Star Trek: The Hand of Kahless (26 page)

Shepherd took the tape, went to the light panel on the wall. He touched a button, and a panel slid open to expose a playback unit. He put in the cartridge.

A section of the gray wall brightened, showed visual noise. The swirling dots resolved into small squares, then into a picture: here and there, squares still dropped out black, but the Human on the screen was clearly Marcus van Diemen.

“What’s wrong with the picture?” Winston said.

Shepherd said, “It’s a descramble…an unauthorized descramble.” He looked at Krenn, who looked back with a slight smile.

“Standard procedure, as before,” van Diemen was saying to the unseen recipient of the message, “no names, numbers, coordinates. Burn any recordings or notes.” He touched keys on the desk before him, and a transparent starmap appeared in front of him. Stretching from one corner to the other was a wide amber band.

Krenn said, “That is the zone of space which the Federation calls the Klingon Neutral Zone.”

Shepherd said, “That could be tested.”

“A hunter squadron and two scouts to these points,” van Diemen said, indicating them with a fingertip. “Engage, exchange fire, and break off. If you’re pursued, signal code
TRIPWIRE
for support in strength.”

Krenn said, “Is there such a code, Admiral?”

“That would be…classified,” Shepherd said, staring at the screen.

Van Diemen said, “Your desirable losses are one-third of the hunters and moderate damage to one scout. Loss of one scout is acceptable. However, if a
TRIPWIRE
directive appears certain to result, any loss may be—”

Shepherd snatched the cartridge from the machine. “This is a fake,” he said. A burr had come into his voice. “Sweet Mary O’Meara, it’s got to be a phony.”

Krenn took a document from the file pouch. “This is a voiceprint and image-source analysis. I do not understand all the technical aspects, but my Communications officer tells me that your signal-intelligence staff will be able to reach the same conclusions.” He touched the File. “There are more intercepts, all of the same general meaning.”

“If these are real,” Shepherd said,
“if…”

Krenn said, “Speaking as a Naval officer, I would think the best way to test their validity would be to examine the pattern of skirmishes across the…Neutral Zone.”

Shepherd’s voice was thick with confusion and anger. “You’re sayin’ he was tryin’ to draw you…
the Klingons
…into a war. Sendin’ crews out deliberately t’be killed. You tell me why the Chief would do that, Captain. An’ it better be a damned good reason.”

Winston said quietly, “Every delegate to Babel knows
why,
Admiral. We’d never dare dissolve the Federation if we thought some alien menace was waiting to gobble us up piecemeal. I admit, and I’m not proud of it, one of the reasons I was for unity was that I was…afraid of the Klingons.”

“In this,” Krenn said, “there is no need for apology.”

Shepherd said, tightly controlling himself, “Are you telling us, Captain, that the Klingon Empire has no desire for war? That every shoot-out on the frontier has been provoked by Starfleet? For that matter, are you telling us that the Klingons even
minded
having an excuse to attack across the Zone?”

Krenn smiled, showing teeth. Winston paled slightly; Shepherd stood impassive; Dr. Tagore’s face was calm. Krenn wished that Emanuel were not here; the Ambassador was the only one here who might see through Krenn’s performance.

Krenn said, “I am telling you one thing only. I intend to release this file to the Babel conference. Being no diplomat, I cannot calculate its effects. But I would expect them to be strong. And the killing of the Conference Chairman may seem then to be no more terrible a crime than…” Krenn paused, as if searching for the phrase. “…the shooting of a mad dog.”

Shepherd flushed red, and he was shaking. The plastic cassette creaked in his grip. “I don’t care what you’ve found out wi’ your dirty window-peeping,
Captain.
You say another such thing about Admiral van Diemen an’ we’ll have it out, right here between us.”

Krenn said nothing. But he saw the tilt of Dr. Tagore’s head, and thought, Emanuel knows, of course. He understands that the Klingon who comes as a friend will always be thought a liar.

Carter Winston pulled gently at his hair, said, “All right, Captain Krenn…what’s the asking price for these documents?”

Shepherd said, “You’ve no authorization—”

“Of course, trade with the Klingon Empire is illegal,” Winston said coolly, “even though it happens on a regular basis. But under the Uniform Law of Space Salvage, any item recovered by a ship Captain from a wreck abandoned by its owner becomes ship’s property. This is certainly a wreck we’re looking at: does Starfleet want to claim it?

