Текст книги "The Art of the Impossible "

Автор книги: Keith R. A. DeCandido

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Chapter 13

Qo’nos

It had been a long time since General Worf had set foot in the Council Chambers. The huge green edifice that stood at the center of the First City on Qo’noS towered above all the other buildings, looking down on the rest of the city—and, symbolically, the rest of the Empire. Originally constructed on top of the First City’s highest point as a stronghold of some emperor or other in the dark times before Kahless, when Klingon warred against Klingon in fierce, bloody conflicts, it had been refurbished and rebuilt many times. The most recent of those was after the explosion of Praxis, the fallout from which had come close to destroying it.

Worf admired the design of the main chamber, in which the High Council met. A wide, high-ceilinged space with directed lighting casting harsh shadows, the room’s focal points were the raised metal chair and the trefoil Klingon emblem behind it. As Worf entered the darkened room, that chair was occupied by Chancellor Ditagh.

Of course, “occupied” may have been too meager a verb. Ditagh’s broad-shouldered form had to practically squeeze itself into the metal throne that had served as the Empire’s seat of power for over three decades.

The rest of the High Council stood in a semicircle on either side of Ditagh, with Worf standing in front of them in the room’s center, a spotlight shining on his face. That, along with the backlighting behind Ditagh’s chair, made the forms of the Council indistinct and shadowy.

“What are your thoughts, General Worf?” Ditagh asked.

Worf considered his words carefully. “My thoughts are not relevant to these proceedings. I have presented my report. I now await further orders.”

One of the councillors—a fierce-looking, angular-faced man named Kravokh—said, “Ch’gran mustbe ours, no matter what. It is our most sacred relic!”

“It’s hardly that,” said another councillor whose face Worf could not make out in the dark room and whose voice he did not recognize. “It certainly is not worth going to war over.”

Ditagh turned angrily on the councillor. “Not worthgoing to war over?” He seemed shocked at the near sacrilege of the statement, and Worf had to admit to a bit of surprise at such words coming from the mouth of a warrior.

“I have no great love for the Cardassians, Chancellor, nor do I have any cowardice in my heart. But I also will not take food from the mouths of my children in order to fight a distant war against spoon-headed inferiors in order to retrieve a thousand-year-old ship hulk.”

Another councillor stepped forward. After a moment, Worf recognized him as K’Tal, one of the younger councillors. “The Great Curzon understands the Klingon heart. He has given us a way to battle the Cardassians without engaging in a war that will cost us so much, and still retain our honor.”

“We cannot afford to lose Ch’gran,” Kravokh repeated.

“I’m with Kravokh. We must take Ch’gran.”

“And how will we fight the Cardassians? Shall we divert from the Romulan border?”

“The Romulans have not been a concern since Tomed.”

“They’re just waiting for us to turn our backs on them. And if we divert our forces from elsewhere, we become vulnerable to the Tholians, the Kinshaya…”

“Are we to tell our children that we abandoned our heritage so easily?”

“Are we to bury our children for useless relics?”

“Ch’gran is notuseless!”

Worf closed his eyes. This was getting out of hand. The last time he had been in Council Chambers was during the reign of Azetbur. Worf had no great love for the daughter of Gorkon, but at least she ran an orderly chamber. After her death, a man named Kaarg had risen to power—with Ditagh as one of his supporters. Indeed, there were rumors that Ditagh had killed Azetbur on Kaarg’s behalf. Kaarg had wasted little time in doing what he could to dismantle what Azetbur had built, starting by formally banning any women from serving on the High Council. No such law had existed, but no woman had ever risen to power as Azetbur had, either. Although Worf’s active involvement in political doings on Qo’noS was minimal at the time, he knew enough to see that Kaarg’s attempts to return to the glory days prior to Praxis were premature, as the Empire was still far too reliant on the Federation for support. Instead of moving forward, the Empire had been in a sort of holding pattern—with some, like the House of Duras, turning to the Romulans for support.

Now the Council had fallen into squabbling and arguing within minutes of the commencement of discussion of a critical political decision, and Ditagh showed no sign of even an interest in calming it down. Have we fallen so far?Worf wondered, and was distressed to see that the answer was yes.

“Chancellor!” Worf shouted, trying to make Ditagh hear him over the din. When that failed, he shouted again, even louder.

