A Time to Kill Read online

  He locked his slender, bony fingers around the promenade’s railing. Not today, he vowed.

  Chapter 3

  Earth

  PRESIDENT MIN ZIFE, leader of the United Federation of Planets, turned his head to listen as his chief of staff leaned over and whispered discreetly in his ear: “Mr. President, Tezwa just threatened the Klingons.”

  Zife pushed away his half-finished plate of fettucine primavera. Without explanation or apology to the hundreds of VIP guests seated in the high-ceilinged, burgundy-and-gold main ballroom of Buckingham Palace, he exited the formal state dinner welcoming the newly elected members of the Federation Council. A politely hushed murmur followed him as he stepped off the raised dais at the front of the room. He, his six-person security detail, and Azernal marched down the broad aisle that separated the two parallel rows of banquettes. Their footfalls snapped sharply and echoed in the ancient, gilded hall.

  They hurried out a side door, into a service corridor. They quickened as they moved toward an exit, which was flanked by a pair of uniformed Starfleet security officers. Azernal, though shorter and considerably more stout than Zife, moved at a much quicker pace than the middle-aged Bolian chief executive. The only thing that prevented him from drastically outpacing the president was the phalanx of plainclothes Federation security personnel that surrounded them. “How long ago?” Zife said, his voice pitched slightly from exertion.

  “About six hours, sir. Prime Minister Kinchawn declared Tezwan sovereignty over the Klingon border colony of QiV’ol.”

  Zife frowned and loosened the top button of his shirt. Of all the protocols he’d learned to observe while on Earth, its native fashions had proved to be the most vexing. He blamed the constricting discomfort of the shirt’s collar for the headache he’d been fighting off all evening. He often envied Azernal for the behind-the-scenes nature of his job, not least because it afforded him the luxury of wearing looser, more comfortable clothing.

  They neared the end of the corridor. The two Starfleet officers pushed open the double doors and ushered them into the secure transporter station. A stocky, powerfully built human man with a high-and-tight haircut, a goatee, and three full pips on his Starfleet uniform collar stood at attention behind the transporter console. “Good evening, Mr. President,” he said.

  “Good evening, Commander Wexler,” Zife said.

  “Destination, sir?”

  “Palais de la Concorde,” Zife said with a flawless French accent.

  Wexler nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Zife shut his eyes and measured his breaths, in an effort to dispel his headache. He barely noticed the musical wash of white sound and the oddly effervescent tingle of the transporter beam. When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in his private transporter station at the Federation headquarters in Paris.

  He and Azernal stepped off the transport pad and walked briskly toward the turbolift to his office, on the top floor. The plainclothes security detail followed them into the turbolift. The doors hissed closed, and the lift shot upward without any discernible sensation of acceleration.

  Though Azernal didn’t say a word during the ride upstairs, Zife recognized the feral gleam in the man’s eyes. He’d seen his chief of staff sport that expression several times during the later stages of the war against the Dominion, while crafting one ruthlessly cunning battle plan after another. Though many members of the Admiralty and the Security Council had made valuable, high-profile contributions to directing the war effort, Zife and the senior members of the Federation Council knew that the war’s true unsung hero had been Koll Azernal.

  Zife was certain he knew what to expect when he saw Azernal’s jaw muscles tighten and his brow furrow into dark knots: The irascible Zakdorn strategist had already settled on a plan of action.

  The turbolift doors opened into a broad, windowless, crescent-shaped outer office. Opposite the turbolift, on the far left and right sides of the inner wall, were pairs of enormous, antique oak doors with brass fixtures. Each pair of doors was guarded by an armed plainclothes Federation security officer. Zife strode to the left pair of doors. The security officer opened the door for him and nodded curtly. “Mr. President.”

  “Thank you,” Zife said, and entered his office without missing a step. Azernal followed close behind him. Zife’s six-man security detail halted outside the door.

  The door shut with a low thud, behind the chief of staff. Zife walked across the wide chamber to his desk and pivoted to face Azernal. “What the hell is Kinchawn doing?”

