Diplomatic Implausibility (17 page)

One of the al’Hmatti males stepped forward on his hind legs. Worf assumed him to be one of the leaders, if not the leader himself. “Do you think me a fool to believe that such as you represent the
Federation?”

“Do you think your enemies to be such fools as to commit so obvious a deception?”

The al’Hmatti glared at him. “Perhaps not. Identify yourself.”

“I am Worf, son of Mogh. Although Klingon by birth, I was raised in the Federation and served in Starfleet for fifteen years before I was made ambassador after the Dominion War.”

“I’ve heard of you. As I recall, you were involved in the installation of Chancellor Gowron when you served under
Captain DeSoto on the
Endeavour.
DeSoto was Chancellor K’mpec’s arbiter of succession.”

“I served on the
Enterprise
at that time,” Worf said, “under Captain Picard, who was K’mpec’s arbiter. I find your transparent attempt to test me insulting.”

“Perhaps, but I feel it is necessary.” The al’Hmatti stepped forward. “I am re’Trenat. I believe I am the person you have sought out.”

“If you lead these rebels, then yes, you are.”

“Tell me, Ambassador, do you always attend diplomatic negotiations armed?”

“Only ones where I expect to be shot at on sight.”

“Fair enough,” re’Trenat said. “Fetch the doctor for ma’Frnats and the others,” he said to one of the al’Hmatti, who nodded and loped off on all fours. “Come with me, please, Ambassador.”

Another al’Hmatti, a female with yellowish fur, said something urgent in their native tongue.

Before re’Trenat could respond, Worf said, “If I were here to do anything other than talk—I would not be
here
at all. The
Gorkon
would simply obliterate this entire cave system from orbit. That is still an option if I am not satisfied with this meeting.”

“You speak our language?” re’Trenat said.

“No. But your comrade’s concern is obvious. You don’t trust me, even though I am here at your behest. Even though I did not fire the first shot. Even though I am all that is keeping you alive right now. The officers of the
Gorkon
are the ones who found your base, re’Trenat, not the taD authorities. I have not shared this intelligence with Governor Tiral—yet. Whether I do or not depends upon our discussions. If I had, you would not be alive to discuss the matter.”

“Our lives are unimportant, Ambassador. We will do whatever it takes to ensure that our people are free.”

“Including working with the Kreel?”

Some of the al’Hmatti started to hiss. However, re’Trenat simply bared his teeth. “You are well informed, Ambassador. Come—let us discuss the situation.”

“Very well.”

A couple of al’Hmatti moved past Worf, one glaring at him. Worf stared back. He had no desire to harm the al’Hmatti unnecessarily, but he could hardly have responded any other way to a frontal assault.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do anything about your injuries,” re’Trenat said. “Our medical supplies are limited, and I’d prefer to use them on our own people. Besides, I doubt I can convince our doctor to patch up people who killed some of our own.”

“As I said, re’Trenat, we did not fire first.”

The rebel leader did not reply to that, but simply led Worf and Krevor through the tunnel to a more spacious cavern, one in which even the al’Hmatti could comfortably stand upright. Worf found himself subjected to more of the same ugly stares. He ignored them and studied his surroundings. Though not as well lit, nor as clean as the council chambers, they felt more lived-in. Part of this was the complete lack of any Klingon décor, which had seemed clumsily superimposed in the other structure. Although most of the furnishings were weapons, computer equipment, and food storage, he also saw a few paintings. They were quite hideous—Worf hadn’t seen anything that stomach-churning since Data had foisted his “expressionistic” painting of the Battle of
HarOs
on Worf as a birthday present—but also defiantly
not
Klingon. Worf did not imagine that these could have been displayed
anywhere publicly. Neither could the sculpture that stood in one corner; where all the other statuary Worf had seen on-planet were of Klingons, this was of an al’Hmatti standing on her hind legs, hefting an odd-shaped sword that looked like an Earth-style cutlass in one foreleg.

Noticing Worf’s gaze falling on the statue, re’Trenat said, “That is me’Grmat VI—the last true emperor we had before your people removed the teeth from that great office. We keep the statue there to remind us of what we hope to once again have.”

