Demands of Honor (21 page)

There was still danger. In the long term, more crystals could be extracted from the mine. But the war would likely begin before that. The border would be closed and the Klingons would have to fight for every system.

A few minutes later, Fuller called with the coordinates. “Mister Spock?”

“Scanners show twelve cargo containers near Fuller's position. Sending coordinates to the helm and transporter room now,” Spock said.

“Mister Sulu, very low orbit. Put as much of the planet between us and the Klingon ship as you can. Mister Spock, let me know if the Klingons so much as vent plasma.”

A moment later, Sulu reported ready. They had a reasonable safety margin. By putting themselves at the extreme range of the transporters, they were safely out of the range of Klingon weapons.

“Lower shields, begin transport,” Kirk said.

Less than two minutes later, Scott reported that the containers were on board. “Shields up. Well done,” Kirk said.

This mission was far from over, though. There were too many unanswered questions for one. And second, Kirk had a large ball in his stomach telling him that the Klingons were planning something.

Koloth smiled when Councillor Duras broke the communication. If Duras was interested in starting an honest fight with the Earthers, Koloth would be pleased to deliver the first blow. The
D'k Tahg
was ready to pay Starfleet back for the indignity of the failure of the assault on Starbase 42.

Of course, Duras had other concerns. The empire had lost the dilithium crystals on the other planet that the starbase had been protecting. Now, Duras wanted the crystals on the planet below. The empire's leaders had to think on a high strategic level. A wise warrior knew when to choose his moment to begin open battle. However, for a coward that moment would never come.

And Duras, Koloth was convinced, was a bloodless coward. There was also more going on there than Duras's precious rocks. At this point, it would not be crystals that won the coming war for the empire, it would be the strength of their blood. Yet, Duras was still conniving and scheming for stones.

First, Duras had tried to convince Karel to turn against his commander to help the councillor take the ship. Now, he was plotting with some spineless representatives on the planet below. And still, the
Enterprise
waited just a few thousand kilometers away, taunting Koloth and the whole empire with its arrogant existence.

Soon, matters would come to their culmination. Eventually, Duras would have to stop cowering in the dark and reveal his plans. Then Koloth could take matters into his own hands. The tale that Karel had told Koloth about the dishonorable mission that had taken his brother's life had revealed what Koloth had suspected for too long: the empire was rotting from within.

Seeing Duras in action had further convinced Koloth that there were basic problems with their leaders. The High Council had made much of the stain on Klingon honor left by the inconclusive Battle of Donatu V, but there were worse things a warrior could face than a tie in battle. There was the loss of honor he brought upon himself.

Yes, there was much wrong with the empire, and Koloth would have preferred his people enter war with the Federation with both their strength and their honor intact. However, no warrior chose all the terms of every battle he fought. Perhaps the coming war would purify the empire, burn away the pettiness and dishonor that had taken hold. Perhaps his people's better natures would emerge, their honor made whole by a battle well fought and won.

These truly were dangerous times for the empire, yet Koloth found that he was untroubled. He felt a wave of
optimism, like the euphoria he had felt after a particularly sweet victory.

But there has been no victory here,
a voice in his mind shouted.

That was true, but the feeling persisted nevertheless. He felt his body and mind begin to relax, as it did after a good meal and a few glasses of bloodwine.

Bloodwine …

Something is wrong.
Koloth stood, or tried to. He found his legs wouldn't respond to his commands.

I've been poisoned,
he thought, felled by the weapon of a cowardly assassin who would strike without showing his face. Koloth opened his mouth and found that he couldn't speak. His eyes still worked, and with them he could see the ship's pilot struggling in his seat, also apparently immobile.

Then Koloth understood.
Gas.

He realized an odd, faint smell was in the air. Duras had brought a great deal of cargo, full of classified equipment that was shielded from sensors. First, Duras tried to incite a mutiny on his ship. Then, failing that, the councillor had had his soldiers gas Koloth and his crew.

The ship would now be Duras's.
This is intolerable!
his mind screamed. Koloth cursed his failure to see this coming. He had given the councillor too much rope, even after he knew that Duras was plotting against him. Of course, taking on a member of the High Council was suicide, but it still offered a more honorable death than being gassed like an elderly pet
targ.

Koloth's eyes grew heavy. He fought to keep them open, to keep the darkness at bay. There were still things
he could do, actions he could take. If only his traitorous body would respond …

The world around him went dark. As a final insult, he heard footsteps behind him. The bloodless cowards who served Duras had entered his bridge. In a moment, the ship would be theirs.

Koloth screamed his outrage in his mind. Then the darkness finally came and even that silent scream was ended.

STARFLEET COMMAND

EARTH

L
IEUTENANT
W
EST WAS ON HIS FEET
before he was halfway through reading the intelligence report. He only read a few more lines before he stopped and turned for the door. Lieutenant Lei was outside his office door when he reached it. From the look on her face, she had read the same report.

“Come with me,” he said, already sprinting down the corridor. Lei followed and they reached Admiral Solow's office a few seconds later. The admiral's yeoman waved them in, and Solow was standing when they arrived.

“You've read the report,” Solow said, making it a statement, not a question.

“Yes, sir,” West said. “We don't have much time.”

“I'm afraid it may already be too late.”

“Sir, the
Yorktown
is nearby. Perhaps—”

“If we send a starship blazing in, they'll just kill Fox and the team sooner,” Solow said.

“Sir, with all due respect, that might be the best thing,” Lei said.

“The best?” Solow said, unable to hide his surprise.

“A quick death is much better than what they will get if the Klingon diplomats carry out their orders,” Lei said.

West thought about it for a moment. “Lei is right. If they are interrogated, they will die … very slowly.”