  “It seems our old friend is no longer satisfied with dominating his own planet,” Azernal said. When he spoke, the overlapping curves of carapace beneath his cheeks shifted against each other in a way that Zife still found distracting, even after more than a decade of relying on Azernal as his senior advisor. “He’s acquired a small fleet of ships—twenty-four, according to a reliable source. Most likely from the Danteri, by way of the Orion Syndicate. Our best estimates indicate he’ll be ready to deploy them in less than five days.”

  “Five days? The Klingons can hit Tezwa sooner than that.”

  “They’re already massing a fleet in the Zurav Nebula,” Azernal said. “Ambassador Worf is trying to convince Martok not to launch a preemptive strike.”

  “How would you rate Worf’s chances?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Azernal said. “When the Klingons get mad, all bets are off.”

  Zife narrowed his eyes. “Why now?” he said. “Why is Kinchawn forcing the issue now?”

  “The Trill fiasco, I suspect,” Azernal said. “Or maybe the Genesis wave or the holostrike or the Rashanar incident. Regardless, he’s aware of the pressure we’re under from the secessionists, now that the war’s over.”

  Zife’s face grew hot as his anger escalated. Despite the best efforts of his press secretary to downplay those incidents, it had been impossible to prevent the Federation News Service from reporting extensively on them.

  Rashanar was just the most recent problem. Several months ago in the Rashanar Sector, a crisis situation, coupled with a case of mistaken identity, resulted in two Starfleet vessels, the Juno and the Enterprise, being attacked by allied Ontailian ships. The Juno was destroyed and lost with all hands before the situation could be de-fused.

  With rumbles of discontent and secession already threatening to unravel the political fabric of the Federation, the decision was made to help the Ontailians save face and prevent a fracturing of the Federation Council. But the preservation of the Ontailians’ honor had been achieved by unjustly laying all the blame for the Juno tragedy at the feet of Captain Jean-Luc Picard and his Enterprise crew.

  Zife wiped a sheen of sweat from his ridged blue pate. “Dammit,” he said. “Does Kinchawn know what’ll happen if he attacks the Klingons?”

  Azernal nodded. “Indubitably. But I think he expects us to pressure them into ceding QiV’ol to his jurisdiction.”

  Zife planted his hands on the polished black semicircle of his desk. “How could he possibly think we’d—” Zife stopped in midsentence. He fixed Azernal with a glowering look. “The guns.”

  “Yes, sir.” Azernal’s voice was heavy with regret. “The guns. He’s made them operational.”

  Zife sagged into his high-backed chair. He swiveled slowly away from Azernal and scanned the Paris cityscape behind his desk. One of the perks of the presidency was having an office with an unparalleled view of Earth’s famed City of Light. To his right was the Champs-Elysée and the Arc de Triomphe; just shy of the center of his three-hundred-degree view was the Tour Eiffel, which shone against the night sky like iron fresh from the forge. To his left was the spotlighted, Gothic majesty of the ancient human temple of Sacre Coeur. Most of the time his back was turned to it all—partly to avoid distraction, but also because it made for a “more presidential” backdrop when he greeted visitors. Beautiful as it all was, none of it assuaged the sour bile rising in his throat.

  “We can’t let him challenge the Klingons,” Zife s
aid, turning his chair away from the city to face Azernal again.

  “No, sir, we can’t. But I’d caution that we shouldn’t let him extort us into doing his dirty work for him.”

  “Agreed.” Zife tapped his index finger on the desktop. “Perhaps we could ask Ambassador Lagan to—”

  Azernal interrupted with a raised hand and a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, sir. Our diplomatic team was expelled from Tezwa just over an hour ago.”

  Zife leaned forward on his left elbow. “Not leaving us many options, is he?” His left hand closed, almost reflexively, into a white-knuckled fist. “What’s his real agenda?”

  Azernal folded his hands behind his back and lowered his chin while he considered the question. “It could be a power grab. Or he might be trying to extort us into compensating his people, for putting them in harm’s way during the war.”

  Zife harumphed. “They never saw a single day of the war.”

