Текст книги "Storming Heaven"

Jetanien kneeled on his portable glenget opposite Lugok, at a table in a secluded corner of Ventus, one of the few restaurants still operating within the limits of Paradise City. The narrow, low-ceilinged dining room’s deeply subdued illumination did little to conceal its filthy floors and bare walls. If not for the dim shaded bulb hanging directly above their table, Jetanien doubted he would even be able to read the menu. He looked around the dingy eatery with suspicion. “Lugok, are you quite certain this establishment is open for business?”

“Quite certain,” the Klingon replied without lifting his eyes from his menu.

Tapping the digits of one scaly manus on the tabletop, Jetanien wasn’t convinced. “If that’s the case, old friend, shouldn’t someone be attending us? Had we not found menus on our table when we arrived, I suspect we would still be waiting for them.”

Lugok looked mildly irritated as he peeked over the top of his menu. “Be patient. Maybe they’re busy.”

“Oh, really?” He waved broadly at the sea of empty tables surrounding them. “With whom? If this restaurant is a going concern, why do we appear to be its only patrons?”

The Klingon answered with a glum frown, “Its cuisine isn’t very popular.”

“Nonsense,” Jetanien huffed. “I’ve already seen several items on the menu that sound delectable to my rather discerning palate.”

“As I said.”

Jetanien ground his mandible for a moment, then set down his menu. “I suppose we can at least be grateful that by meeting here, we are unlikely to fall victim to eavesdroppers. Or the temptation to overeat. Or eat at all.” He leaned back and strained to divine any sound or motion from the kitchen, but detected nothing. “Perhaps this is a self-service automat.”

“I am quite sure it’s not.”

Leaning away from the table, Jetanien grumbled, “Maybe if I go back there, I could get their attention.”

Lugok harrumphed. It was a deep but muffled sound, hidden under his thick beard and fleshy torso. “Like the way Captain Khatami got the Tholians’ attention at Eremar?”

“So, you heard about that, did you?”

A sadistic chuckle animated the Klingon’s swarthy face. “Half the quadrant’s heard about it by now. The Tholians all but called it a war crime.”

“Ridiculous. Captain Khatami’s actions were entirely proportional and in accordance with accepted interstellar law. She did not fire on their ships until they fired upon hers.”

“You speak as if the Tholians give a damn about such distinctions. At a time when the Gonmog Sector—”

“We prefer to call it the Taurus Reach.”

“Good for you,” Lugok continued, unfazed by the interruption. “At a time when the Gonmog Sector is teetering on the brink of all-out war, Khatami should have known better.”

A derisive snort escaped Jetanien’s nasal aperture. “It’s just more Tholian saber-rattling.”

“Yes, just like that empty gesture they made when they destroyed the Bombay.” Lugok looked up and studied Jetanien’s face, perhaps hoping to provoke some kind of response. After several seconds passed without Jetanien taking the bait, the Klingon moved on. “So, what was your little scout ship looking for on Eremar, anyway?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Jetanien said. “You might recall that I’m officially no longer cleared for sensitive operational intelligence from Starfleet.” He knew that Lugok understood the key word in that sentence had been officially. The two “retired” diplomats had become quite adept at reading between the lines of each other’s statements. It was simply a matter of professional courtesy that they tended to refrain from calling each other out on their lies. “If, by some thermodynamic miracle, a server should ever appear to take our orders, I believe I should like to sample their assortment of fried beetles.”

“With any luck, this place will burn to the ground, with us in it, before I have to endure the spectacle of watching you eat that.” He perused the menu again. “The thrakas carpaccio sounds like it might be edible, if I can get a decent stein of warnog to wash it down.”

Inhaling deeply, Jetanien thought for a moment that he caught the scent of smoke from the kitchen, but then it was gone, and silence reigned once more inside Ventus. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to mention that I conferred with our friend from Romulus.”

“And . . . ?”

“The conversation was less than fully illuminating.”

Lugok chortled softly. “I presume you’re exercising your talent for understatement.” He shook his head. “So, you’ve learned nothing pertinent to my inquiry?”

“That was not what I said.” Jetanien reached under the folds of his tunic and took a data card from an inside pocket. He put it on the table and pushed it across to Lugok, who picked it up and tucked it inside his own jacket as Jetanien spoke. “Apparently, both Starfleet Intelligence and their civilian counterparts have been investigating this matter for some time. It seems your suspicions are correct: one of your empire’s noble Houses is being courted to act as a proxy for Romulan interests, perhaps as a prelude to seizing the chancellorship.”

The Klingon’s voice was a low rumble. “Which one?”

“Duras. One of the more bellicose voices on your High Council at the moment, and not one the Federation would be keen to see wield power as a head of state.”

Lugok nodded. “That is a desire you share with Councillor Gorkon and Chancellor Sturka.” He leaned closer, and Jetanien mirrored the gesture. “Of course, the chancellor’s animus toward Duras is personal, rooted in old House rivalries. Gorkon’s enmity for the man is political. Hotheads like Duras make it difficult to cultivate more moderate voices on the High Council.”

“It’s our hope that assisting you in this matter will foster such moderate voices in the future, for our mutual benefit,” Jetanien said.

A broad grin exposed jagged teeth. “And the fact that it screws the Romulans . . . ?”

“Is merely an added incentive.”

The two comrades in exile shared a hearty laugh that gradually tapered off, leaving them once again enveloped in silence.

Then Lugok pounded his fist on the table. “Where in Gre’thor is our waiter?”

Jetanien stood and folded up his portable glenget. “Did I mention that on my walk over here, I saw a street vendor selling grilled pleeka lizards on sticks?”

