Текст книги "The Art of the Impossible "

Автор книги: Keith R. A. DeCandido

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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.

Ten years, and several false starts later—it had taken years to pay off the massive debts incurred by his failed attempt to open an establishment on Tellar; apparently too few Tellarites found Klingon food sufficiently appealing to keep a restaurant afloat—he found himself thriving on Cardassia Prime. The expansion of the Cardassian Union had led to a great curiosity among the natives as to the wonders of the galaxy, including the types of foods eaten by all the new species they were encountering every day.

For the first decade or so, business had been good. He finally paid off all his debts, both the ones incurred on Tellar and those he took on in order to get this place going, and the restaurant started to show something resembling a profit—or at least made enough for him to live comfortably.

At last, he had won. He had brought Klingon cuisine to Cardassia.

Sadly, of late, Cardassia seemed less and less interested in the Klingon cuisine he offered. The growing number of incidents between the two governments had resulted in a downturn in business. The regulars like the Hallitz family weren’t the problem—it was the walk-in business, the curious thrill-seekers, the adventurous tourists, and, of course, the occasional visiting Klingon, desperate for a taste of home. Those were fewer in number with each passing month, and Kurrgo could not survive on his tiny base of regulars alone—especially since the price of importing the necessary ingredients had skyrocketed on account of the strife between the two governments. Most of that, of course, was artificial gouging by that damned Ferengi, but he was also the only one who was willing to cross both borders and acquire the necessary foodstuffs for Kurrgo.

As he said good-bye to a retired doctor who came every night for a bowl of taknargizzards, Kurrgo thought, Speaking of whom, that little troll should have been here yesterday with that fresh supply oftarg s. Where is he?

He looked around. And where is Larkan? He should have been here an hour ago.It was the height of the dinner hour, and all four of his waiters should have been present. Though the crowd was sufficiently thin that the three who had made it in were more than enough to handle the load. Still, it was the principle of the thing…

After seating a couple—Gran Marits with his latest conquest—the young Cardassian errand boy that Kurrgo had hired the previous month came running up to him. “It’s Lig on the comm.”

“Finally,” Kurrgo muttered. He went into the back, and Lig’s big-eared, small-eyed face appeared on Kurrgo’s battered old viewscreen. The image started to lose focus until Kurrgo slammed the comm unit on the side. Then Lig came into full view, making Kurrgo regret going to the trouble. The Ferengi’s face was easier to look at when you couldn’t see it.

“We’ve got a big problem,”Lig said without preamble. “My ship’s been impounded.”

“What? What for?”

“Apparently, the tariffs on goods coming from Klingon territory have quadrupled in the last week. The customs officer made some comment about how we have to pay a higher price if we want anything that comes from ‘those murderers’ entering Cardassian space.”

“Murderers?” Kurrgo slammed his fist into the table. “What are they talking about?”

“Don’t you watch the newsfeeds?”

Kurrgo snarled. “No, but I have heard people talking. I thought it was just talk, though, not action.”

“It is now. The tariff has gone up by a thousand leks.”

“So why have they impounded your ship?”

Lig’s eyes went wider than Kurrgo had thought them capable of getting. “Because I don’t have a thousand leks in my pocket, you idiot! Plus, they’re levying additional fines for violating the tariff law, not to mention storage charges for the impound.”Smiling grimly, Lig added, “There are so many additional charges, you’d think this was a Ferengi customs-house.”

“I’m glad you admire them.”

“Mind you, they didn’t say anything until they found thetarg s. Until then, everything was business as usual. As soon as they saw that, though, they started double-checkingeverything, down to the stembolts. And let me tell you, the extra charges all applyjust to thetarg s.”

Kurrgo sighed. “What are you going to do?”

“What amI going to do? I’m going to sit here and wait for you to come and pay all these fees so I can have my ship back. Then you can have your blessedtarg s and I can get out of this madhouse.”

Kurrgo was outraged. “You expect meto pay yourtariffs? I thought that was covered in our agreement!”

