What he got was a small, middle-aged, white-haired, smooth-foreheaded humanoid who was indistinguishable from any other small, middle-aged, white-haired, smooth-foreheaded humanoid. Except for the spots. Hardly the subject of song and story.
However, the body was just a shell. The true heart of a warrior cannot be seen with the eyes—and Kang was also not one to name his firstborn after a weakling. So K’mpec gave the Trill the benefit of the doubt as he stood before the assembled Council, one of the high-ceilinged chamber’s giant floodlights shining down on him, making the black spots that ringed his face almost glow.
“Councillors—Chancellor Kravokh. I thank you for allowing me to speak before you.”
Kravokh nodded. “Your service to the Klingon Empire and its people is well noted by the Council, Ambassador.”
“Again, thank you. It is one of those past services that I wish to discuss with you now. Sixteen years ago at the Betreka Nebula, I proposed—and you all accepted—an arrangement whereby the Klingon Empire and the Cardassian Union would each be given a continent on Raknal V to develop. Whoever proved better able to exploit the planet would be granted full control of it—as well as the sacred remains of Ch’gran. I did this because I knew that a true Klingon would not shirk such a challenge, indeed would rise to it, and fight like warriors to the end.”
Dax started to pace the hall, looking each councillor in the eye as he spoke. “Yet here I stand before you, sixteen years later, and what have you done? Instead of fighting like warriors, you skulk like vermin!”
Several members of the Council rumbled in outrage. Recognizing the obvious rhetorical technique, K’mpec was not among them. Still, had anyone other than the Great Curzon made this statement, their lives would be forfeit—but had it been anyone other than the Great Curzon, they would not be speaking before the High Council in the first place.
“The Klingon colony on Raknal V is a joke, a model of inefficiency run by a drunken former ship captain. The equipment is substandard, the work uninspired, the population barely interested in sustaining their own lives. Hundreds have died due to incompetence, mismanagement, or the dozens of small battles that have erupted between Klingon and Cardassian. Now a Starfleet officer has been killed, a man with a widow and child who cry out for vengeance. What is it we may tell them?”
K’mpec admired the effectiveness of Dax’s oratory. Humans, of course, did not cry for vengeance when their loved ones died—they simply cried. That, and whined about the injustice of it all, as if it were some great revelation that the universe was cruel. But that did not change the fact that an honorable ally died on a Klingon world for no reason other than the apparent incompetence of Klingon builders—or Cardassian sabotage, but K’mpec believed the Federation report that the Cardassians were not responsible.
“I ask you, Councillors—honorable Chancellor—is this how the heroes of Ch’gran are to be remembered? Are the pioneers who paved the road to space with their sacrifice—with their blood—to be remembered as the instigators of a drawn-out, futile conflict? Are we—”
“Enough!”
K’mpec’s attention had been focused on Dax. He turned now to see Kravokh standing in front of his chair of office, his face contorted in fury.
And something else—something K’mpec never imagined he would see in the eyes of a leader of the High Counciclass="underline" fear.
“I have let you speak out of respect for all you have done, Ambassador, but do not try the Council’s patience any further! You are not one of us, you cannotunderstand the importance of Ch’gran to our people!”
“I understand completely, Chancellor, that is why I think it is important to—”
“Raknal V will be a Klingon world! We have not attempted to take it by force because we abide by our agreements. Do notask any more of us, Ambassador, or we will be forced to test the limits of our willingness to placate our allies.”
“Are we allies?” Dax asked, a wry smile on his face. “I see an empire that has engaged in a massive military buildup without informing its allies of its purpose or number. I see an empire that has rejected every trade overture made by the Federation over the last ten years. I see—”
“Chancellor!”
K’mpec followed this new voice to its source: the large entryway opposite Kravokh, through which ran a young man in a warrior’s armor.
“Why do you come before us?” Kravokh asked sharply, though to K’mpec’s ears he sounded almost relieved at the interruption.
“We are invaded! The outpost at Narendra III is being attacked—by Romulans!”
Council Chambers then burst into a chaotic jumble. Speculations, accusations, denials, all of them ran rampant through the hall.
“Are they mad?”
“The Romulans would never attack!”
“We must destroy them!”
“Narendra III is of no consequence.”
“We must have vengeance!”
But all K’mpec could think was, Lorgh was right. Curse his beady little eyes, I.I.’s information was correct.
“Enough!” Kravokh’s voice silenced the chamber. To Dax, he said, “Ambassador, for obvious reasons, we must suspend your—discussion until this crisis is resolved. You are welcome to stay in the First City for as long as you wish. We will summon you when we are ready to proceed.”
Dax, to his credit, was completely conciliatory. “Of course, Chancellor. If there is anything I or the Federation can do to be of assistance, please inform me immediately.”
With that, the Great Curzon took his leave.
Once he was gone, Kravokh snarled. “Summon General Krin immediately! Why were we not warned of this possibility?”
The councillor to K’mpec’s left muttered, “We were.”
K’mpec growled, but his fellow councillor was correct. I was a fool. And thousands will die on Narendra III to pay for my foolishness.
“We must be cautious,” said one councillor whom K’mpec knew to be sympathetic to the Romulans. “These could be the actions of renegades among the Romulans. They have been inactive for over thirty turns—why attack now?”
Another who had no clear position on the Romulans said, “Their leader is weakened. Perhaps he wishes to go out in a blaze of glory.”
As the Council continued back and forth while awaiting the general’s arrival, K’mpec found himself tuning it out and thinking ahead to the aftermath of the crisis. He needed to mend fences with Lorgh quickly. Whether this was the action of a few renegades, a new Romulan offensive, or something else entirely, K’mpec needed to know everything that I.I. knew.
A day later, K’mpec found himself calling on Curzon Dax. Although he could have taken rooms at the Federation embassy, Dax instead chose to reserve a room at a Klingon boarding house in the First City—one much closer to the Great Hall than the embassy. K’mpec admired the Trill’s fortitude. Few outsiders had the ability to thrive in Klingon accommodations, particularly ones of Dax’s age.
K’mpec found Dax in the small room, sitting at the workstation, several padds lying in front of him unread. He was sipping from a mug.
“Greetings—K’mpec, is it not? Join me.” Dax held up a bottle of bloodwine from one of the lesser vintners. “We can drink to the honored dead.”
That was a toast K’mpec was willing to participate in, especially given the sheer number of honored dead there were to drink to. Exact casualty figures had not yet been tallied, but hundreds of warriors died defending Narendra, not to mention much of the population of that world—and the entire complement of the U.S.S. Enterprise,a Starfleet vessel whose captain, Rachel Garrett, sacrificed herself and her ship trying to save Klingon lives. Already Garrett’s name was being spoken of in Council Chambers—indeed all over the Empire—with a level of respect that few outsiders had earned.
“To the dead,” K’mpec said after Dax had poured him some wine. “May they battle in Sto-Vo-Korfor all eternity.”