“And Federation law is quite clear that the right of individuals to hold, transfer, sell, use, destroy, or otherwise manipulate nonliving personal property may not be infringed. I told you, Admiral, I’ve been to Rigel and come back with most of my shirt.” He looked at Krenn. “Besides which, there must be a reason I was…invited here. Tell me, Captain, do you know our word, ‘blackmail’?”

“I know it.”

“Good. That saves all the threats and counterthreats. What do you want for the original file, and destruction of all copies?”

Krenn said, “Dilithium.”

There was a silence. Winston pulled off his ring, set it on the table in front of Krenn, with the red-gold stone showing. “There’s a piece,” he said. “Five carats, worth about eighty thousand credits. Or how much did you have in mind? I warn you, it’s a horror to cut; tougher than diamond. You need high-output lasers.”

“Or antimatter,” Krenn said.

Winston said, “That sounds
very
dangerous.”

Krenn said, “Over two years ago, a geophysicist at the Lalande 8 mining complex discovered that dilithium crystals could focus and channel the energy from antimatter annihilation reactions. The difference in output, his preliminary report said, was similar to the difference between white light and a laser.”

“I think I read about that,” Winston said. “In some mining journal or another. Pretty dull stuff.”

“Yet the Federation immediately began an engineering development project, which was highly classified. A few months ago, this project issued a report, also very secret.

“Mr. Winston, Resources Corporation of Deneva owns Lalande 8. You were the contractor for the dilithium development project, and you have access to the report. I want a copy.”

Winston put his ring on again, examined the stone. “Yes, I guess that explains my invitation well enough. My compliments on your research, Captain.”

Dr. Tagore said, “Not being an engineer, would someone explain this invention in political terms?”

Admiral Shepherd said, “It means a new generation of warp drives. Warp 6, at least…maybe Warp 8 or 9.” He looked very black. “And the same sort of advance in weapons systems. Is that political enough, Professor?”

“Yes, Admiral. Those terms I understand.”

Shepherd said, “Then you understand why we can’t possibly do it.”

Winston said, “It’ll take the rest of today to get hold of one, Captain. Is that acceptable?”

The Admiral said,
“What in God’s name are you saying?”

“I’m closing a deal, Admiral. That’s what I’m here for.”

“The Dilithium Report is still under Starfleet classification—and if you think you can space-lawyer your way around
that,
you’re wrong. As a Federation citizen—”

“Admiral,” Winston said calmly, “there are over five hundred Babel delegates out there, and every one of them is scared of the Klingons, even the ones that weren’t scared a couple of days ago. I don’t suppose the Vulcans are, but they’ve only got one vote.

“I assure you, if those tapes are released, in forty-eight hours there won’t
be
any Federation citizens, or any Federation, or any Starfleet: just five hundred tiny little Empires. And the Klingons, and the Romulans. And if you think
this
deal is rotten, just wait and see what happens
then.
”

Shepherd sat down. “I know now,” he said, exhausted. “I know why Marc wanted the war.”

Dr. Tagore said, “But you don’t want it, Doug.”

Shepherd looked down the length of the table. “Not you too, Emanuel…you of all people haven’t started believing in the balance of terror.”

“You know what I believe in, Douglas.”

Shepherd nodded. “You’re right. I don’t want a war.” He stood again. “Gentlemen…let’s all go back to our hotels and betray our trusts.”

Krenn almost laughed. But the Humans would not understand. Not even Dr. Tagore, this time.

Admiral Shepherd’s hand paused on the way to the door control. “I suppose I understand, now, where the Chief’s train detoured to…who he was meeting. Who else would demand a meeting at the last minute and get it?”

“The File contains evidence,” Krenn said, “not all of it recent.”

“If you were watching…are you selling us that too? Will that file tell us who killed him?”

Krenn smiled. “Sorry. You didn’t pay to see those cards.”

It was morning over Federa-Terra and Atlanta when Kelly beamed up. Krenn pointed at a cloth bag she was carrying: it had a pattern of flowers embroidered on the side. “What’s that?”

“They called it my ‘discharge kit,’ ” she said. “One of the nurses gave it to me, to carry all the records….”

“They found it?”

