the end of her shift in an even worse mood than usual. Lieutenant M’Rep had misaligned the warp coils during the last maintenance cycle and had nearly blown up the ship. She had killed M’Rep for his incompetence herself, which was responsible for worsening her mood—it would take weeks for Command to send a replacement.

Then that imbecile human came mewling after communications access. She was in no mood to deal with one of his kind, so she sent him off with some excuse or other.

Vall, at least, had been less irritating. He did what he was told—he had fixed M’Rep’s mistake in much less time than it would have taken the late engineer to do the job right the first time—and made no suggestions for improvement.
Obviously,
she thought,
my threats had an
impact.

Now she just wanted to sleep.

So she was particularly unreceptive to the dead
lingta
lying across her threshold.

Long ago, the men of her province on Qo’noS would leave a game animal of some kind on the threshold of a woman they wanted to court. No one had indulged in the ludicrous practice in generations.

A padd lay on top of the deceased animal. Its screen glowed with what appeared to be verse.

To her horror, she realized it was a love poem.

Leskit,
she thought,
it has to be. It seems he won’t take
“keep away from me” for an answer.

Then she read the poem.

’arlogh