“Enough!” Ditagh finally cried in a booming voice, which silenced the chamber. “You wish to speak, General?”

“I do.” Now Worf was in his element. He had remained silent out of respect for the Council and the tenuousness of his own position in the Empire. But this Council was worthy of no one’s respect, and that made his own position his to determine. Whatever he had done wrong in his life, he was always skilled in the verbal combat of the courtroom, and now he found himself again entering that oratorical arena.

“You asked me my thoughts earlier, and now I believe them to be more relevant than I imagined.” He started to pace across the dark room. “For many turns, the Federation has aided us. Despite a history of mistrust and warfare, despite over a century and a half of conflict, they came to our assistance when we were in need, and have asked nothing in return. They have shown us only honor and respect.

“And what have we given them? We have gone back on our word. We swore to send only one ship to the Betreka Nebula, yet we sent an entire fleet. And when they learned of our deception, did they challenge us, as was their right? No. They offered us more aid—a solution that would permit us to at last bring Ch’gran home in a way that allows us our honor.”

He looked upon each member of the Council, even the ones he could not see clearly, in succession as he continued. “There should be no debate, and that there is one shows everyone in this room—including myself—to be a coward. We have been given only one choice, and we must take it, or risk losing even more of our honor than we already have by betraying our allies.”

Now he fixed his gaze upon Ditagh. “If Ch’gran is to be returned to us, then we must earnit. Ambassador Dax—” Worf refused to refer to him as “the Great Curzon,” even if the chancellor did “—has given us a battlefield on which we can win, if we are worthy. If we are, then Ch’gran will be restored to us. If we are not, then we do not deserve it.”

A silence fell over the Council Chambers. All eyes turned either to Worf or to Ditagh—for the general’s part, he locked gazes with the chancellor. The large Klingon was the first to break the gaze, which disappointed Worf. Ditagh was simply a shadow of Kaarg, himself a shadow of the days of yore before Praxis. The Empire needed new blood, not this clinging to the old ways.

“The general is correct,” Kravokh said. “We musthave Ch’gran back, and we will.For we are Klingons!Let us take the southern continent of this Raknal V!”

Several voices cried their assent in the dark. Worf did not bother to look to see who they were; instead he kept his gaze upon Ditagh.

“Very well,” Ditagh finally said. “We will agree to the terms of the Great Curzon’s proposal.”

“Chancellor,” Worf said, “I request the honor of appointment as planetary governor of Raknal V.”

“No.”

In truth, Worf was not entirely disappointed. He had no interest in such duties, but being in a position to be the one who restored Ch’gran to the Empire was an opportunity he could not pass up.

“Imperial Intelligence has specifically requested that Captain Qaolin be given the position and the responsibility. He was the one who led the mission that learned of Ch’gran’s discovery, so the honor should be his.”

“Of course,” Worf said, understanding, though he could not imagine that a ship captain would find such administrative duties to be fulfilling. But then, perhaps Qaolin was ambitious.

My ambitions are solely to restore myself to a semblance of normalcy. To make our House strong again for Mogh and Kaasin and their children.

“You may return to the Betreka Sector aboard the Wo’bortas,General,” Ditagh said, “and we shall commence the process of returning Ch’gran to its rightful place. Qapla’!”

“Qapla’!”

Worf turned and departed the Council Chambers.

Chapter 14

Romulus

Praetor Dralath had never liked the look of his chief aide, Timol. Of course, as the leader of the Romulan Senate, it was well within his purview to have the woman killed, but she had proven quite useful to him over the years. She was very young, and very attractive, but not aggressively so. Her features were arranged in a particularly aesthetic manner, her form lithe and athletic, but no one would ever list her as one of the Empire’s great beauties—a distinction that would not go to a politician in any event. Still, her innate good looks made it easy to be distracted by her. She knew this, of course; in fact, she cultivated it. It was one of the primary reasons why she had been so useful—men told her things they would never tell someone less attractive, and she was sufficiently charming and self-effacing about her looks that women trusted her.

The very qualities that made her invaluable made her dangerous. Dralath both admired and feared that.

Now Timol came to him for their morning meeting to go over the dispatches and see to the day’s itinerary. Running the Romulan Star Empire was a difficult task, and one that required more meetings than Dralath was entirely comfortable with. Power was all well and good, but he had to spend so much time dealing with people.