She nodded slowly. “They gave me some…‘pattern slides,’ they called them. Auloh can…match a shoulder joint to me now.” She looked at him. “Or anything.” She took a step toward the door, a little crookedly. “Too much time in bed…it’s been three days; I’d better check the station. Both of them.”

“Kreg’s done all right on the Bridge, and we haven’t needed Special Communications,” Krenn said. “But it will be good to have you back.”

“Pleased, Captain.” There seemed to be a light in her, as if the glow of transport had not entirely faded.

On her way to the door she stopped, said, “Is Zharn still…”

“For the rest of the day.”

She nodded. “I’ll find him.”

“Kelly—he doesn’t know us. He’s only still called Zharn because he had to have some name.”

“I understand,” she said. “But I’d like to see him anyway.” She reached into her bag. “Dr. McCoy sent this to you…and a message with it.” Kelly pulled out a roll of densely printed paper.

“What’s the message?”

“ ‘I guess I oughta be happy,’ ” she said, in a fair imitation of McCoy’s accent. “ ‘But I’m not.’ ”

Krenn felt a coldness as he took the paper; he nodded as Kelly went out, then unfolded the sheets. But there was nothing there about the Communications Officer.

T
HE
A
TLANTA
C
ONSTITUTION
, read heavy type at the top of the front page. There were several columns of text, each with its own heading shouting for attention.
KLINGONS LEAVE BABEL
, one said,
DELEGATES EXPRESS RELIEF
. But Krenn had no difficulty deciding which story he was meant to read.

It was almost painful to watch Zharn in action; he moved faster than the eye could comfortably track him. He seemed to flicker between the machines in the officers’ Gym as if transporting, rather than moving; only the rush of air gave away his passage.

Kelly stood up from her seat near the door and walked toward him; Krenn stayed behind. Zharn stopped as she approached, an effect as if a running tape had frozen on a single frame.

“Do not touch me,” he said, in a friendly tone. “I have a reflex—”

“The Captain told me.”

“Do you have a second mission for me?”

“No. My name is Kelly. I am the Executive Officer aboard this ship.”

“Honored, Executive Kelly. I am Zharn…I have not seen you, and I have been awake…for some days. Though there was the time I spent on my mission.”

“I was receiving medical care. My shoulder was badly damaged.”

Krenn leaned forward, wondering.

“I was badly hurt once,” Zharn said. “I’m told it was many years ago, but I don’t know.” He moved again, around the Gym and back to Kelly in seconds. Then he bent his head, pulled down his loose training jacket to show the back of his neck. Scars like ropes ran down it. “My nerves were all broken,” he said. “But the Thought Master Ankhisek mended them.”

“Ankhisek is known for his brilliance.”

Zharn smiled broadly. “Yes, brilliant! When he fixed them, they were better than new. The Thought Master says my nerves are four times as fast as they were before. And five times as fast as a Human’s. Have you ever seen a Human, Executive…”

Kelly replied, “Yes, I have.”

“They’re slow. Really slow. I did well, this mission…but soon they’ll freeze me, and I’ll forget.” He stopped still again. “I don’t like to forget, but it’s important that I not be wasted. So between missions they freeze me, and I don’t get any older.”

“You look almost my age,” Kelly said.

“Well, I’ve had a lot of missions. Even if I don’t remember them all, others do. And they say my record is glorious.” Zharn flew into the boxing ring, triggering a holographic sparring dummy: he knocked down the projection in a moment, punched it three times as it fell, kicked it before it could vanish. Another projected fighter appeared, and Zharn demolished it as well. He did not look back at Kelly. He had forgotten her.

Kelly went back to Krenn, and they left the Gym.

She said, “How fast does he age, when he’s warm?”

“Sixty-four times. Like the warp relation, to his nerve impulses.”

“Then he must be only…a few months older than when we knew him. In his mind, I mean.”

“He doesn’t know. Or care. Are you sorry you saw him?”

She shook her head. “But I’m glad it was now, after the hospital. Before, I…it wouldn’t have been good, to meet someone who was happy with not knowing who he was.”

Krenn’s communicator chimed. “Captain.”

“Captain Krenn, the Ambassador is ready to beam up.”

“Tell him there’ll be a brief delay.” He turned to Kelly. “Call Auloh. It’s time to put Zharn back in his box.”

Krenn pressed the door annunciator.

“Come in,” Dr. Tagore said.