“This is a special case.”

“No, Lig, it is not.” Kurrgo leaned into the viewer. For emphasis, he grabbed a carving knife. “I have already paid for those targs. Our contract obligates you to pay anytransportation fees or tariffs. You are within your rights to charge me for the goods based on what you’ll have to pay, but you cannot change the price of delivery after full payment has been made.”

Lig sighed. “Leave it to me to go into business with the one Klingon who actually reads his contracts.”

“I’m a businessman just like you, Lig. Except, of course, that I’m better with a knife than you.” He started twirling the knife in a manuever that looked like he was about to cut his—or somebody else’s—hand off. “And if I don’t get my goods, I will declare you in breach and report it to the FCA.” He smiled, twirling the knife some more. “Liquidator Gant is one of my more reliable customers.” Gant was one of the Ferengi Commerce Authority’s agents in charge of external affairs, and he had developed a taste for bregitlung. Every time he visited Cardassia Prime—which was usually at least three times a year—he had all his meals at Kurrgo’s.

“Fine, sic Gant on me,”Lig said, sounding less intimidated than Kurrgo would have liked. “It doesn’t change the fact that I can’t get at my ship and you can’t get at yourtarg s unless these fees are paid, and I can’t pay them. Either you come here with the money, or we both lose.”

Much as Kurrgo hated to admit it to himself, the little toDSaHwas right. “I’m in the middle of the dinner crowd right now. I’ll send Amon.” Amon was the head waiter, a wily Cardassian who was smart enough to not let Lig cheat him and Cardassian enough to not be gouged too badly by the customs officers. It meant he’d be two waiters down—unless Larkan had somehow materialized in the last five minutes—but it was better than being out a shipment of targs. “He’ll bring a chit. Whatever we pay to customs will be an advance against payment of the next shipment.”

“Just send him quickly. I’ve got perishables in there.”

Kurrgo felt a momentary panic. “Aren’t the targs in stasis?”

“They are, yes. What, you think you’re my only client on Cardassia? If that were the case, I’d’ve gone out of business years ago. As it is, if these tariffs keep up, there may notbe a next shipment.”

Only the fact that Lig had been making the same threat for years prevented Kurrgo from worrying overmuch about him making it again.

At least until he added: “I’m serious this time, Kurrgo. The way things are going, a Ferengi can’t make an honest living going back and forth between Qo’noS and Cardassia. I may have to find a less—troubled trade route.”Before Kurrgo had a chance to reply to that, Lig signed off.

Damn him and his oversized ears.He summoned Amon to his side, handing him a blank credit chit. “Take this to the customs-house. Lig will meet you there. Find out from the customs officerswhat fees need to be paid. Pay everything directly to them. Do not put a single lek into Lig’s pocket, is that understood?”

Amon smiled. “Of course.”

He left. It’s not like I need all my waiters tonight in any event,Kurrgo thought sourly, looking at all the empty tables. Usually this was the busiest time of night, yet only a quarter of the restaurant was full. He looked around the restaurant walls, covered as they were with assorted Klingon memorabilia: weapons, Klingon artwork, a fake SoSnI’tree, and more weapons. Perhaps I should make the décor more Cardassian.

His redecorating thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of three men and one woman wearing military uniforms.

No, there was a fifth with them—a stooped-over figure whose face Kurrgo could not see. At first, Kurrgo thought they were bringing a drunk in off the street, especially since the fifth figure wore civilian clothing.

Kurrgo scowled. He had little use for this world’s military. Klingon soldiers were warriors, creatures of honor and duty, worthy of the highest place in Empire society. Cardassian soldiers, though, were just thugs with uniforms. Upon the newcomers’ entrance, he immediately moved to the front of the restaurant to greet them before they could come any further inside. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to maintain at least a facade of pleasantness, though he clenched his fists so tightly, his fingernails drew blood.

“This creature says he belongs to you, Klingon,” one of them said. He gave a signal to the one dragging the fifth figure, who tossed said figure to the floor between him and Kurrgo.