All things considered, he preferred to avoid it as much as possible—hence the meeting with Timol. She was his buffer to the outside world. The Empire already was closed off from the rest of the galaxy—ever since Tomed, Romulus kept its distance from the politics of the quadrant. Dralath had no patience for it—they had enough to deal with at home.

Timol began with reports from the mines on Remus, which was the usual collection of efficiency reports leavened with the occasional bit of Reman rebellions easily put down by the overseers. The Remans will never be anything but our slaves,Dralath thought with a smile.

The domestic reports were the usual drivel—acts of sedition put down here, an economic plan involving changes in the tax laws proposed by the Senate there, and other such minutiae that Dralath did not feel the need to concern himself with.

Next were the intelligence reports. “I believe this will be of some interest to you, My Lord Praetor,” Timol said in the lilting tones of voice that, Dralath knew, she had perfected over the years. “The Cardassians have discovered an old Klingon wreck on Raknal V near the Betreka Nebula. The Klingons tried to stake a claim on the world as well, and the Federation has brokered an agreement between them.”

Dralath frowned. “An agreement? The Klingonshave allowed an agreementto be brokered?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Are these the foes we once feared, the allies we once coveted?”

“The Cardassian Union and the Klingon Empire do not share any borders, My Lord Praetor, and the Klingons are still weakened. A war now would not be prudent.”

“Prudence has never been a watchword of the Klingon Empire, Timol.”

“Times have changed, My Lord Praetor.” She then explained the terms of the agreement, and how the planet would be occupied by both nations until one proved worthy of taking it.

Nodding, Dralath said, “I see, they’ve made it a competition. That is a language the Klingons dospeak.” He rubbed his chin. “Have our agents within the Klingon Empire monitor the situation on Raknal V, but do not inform the Senate. If the Klingons are truly so weakened, we may wish to end our self-imposed exile sooner than planned.”

“Sir, we do not have any agents as such, only—”

“I know exactly what we have, Timol. Speak with the appropriate noble houses, they will do the rest.”

Timol hesitated. “I know at least one such appropriate house that will feel no great urge to aid you, My Lord Praetor.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The new taxes will have a profound impact on Alidor Ralak and his concerns on Romii.”

Dralath again rubbed his chin. Ralak was the head of a house that had close ties to several prominent Klingon families.

“Assure him that he has nothing to be concerned about regarding the new taxes—which I will be vetoing tomorrow.”

“My Lord Praetor, that may not be wise. The economic impact on the worker class—”

Pounding the table, Dralath said, “I have no interest in the worker class, Timol! Ralak is not someone I will have as an enemy. It will be done.”

“Of course, My Lord Praetor.”

Timol then went on to the rest of the agenda, but Dralath barely paid it any mind. We will be watching you,he thought at the High Council on Qo’noS. You will sit in your chambers and rebuild your pathetic empire and beg the Federation for help and forget all about us. But we will be here, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Part 2

A Heavy Iron

Chain Descends

2333—2334

Chapter 15

Raknal V

“My fellow Cardassians, I’m sure most of you have heard about the aircar collision on the outskirts of Raknal City.”

Noting that Gul Monor—or, rather, Prefect Monor—used the word “collision” rather than “accident” to describe what happened, Ekron stood to the side of Monor’s desk while the communications system sent the prefect’s image out to all the monitors on the northern continent. This bulletin was interrupting the usual governmental messages, and would be repeated several times until an update was warranted. Normally, such bulletins would be part of the regular news reporting, but the prefect wanted the people to hear about this from his own lips. “Let them know I’m on top of things,” he had said. Ekron had agreed with the sentiment in principle, but in reality he feared that Monor’s tendency to digress would dilute the message somewhat.

“I’m saddened to say that four loyal Cardassian citizens lost their lives in the crash. I have personally sent the proper authorities to look into this incident, and I can assure you all that they will not rest until the truth about this crash comes to light. And to forestall the questions that I’m sure all of you, as equally loyal Cardassians, might have, let me say this: we have not ruled out Klingon involvement.”

Ekron sighed, expecting this. In fact, there wasn’t any hint of Klingon involvement, and the investigation team’s preliminary report indicated that it was, in fact, an accident. But Raknal V had been plagued with accidents for each of the five years that the Klingons and Cardassians had been sharing the world, and the plague had grown more virulent with time. Where both governments supported the Raknal project in the beginning, as time went on, supply ships came fewer and farther between, and the supplies they carried were less and less state-of-the-art.

