Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (22 page)

Krenn heard the sound of a fresh charge slide going into a weapon. He moved, quickly, to the inner door.

Akhil stood by the bathroom door, which was closed; he spun as Krenn entered, disruptor level. He fired. The doorframe exploded next to Krenn; metal struck him, and the shock wave knocked him down, took the gun from his hand.

Akhil said, “I knew you’d get out of the freezer,” he said, “but how…oh. The cargo stage.
Kai
the Captain.”

Krenn groped for his disruptor. Akhil fired again, high. Molecules of wall tore themselves apart. “Don’t, Krenn. Don’t force me to kill you. It isn’t
necessary.
Is Maktai dead?”

“Not…quite.”

“It can be an execution, then. Too bad for Mak, but someone has to die for killing the Human, and it’s not going to be me, and why should it be you? The Navy won’t mind—it’s the Security chief, after all. But it has to be one of us; anyone any lower, and they’d fry us for incompetence.”

“Why?”
Krenn said.

“You
can’t
see, can you?” Akhil said, sounding very tired and sad. He gestured at the bathroom door. “How that thing in there has you…
enslaved?
”

“What did you call me?”
Krenn said, and almost succeeded in sitting up; but he fell back again.

“
Not
willingly,” Akhil said, shaking his head violently. “Maybe it’s psionic, I don’t know. The rest of the race we saw on Earth—we’ll have no trouble with them. But we’re taking
this
one to the Imperial Council. That just mustn’t happen, Thought Ensign.” Akhil turned back to the door, pressed the cone of his disruptor against the panel, thumbed fire.

There was an explosion that blew the door out of its frame, throwing Akhil backward in a cloud of steam; he clutched at his face with scalded hands, fell nearly on top of Krenn as a wave of water drenched them both. Krenn grabbed for the Specialist and missed; Akhil crawled away, staggered to his feet, went for the corridor door.

Krenn found his pistol, pulsed the trigger. The shot shattered a clearprint on the wall. Krenn pulled himself up; his midsection felt like a bowl of lumpy pudding.

Akhil disappeared through the door. Krenn stumbled after. When he reached the corridor, Akhil was working at one of the Computer Room’s security doors. They dared not use weapons in the machine room, Krenn knew; if Akhil got inside he would have to be pried out with bare hands. And long before that could happen, he could kill
Fencer
and all of them, by killing
Fencer
’s brain.

Krenn braced against the office door, fired. The pistol buzzed dry of charge. Akhil did not even look up from the lock.

The heavy shielded door moved inward, then slid aside. Krenn tensed to leap; it hurt enough to make him dizzy.

Kelly stepped around the curve from the portside transporter, pointed Maktai’s pistol and fired. Akhil was slammed against the edge of the door, but stayed on his feet. Kelly shot him again. He took a step, and she ran to where he stood and kicked, Swift-like, to the back of his knee.

Akhil fell down and did not move.

Kelly turned to face Krenn; her arm still dangled. Krenn felt hands touching him: Dr. Tagore, his clothing wrinkled and wet but otherwise undamaged, was guiding Krenn to a chair.

“You weren’t…in the bathroom.”

“I closed the drains and opened all the taps, then went out again, closing the door. I’d merely hoped the water would distract him, but Commander Akhil did not even check that the door was not locked.”

“Klingons always lock doors,” Krenn said. “Where were you?”

“A custom of my race, in the presence of danger…. I was underneath the bed.”

“You almost convinced me,” Krenn said. “I thought you would not fight. It was…a good trick.”

“I did not fight,” Dr. Tagore said calmly. “I simply did not allow myself to be too easily killed.”

And Krenn laughed, not because it was absurd but because he saw the reason of it. “Emanuel…are you psionic?”

“No, Krenn. I have been tested, on Vulcan. I am not.”

“Then Akhil was right,” Krenn said, feeling his senses fading, as in a warm bath. “The Imperial Council must beware. Now that their Imperial Intelligence has failed to protect them…”

“Akhil did not act for II,” Krenn heard, and though he could no longer see, the voice could not be anyone’s but Kelly’s.

“I do.”

Krenn and Dr. Tagore were playing
klin zha,
with Krenn’s set, when the call came to announce that Akhil’s body had been transported into space at maximum beam divergence. Krenn acknowledged and made his next move.

Dr. Tagore said, “I believe I once told you I had a theory, about the Klingon observance of death.”

“You did not say what it was.”

“Well, it isn’t popular among my colleagues…. At any rate, whenone of our race dies, we hold a ceremony, sometimes simple, sometimes very elaborate.”

“You
celebrate
a death?”

“Commemorate, rather.”

“And the one dead appreciates this.”