Only then did Kurrgo get a good look at the figure, and realized that it was a Klingon, his face bleeding from several cuts and covered in bruises, one eye completely sealed shut from the swelling.

It took him a moment to recognize Larkan.

“He is one of my waiters!” Kurrgo knelt down to check on the young man. He was breathing normally, if a bit raggedly.

“I—am—all—right,” Larkan managed to say, spitting out blood and a tooth or two as he did so.

Standing upright, Kurrgo faced the lead Cardassian. He kept an old disruptor pistol in the back room, but he’d never get to it in time. Even the bat’lethon the west wall was too far to do him any good. Besides, I will not endanger my customers.“Who did this to him?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“He was out after curfew.”

Kurrgo blinked. “What curfew?”

“The curfew that was announced this afternoon. All Klingons are to be indoors after sundown. No exceptions.”

Tightly, Kurrgo said, “I was not informed of this.”

The officer looked around. “Yes, I can see that you don’t have any monitors in here. Why is that, I wonder?”

“My customers come here to get away from Cardassia, to get a taste of tlhInghan’a’.”There was no adequate Cardassian way of expressing the word, which basically meant “Klingon-ness.” “To have a Cardassian face prominently displayed would spoil the ambience.” Clenching his fists once again, he added, “I have all the necessary permits to—”

“I do not carewhat permits you have, Klingon!” The officer spit on the floor. “This restaurant is an abomination. It offends the memory of every Cardassian who has died at Klingon hands, and will be shut down. Your waiter will be arrested for violation of curfew. You will be escorted to your home. We will no longer allow your kind to walk about freely where you can poison our children and murder our people.”

At first Kurrgo was aghast. He had now moved on to furious. “This is myproperty! You cannot—”

“This is Cardassianproperty,” the officer said, standing face-to-face with Kurrgo. “We simply allow you—or, rather,” he added with a supercilious smile, “allowedyou to use it to poison our people with your vile foodstuffs. But that is over now. I have orders to close this—establishment. If you need a place to work, I’m sure the mines on Bajor could use someone of your bulk.” Raising his voice for all to hear, he continued: “Everyone please leave the premises immediately. This restaurant has been shut down. Anyone left within these walls in five minutes will be arrested for trespassing on Central Command property.”

“You cannot do this.” Kurrgo spoke the words even though he knew them to be a lie—never mind that he had indeed bought the land ten years earlier. Cardassia was a military dictatorship, after all, and that meant that people did what the military said. Now the military had, in the person of this petaQof an officer, declared his deed of ownership to this restaurant null and void.

There were four of them and only one of him. They were trained in combat, where Kurrgo knew a few knife tricks that might allow him to hold his own in a one-on-one brawl. Against these odds, he’d be torn apart.

He decided to wield one last weapon. “Gul Hallitz is one of my regular customers. I do not think he will be pleased by this.” In truth, he had no idea one way or the other how important Hallitz was in the grand scheme of Cardassian Central Command, nor what influence he could wield, but at this point Kurrgo had little to lose.

The officer just laughed at that, as did his fellows. “Gul Hallitz is the one who cut the orders to shut this charnel house down.”

So, there it is.Kurrgo had hoped it would not come to this. But if they closed his restaurant, he had nothing. He doubted he would be able to make a third attempt to open such an establishment, and he could not live with the shame of returning to the Empire a failure twice over. If they insist on taking my life’s work, they shall do so only by stepping over my corpse to do it.

Without any warning, he struck the lead officer on his neck under his chin. It was an especially vulnerable spot for Cardassians if one aimed it properly, and Kurrgo did—it was no doubt why they had evolved such tough chins, to protect that weakness. The officer went down like a sack of HaroS.

He turned to face the others, but they were too fast. Each of them had unholstered phasers and started firing.

