Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (25 page)

The phrase was bewildering, but its tone was clear enough. “The Federation will not be pleased,” Krenn said.

Dr. McCoy said, “And if even some of what I hear about your culture is true,
they
won’t be any too happy either.”

Kelly said, “This is true.” She began to stand up.

“Good!” McCoy said. Kelly dropped back into her chair. McCoy said, “I won’t play anybody’s politics. But for the lady, that’s just fine.” He picked up the communicator handset on his desk. “Lucy? Get me Dr. Nesheim in the path lab.”

Krenn had never seen any being but Dr. Tagore smile so warmly.

Krenn took out his own communicator. “I have to meet other appointments,” he said. “The Commander will call for transport when you are finished.”

“You understand, this’ll take a few days,” Dr. McCoy said. “We’ll have to use some of our research gear, and do a little midnight requisitioning.”

Cargomaster Keppa had used exactly that phrase in
klingonaase.
“I understand, Doctor.”

“Then don’t worry, Captain. We’ll take the best care of her.”

Kelly said, in
klingonaase,
“Use the control cassette.”

“All
right,
Kelly.”

“And use caution.”

“Affirm.” Krenn pushed the call key. “
Zan
Kreg, this is the Captain…ready to beam up.”

Krenn materialized in the hotel room, took a few steps, and sat down hard on the bed. He put down the pouch containing the Red File, Section One.

“You look terrible,” Maktai said.

“It is a good thing to be so cared for,” Krenn said. “The interviews?” Maktai’s laugh was enough answer. “Good,” Krenn said, and looked at the bedside clock. 11:18. He had been nonexistent for eight minutes since leaving
Mirror.
“Turn on the monitor…news channel.”

The screen showed the dedication of a housing unit in a place called Antarctica: Krenn remembered Dr. Tagore saying that was the planet’s south polar cap. He felt cold just looking at the pictures. Maktai was rubbing his three-fingered hand, and had a rigid expression.

The screen changed abruptly to a sign reading
URGENT BULLETIN
. The next image was of a crowd of Humans, some of them armed soldiers in the Earth Forces and Starfleet Military uniforms. The picture shook, evidently taken by a hand-held camera; the camera seemed trying to go forward, and the troops were holding it back. In the background, a concrete pillar was just visible. Then the soldiers pressed in again, and the picture retreated.

A Human wearing a headset dodged into view. “This is Judith Rozmital, in…where?…Byron, Georgia, USA. We have word that Admiral Marcus van Diemen’s train has been attacked….” An insert appeared in the corner of the screen, with a still picture of van Diemen. The cordon of soldiers continued pushing outward.

“We’re trying to get some pictures…there’s no official statement yet.

“Admiral van Diemen was on his way to Federa-Terra, where he is to be Chairman of the Babel Conference. He left San Francisco this morning…” The reporter turned her head sharply, said in a low voice, “Jack? This line doesn’t go to Frisco…” Rozmital turned back to the camera. “I’m told we’re about to get an official statement.”

The
URGENT BULLETIN
sign appeared for a moment. Then the unsteady camera showed a group of civilians, all wired in some way, around an Earth Forces officer in field uniform. Lines of superimposed type read
COL
.
WALLACE DUQUESNE
and
EGF SECURITY
. Krenn was glad it was not Colonel Rabinowich.

“I regret to announce,” the Colonel said, “that Admiral Marcus van Diemen…is dead.”

The reporters crowded in. Someone screamed in the distance.

“The cause of death…is unknown at this time.

“
Attack? No
…no, the train was
not
attacked…
heart attack,
someone may possibly have said, and if so it was totally without authorization, or responsibility.

“No, other than that I don’t…We’re looking into the route….

“No, there is
no
evidence of an attack. Not by aliens, not by Humans, not by killer bees. There is…Oh, that
concludes
the goddamn statement.” Colonel Duquesne turned, drew a finger across his throat.

The screen went white.