Try telling Monor that,Ekron thought with a sigh. At least he wasn’t calling the Klingons “Foreheads” on public broadcasts. That would stir things up even more. And he had finally—after five years of steadfast refusal—given Ekron permission to investigate the possibility of transplanting hevritto this world. It might not be enough to save the species, but Ekron felt it was his duty to try. The hevritwere as much a part of Cardassia Prime as Cardassians themselves were. If the people of the home planet deserved to have their lot in life improved by colonization, so too did its animal life.

“We will determine who is responsible for this heinous act against our people, and the responsible parties will be brought to justice. I give you my personal assurance as prefect of Raknal V that all of those responsible will be punished.”

I wish he’d let me read his speeches before he gives them,Ekron thought, not for the first time. Too much repetition makes him look like an idiot.Monor could not afford to look like an idiot in public, especially now.

“We’ll find out what happened, and you can be assured that appropriate action will be taken. This planet will be ours, of that you can allbe assured. No one will take away from Cardassia what rightfully belongs to Cardassia, least of all a bunch of upstart aliens who think they can scare us off with cowardly sabotage. They have endeavored to elude blame for many of the so-called ‘accidents’ that have befallen loyal Cardassians in the past, all the while refusing any attempt to cooperate on endeavors that would save lives on both sides. They have continually refused to coordinate their orbital control center with ours, resulting in several near collisions in space. It is only a matter of time before a tragedy even more tragic than the tragedy that befell the aircar victims today happens again.”

Ekron tried not to gag at the tortured syntax.

The prefect leaned forward in his chair. “Be strong, my fellow Cardassians, and be vigilant. We will overcome these tragedies and emerge a stronger people for it!”

With that, he leaned back. Ekron deactivated the live feed, and the monitors all across the northern continent went back to the prerecorded bulletins and messages.

Knowing full well that the protest would fall on deaf ears, Ekron nonetheless felt compelled to say, “Sir, there’s no evidence that the Klingons had anything to do with it.”

“One of those damned Foreheads was seen near the site.”

Ekron closed his eyes and counted to five. “Sir, that was a merchant named Kall—he’s well known in that sector. He’s a private citizen. We’ve checked him thoroughly, as has the Order.”

Monor made a snorting noise as he got up from his desk. “As if you can trust anything from those imbeciles. I want that ‘merchant’ arrested and interrogated.”

“Sir, Governor Qaolin will object if you do.”

“Let him.”

It took all of Ekron’s willpower not to say, That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one who has to listen to the objection.Monor always made Ekron take any communiqués from the Klingons, refusing to speak to the “Foreheads.”

Instead, he said, “What if they go to the Federation?”

“Then they’ll be exposed as the cowards I’ve always said they are. Let them fight their own damn battles. Besides, they haven’t freed Parrik yet, have they?”

“No.” Parrik was a Cardassian accused of sabotaging a Klingon mine and had been imprisoned for six months, interrogated who knew how many times, with no sign of a trial, nor any proof of his involvement in the landslide that—like this aircar collision—was probably a simple accident. But Monor wants some of his own back, and I suspect this is how he’ll get it.

“Schedule another broadcast for sunset,” Monor said. “By then, we’d better damn well have more information, and I’ll be ready to announce another curfew.”

Ekron winced, but did not argue. “Curfew, sir?” he prompted by way of determining the nature of this latest futile gesture.

“Yes. Allnon-Cardassians must be indoors before sunset.”

Once, Ekron would have pointed out that such an action would only serve to antagonize the citizenry, make everyone nervous, create more tension in a situation already laden with it, and, worst of all, stall trade and the economic outlook of the colony. This time of year on this continent, night accounted for seventy percent of a planetary rotation, so much of the business that was conducted on Raknal was done after dark. And a great deal of it involved aliens, particularly Yridian merchants, not to mention the occasional Ferengi.

However, raising such objections only got Ekron yelled at and, after all these years, Ekron had had enough of Monor’s rants. He used to consider them part of his job. Of course, he also used to consider a planetside assignment to be a hardship, something to be experienced briefly before retreating back to the constructed environs of a space vessel. After five years on Raknal V, however, he couldn’t imagine serving for any length of time in the regulated atmosphere of a ship—nor had he any desire to listen to Monor’s rants more than absolutely necessary.