As the phaser fire burned his flesh and muscle, as the pain lanced through his body, as the screams ripped from his throat, Kurrgo thought, My death may not be worthy of song, but I died defending my land. I could have hoped for no better end.

As he fell to the floor, he heard the voices of the Cardassians.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” A cough. “Hadn’t expected that.”

“Who’s Gul Hallitz, anyhow?”

“I have no idea. I just thought I’d twist the knife in that alien scum’s heart is all.”

Laughter.

Oddly, the treachery brought comfort to Kurrgo as he died. At least my customers are loyal…

Chapter 18

Qo’nos

Of all the mountain-climbing excursions Arn Teldin had taken on dozens of worlds throughout the quadrant, this trip to the Sutor mountains on Qo’noS had been the best yet.

The biggest problem with Cardassia II, where Teldin grew up, was its near total lack of mountains. Teldin had always felt the urge to climb, ever since he was a small boy trying to scale the tree in his backyard. The first time he went off-world was when his father’s business took him to Chin’toka III, to a city near the Likra mountain range. His father wouldn’t let him climb then—he was only seven—but Teldin studied climbing when he went to school, becoming a champion. He won dozens of competitions and left his mother living in constant fear for her son’s life.

With adulthood came responsibility, of course. It was all well and good to indulge in one’s fantasies as a youth, but Cardassia gave him a home and a life, and in return for that, he owed the state service. He became an archivist for the Central Command library, soon rising to the position of chief archivist. Eventually, after a long and distinguished career during which he revolutionized Central Command’s record-keeping abilities, he retired, determined to spend the rest of his life traveling the galaxy and climbing mountains.

He’d climbed peaks all over Cardassian space and on several Federation worlds. The trip to Qo’noS had been expensive, but worth it. Klingons, for all their peculiarities, had a fondness for preservation of nature, so the wildnerness of Sutor was left mostly untouched by the ravages of industry and technology. It had been the purest climb he’d had since his school days.

Even as he waited for the transport that would take him back to the First City, where he would find lodgings before heading back home to Cardassia in the morning, he missed the sensation of rock under his hands, the searing cold air slicing into his lungs, the feel of the wind through his white hair—more, he missed the soundof the wind. When the transport arrived, he planned to compose a letter to his mother—still alive, and well cared for by the state—telling her of the adventure. His mother had long since given up being worried about her son’s jaunts across the galaxy. Whether or not it was old age or just resignation to the inevitable, she at least no longer tried to talk him out of it, and pretended to enjoy hearing about his adventures.

It was only after he’d been at the kiosk for fifteen minutes that he noticed the odd looks he was getting from the Klingons around him.

Teldin had never given much thought to Klingons. Until coming to Qo’noS, he’d never even met one. He didn’t like the way they all tended to snarl and bare their teeth and shout. But then, they probably didn’t like how quiet and unassuming Teldin himself was, so he figured it all balanced out. Besides, they let him climb their mountain, and he couldn’t bring himself to be too badly disposed toward them.

“Hey! Cardassian!”

Blinking, Teldin turned to the large Klingon who spoke. “Are you talking to me?”

The Klingon, who was a broad-shouldered young man with a thick beard and a wild mane of red hair framing a heavily ridged crest, laughed heartily. “Do you see any other Cardassians around, old man?”

“Er, no. Can I help you with something?”

Another laugh. “Why, yes! Yes, you can, Cardassian! You can tell me why you’re here!” The Klingon walked up to Teldin and stood face-to-face with him. The Klingon’s breath was beyond foul—it smelled like something that had lived a very unpleasant life died in the man’s mouth. Teldin knew that Klingons had odd taste in food—he was grateful that he’d packed his own rations before leaving Cardassian space—but this was beyond the pale. “You don’t belong on a Klingon world, old man!”

“I’ve—I’ve been climbing the Sutor p-peak.” Teldin started to grow nervous. He was just a retired archivist, after all. In good shape for a man his age, but against one of these brutes—who lived for combat, or so he had heard—he wouldn’t stand a chance. Where is that transport?