“
Him
I understand,” Maktai said.

Marcus van Diemen appeared on the screen, frozen-framed, standing in front of San Francisco by night. A voice said, “For the benefit of our viewers who did not see the original broadcast, we present again Admiral van Diemen’s last message…once again, Starfleet Chief of Staff Marcus van Diemen is dead at 67. More details as they become available.”

Krenn turned off the sound, but not the monitor. He picked up the hotel communicator, watching the screen. On the bed, Maktai was dismantling the transporter referent.

“Good afternoon,” Krenn said. “I would like to arrange a meeting with the Deputy Conference Chairman, Admiral Douglas Shepherd…. Yes, I am certain he is very busy. Tell him this is Captain Krenn sutai-Rustazh of the Klingon Empire.

“Thank you. Tell him also that one other Human must be present at this meeting. His name is…” Krenn reached into his tunic, produced a small plastic card. “…Carter Winston, delegate to Babel from the planet Deneva.

“Yes, I shall be pleased to have the Ambassador there, but it is not required. Mr. Winston’s presence is
required.

“It is indeed related to that. I suggest a place more secure than my suite. I suggest the most secure place Admiral Shepherd can arrange.

“Thank you.”

Krenn broke the link. He flexed the card with Winston’s name between his fingers, cracked it across, and dropped the pieces into a metal wastebasket. They glowed orange as they fell, and were burning whitely before they touched the bottom.

On one wall of the conference chamber, a display panel showed colored wave patterns, continuous proof that the room’s electronic defenses were functional. Overhead, a circular ventilator moved cold, damp air with a continuous rush.

Krenn supposed all Security meeting rooms looked alike: all blank and bare, as if any hint of warmth or comfort were an entrance for the enemy. This room even had access by transporter only, like Meth’s window on the Council: but there were three discs on the stage, and of course it was the screeching Federation device. Krenn listened to the irritating sound of the ventilator and wondered if, should the power fail, they would all suffocate, sealed inside the Starfleet Tower. He had no disruptor to burn an exit.

Krenn sat at one long side of the long black table. The Red File rested near his left elbow. At the narrow end to Krenn’s right was Douglas Tancred Shepherd, for the last forty minutes the Acting Chief of Staff for Starfleet. At the other end Dr. Tagore sat, a little back from the table, fingers interlaced in his lap.

The door hissed open, and another Human came in: he wore a narrow-waisted suit of purple velvet, with a white silk scarf at his throat. There was a silver ring on his left hand, of simple and elegant design, mounting a red-gold stone. His hair was a medium brown, long, caught at the back of his neck with a plain silver band. His face would have been smooth, except for the lines of worry in it.

“I understand that the situation is difficult, Admiral Shepherd,” he said, firmly, not angrily. “But I don’t appreciate being rousted from a business lunch in a public place by rude men in cheap suits. We don’t do that on Deneva, and I certainly didn’t expect it on Earth. I’m going to—” He turned, saw Krenn. “—Oh, my stars.”

“We apologize for any embarrassment that may have been caused, Mr. Winston,” Admiral Shepherd said, “but I doubt that troops in uniform would have been any less so, and the matter is very important.

“This is Captain Krenn, of the Klingon cruiser
Mirror.
And Dr. Emanuel Tagore, our Ambassador to the Klingon Empire.”

“Carter Winston,” the young Human said. “Resources Corporation of Deneva…” He looked at Shepherd, then Dr. Tagore. “I don’t, ah, have a translator with me…”

Krenn said, “I understand you, Mr. Winston.”

Shepherd said, “Please sit down, sir.”

Winston sat.

Krenn said, “Admiral, what is the latest word on the death of Admiral van Diemen?”

Shepherd said, “We’re still investigating—”

Dr. Tagore said gently, “I think, Doug, that if Starfleet knows anything, it had best be said.”