Dr. Tagore smiled thinly, said, “That depends on the culture. But the practical function is to allow the survivors a vent for their grief, a time when emotion may be released, shared.”

“Sharing diminishes the…grief?”

“Such is our experience.”

Krenn said, “We do not do this.”

“I know. And I wonder what happens to the energy, the stress…. I think it helps to drive your culture. To expand…to conquer, if you like.”

“Nal komerex, khesterex,”
Krenn said, distracted from the game, annoyed to have even such a small reminder of Maxwell GrandissonIII.

“I know that, too. And your environment is hostile, and your life-cycle is short and rapid. As I say, my hypothesis is not popular.”

Krenn massaged his jaw.

“Klingons do not weep, as many races do,” Dr. Tagore said idly. “A different set of facial nerves is stimulated by stress. The Klingon in deep emotion bares his teeth, as if to say ‘stay away, until this feeling is past.’

“The isolation that results is…not unknown among Humans.”

Krenn won the game, congratulated Dr. Tagore on his growing skill at
klin zha,
and went out.

He found Kelly in the Officer’s Mess; she was alone, her plate empty, watching the naked stars flow past.

She did not turn as he approached, and he knew she was being politely deaf; twenty days after the incident there was still a plastic splint on his hip, and he made a good deal of noise in motion.

He understood, now, why her movements had become deliberate, un-Swift-like: she had been imprisoned in her body for far longer than he would be.

Now there was a sheathing of surgical plastic on her shoulder, where
Fencer
’s Surgeon had again replaced the joint with a new metal one. This time it was minor, though. Only the changing-out of a part.

Krenn sat down. She greeted him.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

“I wonder,” Krenn said finally, “what Meth of Imperial Intelligence will say about this whole affair?”

“Operations Master Meth is never concerned with methods,” Kelly said. “Only results.”

Krenn nodded, watching her: the curve of her throat, the slant of her white eyes. He reached over and touched her arm, carefully avoiding the nerves.

She stood, looked at him. Her face was quite empty, though never so dead as Meth’s. “You are the founder of a line,” she said. “I can be no part of that; I am a fusion, and I do not even know what manner of fusion, so that children might be created.”

Krenn said, “Does Meth have that information?”

She said, “You know that Meth only uses those he controls. I have been part of injury and death to your crew. And…you are injured; I would cause you…pain.”

“I know that,” Krenn said.

She began to walk away. He caught her hand, held it; she shook at the movement of her shoulder. She said, “I cannot be trusted, and I am not Klingon.”

“Akhil was Klingon.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me,” Krenn said, “something that I do not already know.”

He released her hand. She looked at the stars racing by, and nodded, and went out, walking again slowly, each movement carefully chosen.

But if one knew how to look, Krenn thought, she was dancing.

He followed in her steps.

Twenty-six select members of the Imperial Council sat and reclined facing Krenn. There was a large Navy faction, some Marine officers, several political Specialists, and two Imperial Planetary Governors.

The Audience Chamber was an enormous, multisided room. Random panels of colored and reflective glass dissected the space near the ceiling, bouncing and diffusing soft light. The air was pleasant, though not so warm and damp as to induce sleep. Woven into the carpeting was an Imperial trefoil some ten meters long: Krenn stood behind a narrow glass podium at the figure’s center.

“Supply of arms to the worlds Tcholin III and Wilda’s Planet has caused the dominant factions to favor the Empire as a partner in development,” Krenn said. He had no notes to read from: he was allowed none. He watched the audience. Admiral Kezhke was there, aging and still overindulgent. And there was Admiral Kodon, the hero of the Romulan Frontier. Krenn did not look directly into Kodon’s face.

“These arms are of course all inexpensive sonics. No translator technology has been supplied. The sale is aided by the fact that Federation machines translate all
vird’dakaasei
as
disruptor,
regardless of their actual operating mode….”

There were half a dozen
tharavul
standing like sculpture behind the Klingons they served-observed. A few servitors carried trays with food, drink, and incenses: they were
tharkuve,
deaf in a more literal sense than the Vulcans.

“Four more worlds along the Alshanai Rift have made advances of peace. They will not commit to abandoning the Federation, but they have been made to understand that the Federation cannot protect them from Orion pirates.

“If this technique is to be expanded, it will be necessary to simulate Orion attacks, as the cost of purchasing actual pirate raids will become unacceptable.”

There was a throne in the Chamber, but it was empty. A crown rested on it, in token of the Emperor’s presence. Kadrya had chosen iron as the substance for his crown. It was generally a free choice by each Emperor, though none since Keth the Centenarian had presumed to wear imperishable gold. And none had imitated General Kagga, who despite that he was under sentence of death for rebellion had been granted the accession, allowed to reign for the twentieth part of one day, and executed upon the throne: a grand end move of the
komerex zha.
Kagga’s crown had been branded, on the flesh around his skull.