“Oho!” Yet another laugh. It sounded like the braying of a wompat. Several others around him joined in the laugh. Others simply moved away. “Then you haven’t heard the news! The High Council has decided, in its great wisdom, to expel all you toDSaHfrom the Empire.” He looked around at the crowd. “No longer will we have to allow the thieves of Ch’gran to sully our worlds!”

“Ch’gran? What are you talking about?” The Klingon was ranting. Teldin was prepared to dismiss him as a lunatic, albeit a dangerous one.

But then he saw the rest of the group waiting for the transport. Those who hadn’t moved away were nodding their assent. Some were cheering. Others joined the burly red-haired one in his wompat-bray of a laugh. Could he be speaking the truth?

Then a noise filled Teldin’s ears: the transport. It was coming down to land on a pad some distance before them. An attendant came out to take their tickets and allow them ingress to the transport—but when Teldin reached the front of the line, she would not let him through. “You may not pass.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The attendant sneered. “Your kind is not permitted to mix with Klingons, murderer.”

This was getting ridiculous. “I’m not a murderer.”

“Tell that to the souls of the dead on the Chut!”

Teldin was baffled. “I don’t even know what a chut is. Please, I just came here to climb the mountain, and—”

“Go back where you came from!” shouted one person from behind him on the queue.

“Thief!”

“Murderer!”

“First you soil our history, then you soil our world!”

“Cardassian filth!”

“Look,” Teldin said to the attendant over the din, “I just want to get back to the First City so I can go home.”

“Oh, you’ll be going home, all right.” The attendant signaled to someone. Teldin followed her gaze to see two Klingons in full military uniform approaching. “Just not in comfort.”

The two uniformed men violently grabbed his arms. It felt like they were trying to rip them out of their sockets. As they led him off, the cheers of the crowd, particularly the laughing redhead, echoed in Arn Teldin’s ears.

The tik’lethwent flying from Kravokh’s opponent’s hands, clattering to the wooden floor. Kravokh stood with his bat’leth,smiling, ready to strike the killing blow, when Ruuv, his aide, entered the large practice room.

“Oh, good, you’re practicing. You’ll need it. Ditagh is dying.”

Kravokh snorted. “Ditagh’s been dying for years. His inability to actually take the final step has grown tiresome.”

The councillor touched a control on his belt, and his opponent disappeared in a puff of photons. The holographic technology was every bit as good as the human merchant said it would be.

“What was that?” Ruuv asked.

“A holographic opponent. The Federation has perfected the technology to the point where one can create a solid object. Makes a fine sparring partner, if programmed right.” Kravokh walked over to where the tik’lethhad landed and picked it up. “We should be trading for such technology, not holding the Federation at arm’s length.”

“You may have your chance to implement that plan soon.”

Kravokh hung the long sword and the bat’lethin their respective cradles on the eastern wall of the practice room. Said wall also contained a mek’lethand half a dozen other weapons—some of Romulan, Vulcan, Kinshaya, and human design. The opposite wall was a giant window that looked out over the Qora forest. The array of sepia leaves and red bark against the blue-and-white sky provided a fine backdrop for his combat drills.

He regarded his aide. Ruuv was lanky, tall but with skinny shoulders. Still, Kravokh knew he was reliable in battle, and he was also a keen observer—which was why he’d made him his top aide in the first place. “Ditagh is really dying this time?”

“The doctors do not think he will last the night.”

Another snort. “These same doctors said he was due to cross into Sto-Vo-Kor‘any minute’ three months ago.”

Ruuv smiled. “In fact, it is a different doctor, and she is quite sure of her diagnosis. She was convincing enough that Ditagh has named an Arbiter of Succession.”

Kravokh started pacing across the wooden floor toward the window. When a chancellor died in a manner other than in combat, an Arbiter was chosen, who had the task of determining the two most qualified candidates to become the new head of the High Council. Those two then fought each other for the right to rise to the chancellorship. “Who has he named?”

“K’Tal.”

