The Art of the Impossible

From the operations console, the officer posted there said, “They are hailing us.”

A rumble sounded in K’mpec’s throat. “I have nothing to say to invaders.”

The officer smiled. “Sir!”

“Coming about,” the pilot said.

“Fire!”

Disruptor fire now struck the Boklar’s shields even as the Cardassians fired their own phasers at the Pu’Bekh.

“Shields down to ten percent!” The gu

“It would seem the Cardassians have improved their arsenal.” K’mpec pounded a fist on the armrest of his chair. “Damage to the Boklar?”

“Minimal, sir.”

“We must bring down their shields. Continuous fire.”

Disruptors and torpedoes burst forth from the Pu’Bekh’s weapons arrays, pounding at the Boklar’s shields. The disruptors finally brought the shields down, with the final torpedo striking the Cardassian vessel’s hull.

A cheer went up from around the bridge, even as more Cardassian phaser fire struck the Pu’Bekh.

Consoles then sparked around the bridge. “Shields dow—” the gu

“Programming torpedo pattern,” he said.

The gu

Mogh gave the lieutenant a curt nod and made way for him.

“Firing torpedoes and disruptors.”

Seconds later, just as the torpedoes were striking the hull of the Boklar—and after the disruptors had already started cutting through the vessel’s hull—the Cardassian ship exploded in a fiery conflagration that forced K’mpec to avert his eyes from the viewscreen momentarily.

Furious, he unholstered his hand disruptor even as he turned around to face the gu

The gu

K’mpec had no choice. He had already stated to the entire bridge that the destruction of the Boklarwould mean the gu

Yet it had been Mogh who programmed the torpedoes’ firing pattern.

Then again, the disruptors struck theBoklar first. It is quite possible—likely even—that it was the disruptors that provided the fatal blow.

Either way, it no longer mattered. “Damage report.”

“Shields and cloak are gone,” the operations officer reported. “Multiple hull breaches on the lower decks—we have had to evacuate the entire undersection. Warp drive offline; engineering estimates a day to repair.”

“Communications?” Mogh asked.

“Functioning.”

“Good,” K’mpec said, falling more than sitting back in his command chair after reholstering his disruptor. “Make contact with the Homeworld.”

Mogh stepped up to stand beside K’mpec. “It is not what we had hoped,” the commander said. “But when I look back on this day, it will be one of celebration. I will not mourn the loss of the cowards who invaded our space to fight a mere communications relay. I will instead see this as a victory against an unworthy foe who deserved nothing less than what they received.”

K’mpec regarded his first officer carefully. There was, once again, no glee in his voice, no joy in victory, simply a recitation of duty. As usual.But the captain did not know whether or not Mogh had been responsible for the destruction of the Boklaror not.

What he did know was that the actions of this day would have long-term consequences. Already, K’mpec was begi

Chapter 17

Cardassia Prime

“An excellent meal, Kurrgo.”

The Klingon smiled widely at the Hallitz family—a Cardassian man, his wife, their five children, and one grandchild—as they moved toward the exit of his restaurant. In his heavily accented Cardassian, he said, “It is my pleasure to bring food to your plate, my friends.”

“I still don’t know how you can get such fresh pipiusclaw,” the father said, shaking his head.

“I have my sources,” was all Kurrgo would say in reply. In fact, his “source” was a Ferengi who made regular trips across the border—though those trips were getting less regular of late.

“Careful,” the father said with a chuckle. “I’ll have my son-in-law check into your ‘sources,’ and then we’ll be able to get by without you.” The eldest daughter’s husband—and father to the grandchild—was a respected gul in the Cardassian military. His duties prevented him from joining the rest of the family for meals with any regularity, though he was, at least, posted to Cardassia Prime.

The mother snorted. “As if I could prepare Klingon dishes with anything like Kurrgo’s skill.”

Kurrgo bowed. “You honor me with your praise.”

“I merely speak the truth,” the mother said. “Thank you again.”

“Mother, my food was moving.You said you’d tellthem!” That was the grandchild, a girl of only three.

Kurrgo squatted down so he was face-to-face with the young girl, whose name, Kurrgo recalled, was Alyn. Her ridges were barely starting to form—her skin was almost as smooth as a Romulan’s. “You ordered racht,little one. Rachtis best served live.”

Alyn pouted. “I don’t like it when my food moves. It’s icky.”

“Perhaps. But then, if it does not move, it’s too easy to catch. You see, we Klingons believe in conquering our food, hunting it. The hunt should not end just because the food has already reached the plate.”

The girl brightened. “So it’s like a game?”

“Exactly! So next week when you and your parents come here, treat the rachtas if it were trying to get away from you—and you must hunt it with your fork!”

She smiled. “Okay!”

They all laughed, and soon the family departed, heading for an evening home before the trials of the workday began again the following day. The mother, Traya Hallitz, had been brought here once for a business-related meal. Kurrgo remembered the day well, for she had come in with her nose wrinkled, her lips pursed, and had refused to order anything beyond a glass of water. Her companion—one of Kurrgo’s regulars—had laughed and insisted that she at least try the rokegblood pie. She refused at first, but he had managed to get her to take a bite of bok-ratliver.

To Traya’s own great surprise, she loved it. She wound up ordering a full meal, and a week later, she brought her husband—a self-proclaimed lover of exotic foods—and eventually, the entire family made it a weekly ritual to have their evening meal at Kurrgo’s.

It was from exactly such types that Kurrgo made his business. After all, while he was a decent chef, there were better ones in the Empire. To follow in his parents’ footsteps and open an eatery on Qo’noS or one of the other Klingon worlds would only allow him to be one of many—and not the best. So Kurrgo instead struck out into the unknown, determined to bring the joys of Klingon cuisine to foreign planets.