“The Federation authorities propose to convene one of the meetings of all members they call
Babels,
to discuss their terms of union. Such meetings require roughly one year to assemble all delegates, because of travel time.

“That concludes this report of the Imperial Contacts Branch, Captain Krenn sutai-Rustazh reporting.”

There were polite nods. Krenn saluted and went out of the Chamber. There was a transporter link to his hotel; he nodded to the operator and stepped onto a disc.

Krenn found himself standing on the smallest transporter stage he had ever seen: there was only a single disc, which was enormously wasteful of control equipment; even home stations had three. The only other things in the room were an unattended control console for the transporter, and a blank metal door.

The door receded a few centimeters, then slid aside. It was a good fifth of a meter thick. Supposing his presence was either invited or commanded, Krenn went through.

He entered a small, dim room. The only furnishing was a desk, with a computer and a flask of pale liquid on its top. The far wall was all glass, tilted slightly outward. A tall, broad-shouldered Klingon, dressed entirely in black, stood looking out the window, his back to Krenn.

Without turning around, Operations Master Meth said, “Do join me, Captain Krenn.”

Krenn took a step; the door closed behind him, and he heard it seal. He went to the window.

He was looking down on the Audience Chamber he had just left. The Council members had changed slightly; more Administrators were present, fewer Navy. Approaching the podium was Dr. Emanuel Tagore, dressed in a straight-lined white gown with a dark red sash.

They were hidden among the glass panels of the ceiling, Krenn understood;
how
they could be here, he did not know.

Dr. Tagore bowed, began to speak. His words were inaudible.

Meth held out a wireless earphone to Krenn. He took and inserted it, noticing that Meth did not wear one. Krenn wondered if he had a direct implant. Klingons rarely had such things, wary of taps, of mind control, of feedback signals to set the mechanism burning. But Meth…

“The exchange of athletes between the Year Games and the Pan-Federation Olympics,” Dr. Tagore was saying, “would reduce the need for prizes to fight in the Games, and allow trials other than deadly combat. There are already many such events in the Year Games, and they are honorable.

“As for the passage of damaging medical data, the required screenings could be conducted entirely by medical tricorder, the machines’ recording function being disabled: even if a contestant were to be disqualified, none would know the exact reason. Dr. T’Riri,
tharavul
to Thought Master Ankhisek, tells me this is easily possible for Vulcan technicians…”

Meth said, “It is remarkable to watch him. Given only a little more time, the Council would approve this proposal…. After four years, most of them believe he has taken their part. When in fact they have taken his.” Meth’s lips curled in his plastic smile.

Krenn said, “Does he know he’s been called back to Earth?”

“Oh, yes. Since you were so readily available, there was no need to delay the message….” Meth looked down again. “He knows, and still he delivers the speech, as if there were still a Federation united behind him. One could almost believe the one believes in his proposals for their own sake.”

“Perhaps the one does.”

“Ah, I had forgotten you were close,” Meth said. Krenn knew he had done no such thing. “No, I don’t think so. That technique is useful, on the lower levels. The assassin’s gun may believe it is a surgeon’s laser. But the assassin must know the task.” Meth gestured toward Dr. Tagore with a disguised hand. “I have become very respectful of this Human, Captain, and I think he is a craftsman, not a tool…. His reaction, when he received his message of recall, was interesting to watch. If you would care to see it, a tape may be arranged.”

“No,” Krenn said. “Is the ship ready?”

“Quite ready. Kezhke was most helpful, again…. He has strong beliefs about you, sutai-Rustazh.” There had been no change in Meth’s tone. Krenn realized, for the first time, that he had never heard the Intelligence chief’s linename.

Before he could say something dangerous to himself, Krenn said, “And the ones requested?”

“Commander Maktai and Lieutenant Commander Kelly are of course yours, and excellent choices.”

“Commander Kelly?”

“As of tonight, yes. Ranks are not difficult to obtain. Authority is rather more so…but that, of course, is your problem. As for the other, it has been arranged. You understand the limitations?”

“Thought Master Ankhisek himself explained them.”

“And you understood him?
Kai
the thought, Captain.” It was almost a joke: Thought Captain. Krenn wondered if it were meant as one.

Meth said, “I’m certain that you understand the mission, so I suppose you are ready for cruise. The Red File will be transferred aboard just before you depart.”

“I will be ready whenever the Ambassador is.”