So he simply said, “Very well, sir.”

“Damn right it’s very well. We’re not going to let those Foreheads stop us, or let them take what’s ours from us. It’s our planet, dammit, wefound it. Why, in the old days, we wouldn’t have put up with all this competition nonsense. We’ve become soft, Ekron, that’s the real problem.”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll exc—”

But Monor was determined to rant. “I swear to you, I don’t know what’s happening to us. I hear that some resistance movement has started on Bajor. Can you believe that? Damn fools in Central Command have let the Bajorans’ spirituality lull them into a false sense of security. Now they’re facing guerrilla attacks. Mark my words, nothing good will come of that. We can’t afford to let anything like that happen here.”

Ekron refrained from pointing out how impossible that was. “Yes, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have t—”

“And what’s more, you just knowthat Qaolin’s going to try to find some way to make us look bad here. He’ll go screaming at Dax, telling him that this is proof that we can’t handle the planet. And that damned Trill will listen to every word he says. You know those Foreheads call him ‘the Great Curzon,’ like he’s a damned circus performer or something. It’s enough to make you weep, it really is.” The prefect stared at Ekron. “What are you still doing here, Ekron, don’t you have work to do?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Relieved, Ekron beat a hasty retreat.

“Be strong, my fellow Cardassians, and be vigilant. We will overcome these tragedies and emerge a stronger people for it!”

Governor Qaolin switched off the recording of Prefect Monor’s tiresome speech. “This,” he said to the other occupant of his office, “is what I have had to put up with for five years, General.”

General Worf nodded. His hair had gone completely white since the last time Qaolin had seen him, which was shortly after the colony on the southern continent was established half a decade ago. He seemed more tired, too—though Qaolin supposed he could have just been superimposing his own fatigue on the general. The governor had not expected to find himself stuck on this rock for a seeming eternity. All the stories he’d heard about sailing on the Barge of the Dead through Gre’thorweren’t anywhere near as awful as what he endured daily administrating the Klingon colony on Raknal V.

“I take it the prefect’s accusations are baseless?” Worf asked.

“Of course they are.” Qaolin was surprised at the question. “We do not need to expend any effort to make Cardassians fail, they do so quite well on their own.”

“What of Monor’s accusations regarding the orbital control centers?”

Qaolin snarled. “More lies. It is true that we have not been cooperative, but it is not for lack of trying. Both sides assign orbital paths to ships that conflict with those assigned by the other side. We have had several near misses because of this. But Cardassian sensors are not sufficiently acute to do the job properly. We have offered to provide a minimal upgrade in exchange for shared duties, only to be rebuffed. They assume that their sensors are adequate to the task and accuse us of trying to sabotage their equipment—and of deliberately causing the difficulties. As if we need to.” His hand going to his d’k tahginvoluntarily, Qaolin stood up and said, “I swear to you, General, I almost wish that something would happen to force a war between our people. Then it would give me the excuse I need to plunge my weapon into Monor’s unworthy heart.”

“Perhaps. But now would not be the right time.”

“There is never a wrong time for war, General.”

Worf gave Qaolin a withering gaze. “It is easy for you to say that, Governor. You are not on the Homeworld. You do not see the posturing of the High Council as half of them insist we no longer need Federation aid, and cry out for closer ties to the Romulans.”

Qaolin spat on the floor. “Romulans? Those honorless petaQare not worthy to blacken our boots! Besides, I thought they closed their borders.”

“Their governmentdid. But the Romulan aristocracy is like a pipius—its tentacles spread everywhere. I do not trust them. And I do not trust ourgovernment to act sensibly as long as Chancellor Ditagh allows this petty squabbling to go on.” The general shook his head. “He does nothing to unite the Council, instead allowing it to grow more fractious, while our shipyards remain barren, our people starve, and once-noble Houses fall into ruin.” The general turned to Qaolin. “We mustwin this planet, Governor. We mustregain Ch’gran. It is all that may save us in the end.”

“Perhaps it is, General, but I do not think I am the one to win it.” Qaolin stared at the general, and finally decided that he had to ask the question. “Is there any way I may be reassigned? I am a ship commander, not a planetary governor. The colony virtually runs itself, and the duties I do have can be performed by someone more—politically adept than myself.”