The Klingon got up and gave Jetanien a fraternal slap on the back.

“Lead the way, old friend.”

The ruby glow of the transporter faded from Kutal’s sight as he materialized alone aboard the I.K.S. baS’jev. The ship’s commanding officer, Captain Chang, moved forward and extended his hand as Kutal stepped off the transporter platform. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” Chang said.

Kutal and Chang clasped each other’s forearms, their grips firm and manners guarded. “Captain Chang.” Kutal looked down at his shorter, slightly built peer. Unlike most Klingon warriors, who took pride in their manes of hair and ragged beards, Chang had shaved his head bald and limited his facial hair to a pair of tusklike growths above the corners of his mouth. His baldness called attention to his suppressed cranial crest and emphasized his status as one of the QuchHa’, a caste of Klingons descended from the victims of the previous century’s Augment Virus, which had transformed proud Klingons into pathetically human-looking weaklings that the Empire had decided were good for little but cannon fodder. Kutal knew not to judge Chang by his appearance, however. No one rose to command of an imperial warship without great reserves of strength and cunning, and he was certain that Chang, whose lineage included ties to some of the Great Houses, was no exception.

Chang released Kutal’s arm and directed him toward the small compartment’s open doorway. “Let’s repair to a more private location.”

“As you wish.” He followed Kutal out to the corridor and then forward. The baS’jev was a vessel of the same class as the Zin’za, and except for a few minor details and the unfamiliar faces of the crew in the passageways, its interior was identical to that of Kutal’s ship—right down to the musky, acrid odors that rendered its humid air richly palpable. The two captains walked in silence until Chang entered his quarters and summoned Kutal inside.

The door slid shut behind Kutal, and then Chang spoke. “It would appear that we both count Councillor Gorkon as a friend and ally.”

Kutal didn’t like the way Chang spoke. He used too many words, like a human. It made Kutal wonder whether the man was showing off or trying to hide something—or both. “Yes,” Kutal said as he slowly circuited the room’s perimeter. “Gorkon is a friend.” He paused long enough to shoot a cautionary look at Chang. “If he were not, I would not be here.”

“True enough.” Chang crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a bottle of very old warnog that Kutal knew to be obscenely expensive. He removed the stopper and held the bottle out toward Kutal. “Shall we drink to our new acquaintance?”

The more he speaks, the less I like him. He buried his contempt deep. “I’ll drink.”

Chang filled two goblets half full, handed one to Kutal, and set down the bottle. “How much were you told by Gorkon?”

“Only that I was to meet your ship here. The rest he left to you.”

The other captain’s smile was cold. “I see.” He guzzled half his beverage in one tip, sleeved the excess from his chin, and grinned at Kutal. “Drink, my friend. I give you my word the warnog’s not poisoned.”

“I never said it was.” Kutal downed a mouthful of the potent libation. It lived up to its reputation: it was some of the finest warnog he’d ever tasted. “What have you been told?”

“Gorkon suspects the House of Duras is in league with the Romulans, trading the Empire’s security for their own enrichment.”

If true, it was a damning accusation. “Based on what evidence?”

Chang’s icy smile remained frozen in place. “He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. Far be it from me to question the word of a member of the High Council.”

Kutal continued to wander the room’s periphery. He stopped when he noticed a row of unusual tomes on the shelf above Chang’s bunk. Leaning closer, he scrutinized the titles, then turned a curious eye toward his host. “You read human literature.”

“Only the playwright known as Shakespeare.” He added with a sly hint of conspiracy, “Between you and me, I think his plays read better in the original tlhIngan Hol.”

It was hard for Kutal to know whether Chang had spoken in jest or sincerity. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. “Know your enemy through his art, eh?”

“If you like. But for the moment, our enemy lies not without but within.”

Kutal nodded. “How do we proceed? I trust you don’t need to be reminded that Duras and his House are among the wealthiest and most powerful members of the Empire?”

All traces of mirth fled Chang’s face. “I’m well aware, yes. It falls to us to turn the strengths of the Duras clan into their weaknesses. They have numbers but lack discipline. Their patriarch is temperamental and susceptible to provocation. With time and observation, I am certain we will divine an exploitable weakness and then seek our moment of opportunity.”

A dismissive grunt telegraphed Kutal’s incredulity. “In my experience, opportunities multiply only when seized.”

“Quite right,” Chang said. “So it is that Gorkon has seized such an opportunity for us.” He stepped over to his desk and rotated the computer screen so that it faced Kutal. Then he activated the display, which showed a set of orders from the High Command. “Brakk, son of Duras, commands the battle cruiser Qu’vang. It recently lost its two primary combat escorts in a battle on our rimward border. Gorkon has arranged for our two vessels to be reassigned as the Qu’vang’s new escorts—putting us in position to monitor Brakk’s communications with Duras.”

“A waste of time.” Kutal guzzled the rest of his warnog and set the empty goblet on Chang’s desk. “Spying on that taHqeq will gain us nothing.”

“Perhaps.” Chang’s frigid smile returned. “Though I suspect Gorkon already knows that.”

Momentarily dumbfounded, Kutal wondered aloud, “Then why make us wing guards to that sniveling—” He caught himself as the councillor’s likely rationale became clear to him. “We’re being used as bait. To see if Duras moves against us as a prelude to attacking Gorkon.”

“My supposition exactly. However, we have the advantage of knowing our part ahead of time—and as every hunter knows, sometimes the prey wins.”

“And if spying on Brakk uncovers proof of the Durases’ treachery, what then?”

Chang refilled Kutal’s glass. “In that case, my friend, on behalf of the Empire, we shall make medicines of our great revenge.”

17