Shepherd tensed. Measuring the words, he said “At 1552 hours Universal Time today…1052 locally…an electrical fault in the guideway control system stopped Admiral van Diemen’s train, just south of Macon, Georgia. Colonel Duquesne, the Security officer in charge, sealed the cars at once.

“Six minutes twenty seconds after the stop, Colonel Duquesne checked on Admiral van Diemen, who was in a sleeping compartment. When the Admiral did not respond, the Colonel had the compartment door forced.

“The Admiral was on the bed inside, wearing his dress uniform, with a holstered, fully charged pistol. He appeared to be asleep, and the first assumption was of a stroke or heart attack.

“However…the military physician who examined the body a few minutes later discovered that cause of death was a clean cervical fracture.”

“What?” Winston said.

Dr. Tagore said, “The Admiral died in bed of a broken neck.”

Shepherd said, “In the physician’s opinion, death had occurred within the last twenty minutes, which is to say, no more than ten minutes before the train was stopped, or immediately afterward.”

Winston said, “Couldn’t they have frozen him—or something?”

“The spinal cord was entirely severed. As by a knife, the doctor’s report says, though the skin was unbroken. Even if the Admiral had not suffered irreversible brain damage from loss of oxygen, there would be little hope of restoring function to his body below the neck.” Shepherd paused. “Marc van Diemen wouldn’t want that.”

“So he was murdered,” Winston said.

Admiral Shepherd said, “I’ve seen men die of broken necks, and they…twitch when they die. Not for long, but…Marc’s body was as composed as if he was sleeping. Which means someone composed it.”

“And your suspects?” Dr. Tagore said.

“There were eight soldiers, including Colonel Duquesne, three train crew, and two members of the Chief’s personal staff. The blow was very precise, but superhuman strength wasn’t necessary, only knowing how, and anyone could know how. All of Duquesne’s troops admit they do know. The compartment was latched, but a screwdriver could open it, and all the train crew knew how to do
that.
As for alibis, a train is a very small place, distances are short. It would have taken perhaps a minute, perhaps thirty seconds or less. And in the confusion of the sudden stop…well.

“We have thirteen suspects, and unless one of them confesses, we are not likely to have a prosecution. And a confession is unlikely.” Shepherd looked at Krenn. “As the means we may use to extract confessions are strictly limited.”

“Our facilities are at your disposal, of course,” Krenn said, in
klingonaase.

Winston looked at Krenn, said to Shepherd, “You haven’t mentioned a motive. But I don’t suppose I need to ask that, do I? He was on his way to Babel.”

“Via the eye of the needle, it would seem,” Dr. Tagore said very quietly.

Winston said, his voice rising, “Why are you
sitting
on this? Don’t you realize what’ll happen when the truth comes out? The Dissolution forces will be discredited completely—anyone who voted to dissolve would be linked to the murderers.”

Dr. Tagore said, “I think you underestimate the flexibility of the members. The greater the excess of an act, the more easily it is disassociated from oneself.”

Winston looked rueful. “Yes…I suppose you’re right.” He gave a short, unhappy laugh. “What am I saying? I’ve dealt with the Pentalians, not to mention Rent-a-Rigellian. I
know
you’re right.”

“Please do not congratulate me,” Dr. Tagore said.

Krenn said, “Are you then in favor of Federation unity, Mr. Winston?”

Winston looked up. He seemed to have forgotten Krenn’s presence until now. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t be in business if it weren’t for my Federation contracts. If it weren’t for Starfleet, I wouldn’t
be
here; my parents were nearly killed by…well, pirates.”

“And peace concerns you.”

“No businessman in his right mind wants a war. Trade patterns go to perdition, goods get seized, currencies devalue…” Winston laughed again, somewhat less bitterly. “Even my friends in the arms trade prefer a wide-open market.”

“Yet Dissolution seems quite popular.”

“I didn’t say we were all in our right minds.”

Krenn reached into the Red File pouch, brought out a tape cassette. “Is there a means to play this?”