“He is already. He is leaving all his effects, except for some clothing and his library. He explained that he is only traveling to a conference; the Embassy remains in existence.” Meth looked down at Dr. Tagore, as did Krenn. Krenn found that even from the high angle, the Human did not seem diminished. Krenn turned, a very slight movement, to watch Meth, but Meth’s face gave away nothing, his eyes might as well have been glass behind holes in the plastic, even his powerful body—or was that another concealment?—was neutrally posed.

Meth was a black hole of information: he drew it in from everywhere, with a reach as infinite as gravity, but nothing ever escaped the event horizon around him.

There was, in theory at least, one way to get information out of a black hole. It involved high energies just at the event horizon, and for every particle that escaped one of equal value must be lost.

Akhil had told Krenn that.

Meth said, “I shall regret the departure of the epetai-Tagore.” There did not seem to be any irony in the honorific. “Like myself, he is absolutely loyal to his Empire, and will do anything at all to protect it.”

“Perhaps not anything,” Krenn said.

“A natural error, sutai-Rustazh. You do not understand, because you are not absolutely loyal.”

“I am—”

“It is not an accusation, Captain. Only the truth. You
serve
the Empire, and very well. But some of your loyalty is always reserved for yourself…. This is true of all Klingons but I. It is true of the Emperor.” He pointed downward. “I suspect that it is also true of all Humans. Except this one.”

Krenn recalled what Meth had said about the Council, wondered if the Intelligence Master had also come to see himself reflected in the Ambassador. He said, “Still, I have come to believe that the one would use no weapon.”

Meth smiled, and Krenn thought there was somehow amusement in it. “Have you ever seen my weapon, Captain?”

Krenn was too startled to answer.

“You think there is a
komerex zha,
” Meth said calmly, “but there is only the
komerex.
” He indicated the throne, the iron crown upon it. “Kadrya is nearly sixty now, and Kadrya is no Keth. Though it may be criminal now to speak of rust on iron, in time he will die, and the Council will fight for the crown, and I will fight for the Empire.

“And if the Federation should choose to war with itself, then it must occur while there is an Emperor, and we may take advantages.”

Meth filled two glasses from the bottle of pale liquid. There was a strong scent of herbs. “Speaking of loyalty…I noticed that the Contacts Branch did not tell the Council their next speaker had been recalled?…

“And you know your mission, and it is not my habit to repeat myself. Pleasant voyage, Captain.”

Kelly moved the levers, and Dr. Tagore silently flickered in. Krenn thought perhaps the Human’s hair had become whiter, but there was no great outward change.

The Ambassador stepped off the disc, nodded to them all. “Honored again, Captain Krenn. I was pleased to hear it would be you taking me home. And Kelly…full Commander, now?
Kai.
And Maktai. Good to see you all. I’m in need of good signs, this cruise.”

Then Krenn saw the tiredness—but it was a small thing, where Krenn had expected a greater.

“This is a new ship, isn’t it?” Dr. Tagore said, and while he spoke the small tiredness was not visible. “
Mirror,
they said. Is
Fencer,
then…”

“
Fencer
still exists, still mine,” Krenn said. “She is in the docks.
Mirror
is new, a Class D-5, though the changes are mostly not visible. The interior is the same, with only small exceptions…one being that we have a stateroom for a passenger, on the officers’ deck.”

“With a private bath,” Maktai said. There was a moment’s cool silence, and then Dr. Tagore began to laugh, and then they were all laughing.

“You see,” the Human said, “I have learned to know when you are joking.”

“The reason I was recalled?” Dr. Tagore said. “To…now what was the exact phrase…‘reevaluate the mission, and expose the Ambassador to the mood, as well as the decisions, of the Babel Conference.’ How many cards?”

Krenn took three cards. He adjusted his hand: a four, a King, and three nines. Maktai tapped his three-fingered hand on the table and took one card. Mak caught his tongue between his teeth and let his cards fall, facedown. Krenn looked at him; it had taken a long time to teach Mak that folding was not the same as resignation: that the courage of the game was not in throwing resources into a pot already lost. Still, they were losing to the Human.

Dr. Tagore said, “The gentleman drops. And dealer takes two. Bet?”

“Check,” Krenn said.

“You’ve stayed in practice.”

Maktai said, “I paid for it.”

Dr. Tagore said, “All right. Dealer bets three.” He separated three fruit drops from a pile near his elbow, pushed them into the pile at the center of the table. “Of course, the actual reason for the recall is that many UFP members do not want a single negotiator to represent them to the Empire. They want to make their own deals.”

“Call, raise two,” Krenn said. “As I understand it, you have won the Federation a number of points.”

“Thank you, Krenn. I’ll see that, raise you five. But of course the Federation is a coalition, not a super-government, though sometimes it forgets that…if the members do not wish the Federation to act for them, then it must not do so.”