Krenn went in. Dr. Tagore was seated in a corner of the front cabin, reading. He put the book down without marking his place. “Hello, Krenn.”

“Emanuel. I wondered if you would care for a game.”

“My regrets, Krenn…I don’t feel like playing just now.”

“Is the one well? Or…does the one ask the wrong question?”

The Human smiled. “The one is well. And is honored by the question. Sit down, if you will, Krenn.”

Krenn sat.

Dr. Tagore said, “I’ve told you about Admiral Yamamoto, have I not?”

“The three-fingered one, who played
pokher
well.”

“Yes. Did I tell you how he died?”

“No.”

“The Admiral was traveling by flier, alone but for attendants and a few escort fliers. There was a war, and it was a secret flight, but the enemy had broken the codes, and knew of it. And they sent out a squadron of hunters, to destroy the Admiral; which they did.”

Krenn nodded.

Dr. Tagore said, “It must be understood that the Humans who ordered this did not…hate the Admiral. There were some who did…and there had been lies told, that he had no respect for his enemy, that he thought them
kuve;
but in the end, it was not hate that did it, it was the necessity of the war, that had already killed hundred thousands. Next to hundred thousands, what is the one, when none are
kuve?
”

Krenn said, “Did the one die well?”

“In his ship. With his hand on his weapon.”

Krenn said, “Then perhaps we will meet. I will tell him of Maktai’s three fingers. And another I know, who had only two.” He understood the story, what it was supposed to say to him; he wondered if Dr. Tagore had told it to Admiral Shepherd.

Dr. Tagore said, “Diplomacy is the art of the possible. Have I said that?”

“Yes.”

“But not the art of the necessary. So why…
why
are the deaths necessary, when I know something better is possible?” Dr. Tagore was staring, not at Krenn but past him, tears standing in his eyes.

Krenn said, as gently as he could, “There is death, Emanuel. If you had carried a weapon, if you had ever killed, you would know—”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

Krenn laughed, and said, “You told me, when you told Mak, that for all forty-four of your years…oh, I…misunderstood, Emanuel. Your ages are not like ours…you were older than forty-four.”

“I was seventy-three then. I’m seventy-nine now. In three months, two days, six hours…you see, this I keep apart from Stardates…it will be fifty standard years since I held a weapon.”

“You were a warrior, then,” Krenn said, satisfied.
Now
he understood—

“Oh, no. Though the state did arm me. They gave me the key, you see.”

“Key?”

“I put it in a slot…” He mimed the action. “…and turned it…and my wife was not in pain any longer.”

The disease, Krenn thought, that was like the agonizer. He looked at Dr. Tagore: the Human was weeping freely now, bent forward in his chair with his hand still extended, turning the key in the life-support machine. For the first time Krenn saw him as small, helpless; but Krenn did not feel strong by comparison. He felt sick.

“You must,” Krenn said, in Federation because
klingonaase
would never do, “you must have loved her very much, to do that.”

“Did I? But it wasn’t her I killed, you see. She had been dead a long time, her mind was gone…all I turned the key on was pain.

“I waited so long, while she suffered,” Dr. Tagore said, his voice thin but steady, “because I thought, there must be a resolution, both moral and compassionate…it was selfish, literally damnably selfish, if I believed in Hell. Which I don’t, any more than a Klingon. What extra purpose would it serve, in a universe already so backwards that death can be an act of love?”

His tears had stopped. He sniffled, a ridiculous sound. He said, “I don’t ask you to understand, Krenn.”

Krenn said, “I do not know if I do…but will you listen to a story of mine, that perhaps you will not understand?”

“Of course.”

“Then I will tell you about Kethas epetai-Khemara,” Krenn said, “and about Rogaine.”

“Serkash II,” Navigator Kepool said. “One light-day out from the Disputed Zone.”

“
Zan
Klimor, parking orbit,” Krenn said.

“Acting,” said the Helmsman.

“
Zan
Kreg, signal to the surface: prepare to receive a Federation Ambassador.”

Dr. Tagore stepped out of the lift. “We’re out of Warp early, aren’t we—
Pardon me?
”

Krenn said, “Grand strategic display.”

A large-scale map, on which the Zone was no more than a streak, appeared on the display. Mirror was a white three-armed cross, Serkash II a circle.

Just crossing the Zone were three blue crosses. Annotations read
BEST ESTIMATED POSITION
.