  “Regardless, they took a terrible risk—”

  “They took a risk?” Zife bellowed. “What about us? If the Klingons find out we violated the Khitomer Accords by building an arsenal on their doorstep—”

  “That won’t happen, sir.”

  “If Tezwa attacks the Klingons, it’ll be inevitable.”

  Azernal nodded in reply. “True. Which makes it imperative that we contain the situation at all costs.”

  Zife massaged his aching brow. “I knew it would haunt us.”

  “What would, sir?”

  Zife glanced guiltily from beneath his hand, his face drooping with remorse and self-loathing.

  “The plan…. The lies.”

  Azernal’s voice grew sharp and cold. “The plan was sound, Mr. President. And there were no ‘lies.’ Simply necessary omissions.”

  “We should have told the Klingons,” Zife said.

  “At the time we thought they were the enemy,” Azernal said. “And in any event, you’d have been telling the Dominion. Sisko and his crew didn’t expose the Changeling infiltrator until three months after we solidified the Tezwa agreement.”

  “We could have come clean then.”

  “And fractured the alliance we’d only just barely salvaged. No, Mr. President. I stand by what I told you then: There was no other way. And there still isn’t.”

  Zife sighed heavily. “What’s our strategy, then?”

  “A show of force.” Azernal reached into the folds of his robe and produced a padd. He tapped in a few commands. “The closest ship is the Enterprise. She could be in orbit over Tezwa in less than three days.”

  “One ship,” Zife said. “Hardly enough to strike terror into the heart of a man who could blow it to smithereens.”

  “I think the Klingons could be convinced to lend us a few of their ships,” Azernal said. He cocked his head to underscore his sarcasm. “Just to make sure Kinchawn gets the point.”

  “Martok won’t like the idea of his fleet toeing the line behind one of our ships,” Zife said.

  “We’ll make it worth his while.” Azernal placed his hands on the back of a chair in front of Zife’s desk. “We can renounce our claim on the Mirka colonies.”

  Zife raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”

  The portly Zakdorn shrugged. “We only kept them because the Klingons wanted them. Now’s a good time to cash them in.”

  Zife nodded. “That should buy us some breathing room.”

  Azernal gave him a reassuring nod. “A few days, at least.”

  “What if Kinchawn isn’t bluffing?” Zife’s stomach gurgled loudly. A sick, queasy feeling in his gut grew stronger. “What if the Klingons provoke him? Those guns’ll cut through their shields like—”

  “He won’t fire, sir,” Azernal said. “I have that on the best authority.” He tapped a few commands on his padd and handed it to Zife. The president took the data tablet in a shaking hand. He glanced at its display even as Azernal told him what it said. “We’ll send Picard with an offer of aid—food, medicine, orders to initiate civic-engineering projects, the usual. That’ll show Kinchawn we’re not looking for a fight. But the Klingon fleet we send with the Enterprise will make it clear we’re ready to win one, if that’s what he really wants.”

  Zife put down the padd and nodded slowly. “ ‘A carrot and a stick,’ as the humans say.”

  “Precisely, sir.”

  “And what if it’s the Klingons who’re spoiling for a fight?”

  Azernal pursed his lips for a moment. “Picard and his crew will make sure they don’t aggravate the situation.”

  “That’s a fairly tall order,” Zife said. “Are you sure Picard has the credibility to make it work?”

  “I admit, I had my doubts about Picard during the Rashanar incident,” Azernal said. “But his record certainly indicates he has a knack for dealing with the Klingons.”

  “I’m not questioning his record,” Zife said. “I’m concerned about his reputation. The Klingons care a great deal about honor. After the Rashanar debacle, are they going to take him seriously?”

  Azernal chuckled. “He preemptively destroyed a threat vessel based on nothing more than the word of a trusted senior officer,” he said, his tone a bit too smug for Zife’s taste. “We might not have approved, but believe me, sir—the Klingons won’t have any problem with what he did.” Azernal flashed a predatory smirk. “Honestly? He’s the perfect man for the job.”