Kravokh whirled away from the spectacular view to give Ruuv a shocked look. “That child?”

“I suspect that is why Ditagh chose him. He is new enough not to have any prejudices.”

Laughing, Kravokh said, “Ditagh mustbe dying—it’s addled his brains. Since when has he preferred those with no prejudices?”

Ruuv joined in the laugh. “It isa wise move. K’Tal may be young, but his House is strong, and he will be the head of that House before long. Making him Arbiter gives him a position of respect, and will indebt the next chancellor to his House even more so.”

Kravokh fixed his aide with a look. “I know why it is good for K’Tal, I am merely surprised that Ditagh chose him. I would have thought he’d choose B’alikk to guarantee that the choices were palatable to Ditagh.”

“I don’t think any choices are palatable to Ditagh.” Ruuv walked over to Kravokh’s side, his boots clacking against the wooden floor. Kravokh, in the privacy of his home, had been wearing mok’barashirt and pants, and had left his feet bare. “I believe that he has left the Empire in a state of disarray and would prefer the choice go to someone else.”

“Of coursehe’s left the Empire in a state of disarray. The amazing thing is that he’srealized what the rest of us have been telling him for the past several years. The only concern now is who K’Tal will pick as the final two candidates.”

“There is little doubt of your being one of them.”

Kravokh shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Definitely. The only successful programs that the High Council has put forth in the last year have come from you.”

Ruuv was not one for unnecessary flattery—in fact, his brutal honesty was one of his best qualities. And in this case, he was right. Kravokh had pushed hard for a variety of programs and reforms, and all the ones he’d been able to slam through the Council—which were irritatingly few of them—had gone quite well.

“I would suggest,” Ruuv said, “that you program that new hologram of yours with everything you can find about Grivak’s fighting style.”

Again, Kravokh laughed. “You’re sure of this information?”

“Quite sure.”

“Good. And you can be sure that my seat on the Council will go to you, Ruuv.”

Ruuv smiled. “That has always been my goal, Kravokh. Out of curiosity, who will get the other one?”

“Assuming the other candidate is Grivak, or someone else on the Council, once I kill them, their seat will go to Captain K’mpec.”

At that, Ruuv’s eyes widened. “I’m not sure that is such a good idea. K’mpec disobeyed your orders at Donatu.”

“And it has all worked out for the best. I have seen the record of battle for the engagement with the Boklar.K’mpec had no choice but to destroy the invaders. Besides,” and here Kravokh smiled viciously, “the promotion of the man responsible for the destruction of the Boklarwill send a message to Cardassia.”

Ruuv didn’t sound convinced. “I would think expelling all Cardassian citizens from the Empire would be message enough.”

Kravokh waved him off. “That is a tiny gesture, and does nothing to get us Ch’gran back. We were a mighty Empire once. Now we are reduced to a third-rate power, letting the Federation broker competitions while Cardassians hold one of our sacred relics hostage. Meanwhile, our so-called ‘leader’ lets our shipyards remain closed because he refuses to bring our ties to the Federation closer! Look at this!” He activated the hologram. “We should be trading Raknal’s zenite for this technology, but instead we let it sit unused. We—”

“Kravokh.”

The councillor blinked.

“I am not the one you need to convince,” Ruuv said with a smile. “Save this oratory for after you defeat Grivak.”

This time, Kravokh’s laugh was a full-throated one that echoed off the high ceiling of the practice room. “Indeed! And when it is over, you and I– CouncillorRuuv—will share a drink to celebrate!”

“I look forward to it.”

Ditagh died the next morning.

The Sonchiceremony was held that afternoon in Council Chambers. The corpse of Ditagh sat on the large chair that was the chamber’s centerpiece. Five had petitioned to be considered for the chancellorship, and all five, as well as K’Tal—whose job was to reduce that list to two—stood around the chair, along with aides and other companions, as well as the remainder of the High Council. Ruuv stood by Kravokh’s side, holding his painstik.