The Art of the Impossible

“Bah,” Monor said. “The Federation is soft.”

“So is a greeworm, but if you poke it with a stick, it’ll squirt acid on your face.” Zarin leaned forward on the couch. “The Federation hasn’t lost a single war since its founding. I somehow doubt that we’re in a position to be the first to defeat them.”

“A cowardly attitude,” Kell said with disdain.

“No, a realistic one.” Zarin didn’t like what he was saying any more than Kell did, but he also knew that he was right. He just hoped Kell wasn’t stupid enough to let pride get in the way of common sense.

Kell let out a long sigh, and refilled his glass with more kanarfrom the large carafe in the center of the table. “Sadly, you’re right. For the moment at least, we’ll have to play along with this idiotic charade.”

“What about the Obsidian Order?” Zarin asked. He hadn’t been able to trace the Order agent in his delegation, but he just knew there was one there.

Shrugging, Kell asked, “What about them? They’ll probably send someone—or several someones—to the planet to spy on the Klingons. Let them. It’s probably better for all of us if we don’t know the specifics of what they’re doing. If they gather useful intelligence, it’ll be shared with us if we need it. If they get caught, we’ll be able to deny everything.”

“Not to mention the entertainment value,” Zarin said with a smile. “If they doget caught, I mean. I’ve heard stories about what Klingons do to spies. There are several people in the Order I’d like to see get that treatment.”

All three of them laughed at that. Zarin had no love for the Obsidian Order, and it came as no surprise to the legate that Kell and Monor felt the same. One of these days,he thought, we need to do away with those shadowy imbeciles once and for all. Cardassia is ill-served by their backstabbing ways. Perhaps when this office is mine, I’ll be able to implement that plan.

Kell stood up. “Monor, I hereby appoint you the prefect of the northern continent of Raknal V. The Sontokis to be your flagship. Whatever you need, requisition it from Zarin.”

Monor nodded. “If that’s what we have to do, then dammit all, that’s what we’ll do. That’s the problem with these young officers, they don’t know when to shut up and follow orders. In fact—”

“The important thing,” Kell said, cutting off yet another of Monor’s rants, for which Zarin was grateful, “is to make sure that we are victorious.”

“That won’t be as easy as it looks,” Zarin said. “Most of the zenite we need is on the southern continent.”

“Yes.” Kell smiled. “I have to give credit to that Trill ambassador—he put us in charge of what the Klingons want and the Klingons in charge of what we want. But we are Cardassians—Raknal V is ours,and we will not give it up. I am hereby instructing you both to do whatever it takes to ensure that we secure our claim to it. Am I understood?”

Zarin smiled. “Perfectly.”

Chapter 13

Qo’nos

It had been a long time since General Worf had set foot in the Council Chambers. The huge green edifice that stood at the center of the First City on Qo’noS towered above all the other buildings, looking down on the rest of the city—and, symbolically, the rest of the Empire. Originally constructed on top of the First City’s highest point as a stronghold of some emperor or other in the dark times before Kahless, when Klingon warred against Klingon in fierce, bloody conflicts, it had been refurbished and rebuilt many times. The most recent of those was after the explosion of Praxis, the fallout from which had come close to destroying it.

Worf admired the design of the main chamber, in which the High Council met. A wide, high-ceilinged space with directed lighting casting harsh shadows, the room’s focal points were the raised metal chair and the trefoil Klingon emblem behind it. As Worf entered the darkened room, that chair was occupied by Chancellor Ditagh.

Of course, “occupied” may have been too meager a verb. Ditagh’s broad-shouldered form had to practically squeeze itself into the metal throne that had served as the Empire’s seat of power for over three decades.

The rest of the High Council stood in a semicircle on either side of Ditagh, with Worf standing in front of them in the room’s center, a spotlight shining on his face. That, along with the backlighting behind Ditagh’s chair, made the forms of the Council indistinct and shadowy.

“What are your thoughts, General Worf?” Ditagh asked.

Worf considered his words carefully. “My thoughts are not relevant to these proceedings. I have presented my report. I now await further orders.”

One of the councillors—a fierce-looking, angular-faced man named Kravokh—said, “Ch’gran mustbe ours, no matter what. It is our most sacred relic!”

“It’s hardly that,” said another councillor whose face Worf could not make out in the dark room and whose voice he did not recognize. “It certainly is not worth going to war over.”

Ditagh turned angrily on the councillor. “Not worthgoing to war over?” He seemed shocked at the near sacrilege of the statement, and Worf had to admit to a bit of surprise at such words coming from the mouth of a warrior.

“I have no great love for the Cardassians, Chancellor, nor do I have any cowardice in my heart. But I also will not take food from the mouths of my children in order to fight a distant war against spoon-headed inferiors in order to retrieve a thousand-year-old ship hulk.”

Another councillor stepped forward. After a moment, Worf recognized him as K’Tal, one of the younger councillors. “The Great Curzon understands the Klingon heart. He has given us a way to battle the Cardassians without engaging in a war that will cost us so much, and still retain our honor.”

“We ca

“I’m with Kravokh. We must take Ch’gran.”

“And how will we fight the Cardassians? Shall we divert from the Romulan border?”

“The Romulans have not been a concern since Tomed.”

“They’re just waiting for us to turn our backs on them. And if we divert our forces from elsewhere, we become vulnerable to the Tholians, the Kinshaya…”

“Are we to tell our children that we abandoned our heritage so easily?”

“Are we to bury our children for useless relics?”

“Ch’gran is notuseless!”

Worf closed his eyes. This was getting out of hand. The last time he had been in Council Chambers was during the reign of Azetbur. Worf had no great love for the daughter of Gorkon, but at least she ran an orderly chamber. After her death, a man named Kaarg had risen to power—with Ditagh as one of his supporters. Indeed, there were rumors that Ditagh had killed Azetbur on Kaarg’s behalf. Kaarg had wasted little time in doing what he could to dismantle what Azetbur had built, starting by formally ba