  Chapter 4

  Qo’noS

  CHANCELLOR MARTOK’S VOICE rumbled in the dimly lit main chamber of the Klingon High Council. “Has Zife lost his mind?”

  Worf—son of Mogh, former Starfleet officer, and the current Federation Ambassador to Qo’noS—stood alone in the musky heat of the newly erected Great Hall, weathering a storm of rancor from the leader of the Klingon Empire. Years ago, during the war against the Dominion, Martok had made Worf a member of his House. However, when Worf spoke here on behalf of the Federation, he knew his status as Martok’s kinsman would not earn him preferential treatment. Now, as Martok spewed Klingon obscenities toward the roof, the ceremonial vestments Worf wore when visiting the Great Hall on official business seemed to grow heavy with the burdens of diplomatic probity.

  “What does he think we are?” Martok roared from the raised dais on which his chair was mounted. “Mercenaries? Hired thugs? He interferes in the defense of the Empire, then has the gall to ask us to follow one of his ships to a parley?”

  “Chancellor,” Worf said, “the Federation has an equal interest in preserving the peace along our shared border.” Bringing his hands to his chest, Worf clutched the inner edges of his bronze stole, which was draped evenly across his shoulders and down the front of his bloodwine-colored Cossack robe. “Our request of an escort for our flagship is not an indictment of the Empire’s sovereign interest, but an urgent appeal for the support of our trusted ally.”

  “Don’t insult me, Worf,” Martok said, his voice underscored by a low growl of contempt. “Zife wants our ships to be the Enterprise’s lackeys.” Worf admired the ragged patch of crudely grafted skin over Martok’s left eye socket. The chancellor bore the old wound with the pride it deserved. He closed his right eye for a moment. When he opened it again, it burned with contempt. He bared his teeth and grunted. “Worst of all, he tries to bribe us—as if we were Ferengi!”

  “The Federation’s offer of the Mirka colonies is unrelated to its request,” Worf said. He was simply repeating what he’d been told by Koll Azernal, the president’s chief of staff. Worf couldn’t be sure how much of his diplomatic briefing was actually true, but even he was galled by this transparently callous attempt to buy the Klingons’ favor. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury of admitting it aloud. He had to relay the message as it had been given. “The current economic crisis in the Federation has made the sustenance of those colonies untenable,” he continued. “For that reason, the Federation Council has approved President Zife’s petition to remand the colonies to Klingon jurisdiction.”

  “Does Zife really be
lieve he can buy us so shamelessly?” Martok pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “Am I supposed to believe the timing of this resolution was a coincidence?”

  “Regardless of what you believe,” Worf said, “it is done.”

  “It makes no difference,” Martok said. “Tezwa’s threats are a matter of record. Its fleet is preparing to launch. The Empire cannot—will not—permit this challenge to go unpunished.”

  “Their challenge can be withdrawn.”

  Martok shook his head angrily. “Not good enough. We will not be seen as weak, Worf…. I will not be seen as weak.” He lowered his voice. “You know as well as I do, this is a dangerous time for the Empire. The war cost us dearly, but the Empire must continue to grow…. Mercyis not an option.”

  “But prudence is.” In defiance of protocol, Worf took two steps toward Martok. “The honor of the Empire can be preserved without the risks of war, if you permit Captain Picard to negotiate.”

  “Why should I put my trust in him?” Martok said. “How do I know he doesn’t have an agenda of his own?”

  “I served with Captain Picard for many years,” Worf said. The words came out a bit more defensive-sounding than he would have liked. “He has always shown the deepest respect for our laws and traditions—and you of all people should know he has proved more than once that he is a true friend to the Klingon people.”

  Martok let out a contemptuous guffaw. “Why? Because he installed my predecessor? That incompetent narcissist Gowron? That act of friendship nearly led the Empire to its doom.”

  “Gowron’s sins were his own,” Worf said. “But if not for Captain Picard, the Empire would be in the hands of traitors.”

  “If you pledge to me that Picard’s a good man, I’ll believe you,” Martok said. “But his first loyalty is to the Federation. If he’s forced to decide between its best interest and ours, whose welfare do you think he’ll favor?”