“I am afraid not. The High Council agrees on little in these dark times, but one thing they are in harmony on is that you are best qualified to run this colony and to win Ch’gran for us.” Worf frowned. “Do you not consider it an honor?”

“I consider winning Ch’gran an honor, General,” Qaolin said with another snarl, “and you have made it clear that it is an urgency as well. But I do not consider running this colony to be an honorable way of winning it. It is better suited to the shadowy machinations of I.I., not the true battlefield of a warrior.”

Worf tilted his head. “Odd that you should say that.”

Qaolin frowned. “Why?”

“It was at the specific recommendation of Imperial Intelligence that you were assigned as governor, and at I.I.’s insistence that you remain.”

The governor stared at the general in open-mouthed stupefaction for several seconds.

Then he threw his head back and laughed.

Even from beyond the grave, you manipulate me, Yovang.Foolishly, Qaolin had believed that he could easily deal with whatever consequences arose from killing the I.I. agent aboard the Wo’bortasfive years ago. Now, he knew what those consequences were: exile to this nightmare of a posting.

“This amuses you, Governor?”

“No. But there are times when laughter is the only rational response.” He sat back down. “Very well, General. I shall continue to see to the Klingon needs of this continent, and I will win Ch’gran for us, and I shall save the Empire, and we will survive and be strong again.”

Laughing bitterly, Worf said, “I will settle for the first two. The others will take care of themselves over time.”

“You think so?” Qaolin asked in surprise. “For one who has spoken so cynically, you seem unusually confident.”

“We are Klingons. Eventually, we willbe victorious.”

Qaolin reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of bloodwine and two mugs. “In that case, General, drink with me, to our future.” He split the bottle between the two mugs and handed one to Worf. “May it be far more glorious than our present.”

To that, they both drank heartily.

“Orbital Control, this is theGratok. We will be achieving orbit in five minutes. Please verify flight plan.”

Stifling a yawn, Talik, the traffic controller on duty touched a control. “This is Orbital Control, Gratok.Sending flight plan now.” Talik entered the standard flight plan for the zenite-bearing freighters like the Gratok.It would give them one orbit before departing for Cardassia Prime with the precious zenite shipment.

“Flight plan received, Orbital Control. Staying awake up there, Talik?”

At that, Talik smiled. “Barely. I don’t suppose you have any holovids to send over, Kater?”

“Don’t tell me you watched all the ones I sent last month?”

“All right, I won’t tell you.” In fact, Talik had traded them for a bottle of real kanar—not that swill they provided at the commissary, but the good stuff. But since he got the kanarfor when he finally worked up the courage to ask Kater Onell for an evening out, he could hardly tell her about it now. “So when’re you due back?”

“I’m not, I’m afraid. The zenite yields are too small to justify coming so far out. The company’s sending a smaller ship to do the next run.”

Panic gripped Talik. He’d spent monthsworking up his nerve. Kater, after all, was a freighter captain; he was just a lowly traffic controller. Just the fact that she was willing to talk to him beyond the confines of duty was impressive enough, and was, in fact, the only reason why he even considered the possibility of asking her to dinner. “You—you mean you’re never coming back?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to saynever , but probably not for a few months at least.”She laughed. “Don’t worry, Talik, I’m sure you’ll find someone else to send you war vids.”

Talik couldn’t give a good damn about war vids just at the moment. His love life had been in the waste extractor for years now. No woman had even been interested in talking to him, aside from Kater, and the only comfort women he could afford weren’t ones he had any interest in letting near him; he had never been partial to elderly women with strange sores on odd parts of their bodies. “It’s—it’s not th-that.” He tried not to sound like a stammering idiot. “I was kind of hoping—I mean, I was kind of—”

Before he could blunder through the rest of the sentence, he heard an explosion. After a second, he realized that it was coming over the comm line. “What the hell was that?”Kater screamed.

Talik checked his sensor display. “Kater, I’m reading an explosion in your engineering section.”

“I’m glad you’re reading that. Our internal sensors are down.”

“You’re also off course.” Immediately, Talik hit the panic button, which sent out a broad-band message on both subspace and soundwave frequencies, instructing all ships in orbit to get out immediately, either by returning to the planet’s surface or leaving orbit altogether.