“This is insane. What is happening to this galaxy?” Solow said, clear frustration in his voice. “They are diplomats,
unarmed
diplomats.”

West knew how the admiral felt. As a diplomat, Fox was of limited intelligence value. He knew little about Starfleet and the Federation's military readiness—at least little that the Klingon intelligence network didn't already know. Whatever Fox and his people did know, they would tell a skilled Klingon interrogator in hours.

And the interrogation would last for days beyond that.

“Sir, there is one thing you should know: they are not completely unarmed,” West said.

“What?” the admiral asked. West told Solow about his gift to Fox before the negotiations. He had sent a small number of old-style laser pistols, of the kind that Starfleet had used so successfully against the Klingons in the Battle of Donatu V. They had been meant to send a message of strength to the Klingon negotiating team. But West had seen that they were fully charged and operational
so they would have more than purely symbolic value.

“Perhaps we could send a message to Fox. He may choose to fight … or to see to it that he and his team are not taken alive,” West said.

Solow winced in pain. “Is that all we can offer our people now? Suicide? Because all of their other options are so much worse!”

West had no response for that.

Ambassador Fox stared at the message in silence. For a moment, he considered keeping the information to himself, but he decided that his staff deserved to know the truth. They had struggled too hard for anything less and had even watched one of their own die in service of the ideals they shared. Now, in all likelihood, they would join Fronde in his sacrifice.

Fox assembled them in the common room that connected their individual quarters. “I have just received a communication from Starfleet. They have intercepted and decoded a transmission from the Klingon High Council to Ambassador Morg. He and his team are to wait for final word from command, then they will apprehend us and keep us in custody for transfer to the Klingon Defense Force. Once that transfer is complete, we are to be interrogated.”

There was frank disbelief on the four faces in front of him. “But our diplomatic status …”

“Means nothing to the Klingons. We've known for some time that these negotiations were a fraud. Despite all of your efforts and despite Fronde's courage, the Federation is facing war, and we are facing …” Fox didn't
finish. There were words he had already used:
custody … transfer … interrogation.
But those terms were thin euphemisms for what they were really facing: slow torture and an unimaginably painful death.

To their credit, his team took the news with surprising calm. After a long silence Helen Fitzpatrick, his new chief of staff, asked, “Is there any chance of rescue? Will Starfleet …”

Fox nodded. “Starfleet has informed me that they are working on a plan, but I won't lie to you, the chances of help arriving in time are small. We will likely be alone in this. We knew we might face this situation, and I have given the matter considerable thought. We do have some options; one of them is to fight.”

Stepping over to the computer terminal, he picked one of the laser pistols that Lieutenant West had sent with them. Originally, Fox had been offended at the man's presumption and arrogance when he had placed laser weapons and ceremonial swords on a
diplomatic
shuttle. However, Fox had later seen that the Klingons did respect the weapons, and they respected the team more because they carried them.

“I know that some of you are opposed to violence—”

“I will fight,” Fitzpatrick said, standing up. There was a chorus of agreement from the others.

Fox nodded. “Then I suggest we wear the weapons at all times. Further, we should always stay together. And for now, we should continue the negotiations. That may buy us some time.”

There were nods, and for the hundredth time since these negotiations had begun, he saw their belief in him and what they were doing. They would follow him even
in this, even when his failure was so plain, even after he had led them on a path to death or something even worse.

“We're with you, sir,” Fitzpatrick said.

Fox nodded, not trusting his voice. After a moment, he composed himself. “There is one more thing. If we are prepared to fight, we will be facing trained Klingon warriors—whatever diplomatic cloaks they wear. We need to be prepared for the possibility that we will lose. In that case, I strongly suggest that you not let the Klingons take you alive.”

“We understand. We'll be ready, Ambassador,” Fitzpatrick said with firm resolve in her voice. He saw the same resolve on all their faces. They were all good people, talented and brave, and they had placed their faith in him and a series of ideals that they all shared. Now they would likely pay for that faith with their lives.

SYSTEM 7348

FEDERATION SPACE

W
HEN
F
ULLER CLOSED
his communicator, Adon said, “Your captain said you would help us.”

That had been Kirk's instruction to Fuller. “We will do whatever we can. What are your plans?”

“A sickness has affected my people. Gurn makes pacts with our enemies and puts himself and his desire for power over the lives of all of us.” There was pain in the young man's face, and something else: determination. By the way his people were looking at him, they looked as if they were ready to follow him anywhere.

There was no shortage of courage here, but courage alone was not always enough to win the day. “Gurn and his people outnumber you by a considerable margin.
They also control the mine and have many weapons at their disposal. And Gurn also has help. So I ask you again, what are your plans?”

“I plan to defeat Gurn, put a stop to this partnership with our enemies, and kill the man who murdered my father,” Adon said with perfect seriousness.

For a moment, Fuller felt ashamed that he would have been so quick to let these Klingons and the ones on the ship kill each other. He found that he understood this young man well. Now he thought that perhaps he had more in common with Adon than he had with the members of his own squad. There was also something almost familiar about this young man—a set in his face, a seriousness of purpose and a determination that he had seen in his own son.

Earth had a saying, one that the Klingons shared in an altered form: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Well, Fuller didn't think he would ever call a Klingon friend, but they could share an enemy. The man that had killed Adon's father was working with the Klingons who had killed Fuller's son.

“What is your plan?” Fuller asked again.

“My plan is victory … though I am still working on some of the details.”

There it was, that determination again. And not just in this young man's face, but in the faces of the men and women around him. They would fight for him and for their world. They might lose—Fuller had seen too many determined people die young to pretend otherwise—but they would fight as long as they had breath.