Worf also noticed several readers with familiar-looking titles—they were all on Governor Tiral’s list of forbidden publications.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any chairs,” re’Trenat said as he lay on the floor. “We don’t get many bipedal visitors. In fact, you two are the first. And I’m curious as to how you found us. We were under the impression that these caves were impervious to scans.”

“Emphasis on the past tense,” Worf said.

“I see. Tell me, Ambassador, how did you know we’d contacted the Kreel?”

“It was not difficult—Kreel raids have increased in this area, and every attack has been on a ship bound for this system. Obviously you made a deal with them to raid any supply ships that come into this vicinity.”

“Yes. I had been hoping the Kreel would be less obvious—”

“That is an impossibility with the Kreel.”

The rebel leader bared his teeth again. “So it would seem. In any event, they were more than happy to do anything to disrupt Klingon activity, so they did. They also provided us with some of our weapons, and the ships we attacked the governor’s satellite with.”

“In exchange for what?”

Stretching briefly, re’Trenat said, “Very little—just first opportunity at mining rights once we got rid of the Klingons.” Settling back down into a lying position, re’Trenat looked right at Worf with his obsidian eyes. “So, Ambassador, this brings us to you. Why are you here?”

“An interesting question for you to ask, since it was your request that the Federation get involved.”

“That was four years ago. To be honest, we had given up hope, especially once you and the empire were no longer enemies. That is why we contacted the Kreel—if one enemy of the empire was lost to us, we would try another.”

“In case you have not heard, re’Trenat, there has been a war on. That made things—difficult.”

“Your difficulties are no concern of mine, Ambassador—and neither is your war.”

“That is shortsighted. If the Dominion had won, the Klingon Empire would be the least of your problems.”

“I can’t imagine that the Dominion would be any worse.”

“Then you lack imagination—which I somehow doubt.” Worf picked up one of the readers. “I have read some of your work—at least, I assume it was yours. Though the bylines change from publication to publication, the style has remained consistent. It is obviously the work of a single author.”

Laughing, re’Trenat said, “I’m impressed, Ambassador. Most Klingons wouldn’t pick out such nuances.”

“As I said, I was raised by humans from the age of six—I went to their schools. Human scholars have a tendency to overexamine literature that goes well beyond the pedantic.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know about such things, Ambassador. What I do know is that we asked the Federation for help. Until now, we’ve gotten nothing. Now we have you. And to be honest, I had thought you to be a fraud.”

“I assume that you attacked the refinery once em’Rlakun informed you that the Klingons had ‘lied’ about sending a Federation ambassador.”

Nodding, re’Trenat said, “I’m afraid so. But I don’t regret what we did.”

“You should. My assignment is to bring about a peaceful solution to the difficulties here. Attacks such as yesterday’s do not aid in that process.”

Again, re’Trenat laughed. “Ambassador, forgive me, but the attack was irrelevant to your finding a solution. Indeed, you have the easiest of tasks.
Tell the Klingons to
leave.
Solution found.”

“It is not that simple.”

“It is for me.” Re’Trenat got up from his prone position. “I won’t bore you with speeches about what a proud people we once were, Ambassador. We have always been a contentious, barbaric race. But I believe we have the capacity for greatness within us. The only thing standing in the way of that greatness is the Klingon Empire—an empire that obviously doesn’t care one whit for us. We toil in mines with substandard equipment. We are assigned governors who are fools. And then, when we rebel against the empire, their response is indifference—followed by sending a Federation ambassador. It is obvious that the empire cares little for us, so why should we care for them?”

Re’Trenat spoke with a passion that impressed Worf. He had seen this kind of rallying charisma before, particularly in Shakaar Edon, the former resistance fighter and
current Bajoran First Minister—not to mention the captains he’d served under.

“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.”

K
LAG 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 stand
accused of the destruction of Kreel property—to wit, the
vessel
Zabag—
and of murdering forty Kreel nationals—to
wit, the crew of the vessel
Zabag.
You have been tried and
convicted, and this fleet is to carry out your death sen
tence. 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 tacti
cal and life support, Captain,”
said Kurak’s tinny voice over the speakers.
“You’ve got everything you’re going to
get.”

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.”