Rise Like Lions Read online

  Eddington gave O’Brien’s shoulder a fraternal slap. “Nicely done.” Before O’Brien could respond, his fellow general fell in with the departing commanders and rode the tide of bodies out to the Promenade.

  His last companion in the bar was Keiko. She looked worried as she kissed his cheek and held his hand. “Congratulations, General—now it’s a war.”

  L’Sen made haste from the war council and returned to her private quarters aboard her ship, a stolen Trill freighter she had renamed the Free Rein. Once her door closed and locked, and her anti-surveillance systems were engaged, she prostrated herself on the deck, reached under her bunk, and pried open a panel beneath which she had concealed her Memory Omega–issued quantum transceiver.

  She sent a test signal back to her superiors, activated the holographic interface, and awaited a response. Within seconds, a humanoid shape shimmered into the air before her, a ghostly simulacrum of the person at the other end of the untraceable and untappable channel, which was based on the entanglement of subatomic particles inside her portable transceiver with those inside another unit kept secure at the leadership’s secret redoubt. Standing before her was the spectre of Saavik, who had only a few decades earlier succeeded T’Prynn as director of Memory Omega. “You are not due to report for another twelve days, L’Sen.”

  “This regards a time-sensitive matter, Director.”

  Saavik made a nigh-imperceptible nod. “Continue.”

  In as brief a manner as she was able, L’Sen explained the Terran Rebellion’s new plan to attack the Alliance shipyards at Olmerak, and the short timetable for the assault. “General O’Brien seems unaware that the Cardassians are mobilizing too quickly for such an operation to succeed, but I cannot warn him or his people without attracting suspicion.”

  Saavik arched one eyebrow and asked coolly, “What do you propose?”

  “Can other assets from our organization take covert action to delay the Cardassians’ response? Even a few days might buy the rebellion the time it needs.”

  The request drew a tight grimace of disapproval from Saavik. “Our people are vulnerable. Such direct interference now could compromise us all.”

  It was difficult for L’Sen to strip the urgency from her tone and preserve her detached façade. “With its entire fleet deployed against Olmerak, the Terran Rebellion will be unable to defend Terok Nor when the Cardassians attack. Unless we intervene, the Terran Rebellion will not survive”—she added a note of gravitas to her voice—“and Spock’s plan will be put in jeopardy.”

  The director seemed pensive. L’Sen, not being prone to hyperbole, hoped that she had not overstated the matter by implying its stakes had escalated to the level of the existential, but it had been Saavik herself who had impressed upon Memory Omega’s field operatives the vital importance of the Terran Rebellion to Spock’s long-term strategy for the quadrant’s political realignment.

  “It is too soon for us to foment open hostilities between the Klingons and the Cardassians,” Saavik said. “At best, we might instigate diplomatic difficulties, but I cannot guarantee such squabbles will hamper the Cardassians’ war effort.”

  That was not the answer for which L’Sen had hoped. Her thoughts went to dark places. “If that proves to be the case, can the necessary intelligence be provided to the rebellion without compromising our operational secrecy?”

  Saavik folded her hands in front of her. “Yes, though it will take time to mask its true source and provide Agent Ishikawa with a plausible scenario to explain its acquisition. How long before the Terrans’ fleet deploys against the Olmerak shipyards?”

  “To be in position at the day and time specified by General O’Brien, and taking into account the speed of the fleet’s slowest ship, they will need to depart no later than seven days from now. Can a warning be ready by then?”

  “Perhaps. Do your best to prevent their fleet from departing early.”

  L’Sen bowed her head. “I will, ma’am.”

  The elder Vulcan woman raised her right hand, fingers spread in the traditional V-shaped Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, L’Sen.”

  “Peace and long life, Saavik.”

  The connection was terminated at Saavik’s end, and her holographic image stuttered, fractured, and faded away. L’Sen returned her transceiver to its hiding place, then unlocked the door of her quarters and exited, in a hurry to rejoin the other rebel commanders on Terok Nor’s busy Promenade. A postponement of the Terrans’ assault against Olmerak would almost certainly dispirit General O’Brien and his followers, but L’Sen knew that would be a far better outcome than watching them add their fragile army to history’s parade of failed revolutions.

  7

  Whispers in the Wind

  After years of service within the Great Hall in the First City on Qo’noS, Taurik still could not decide which olfactory sensation he found more revolting: the stink of the various delicacies he was compelled to serve to the regent, councillors, and their guests—or the Klingons themselves. Portering a platter of pipius claws into the imperial dining room, the Vulcan servant-spy mused, For a species that prides itself on its keen senses, Klingons seem nose-deaf to their own odors. If it wasn’t the musky scent of their perspiration assaulting Taurik’s nostrils, it was the sour reek of their halitosis, which they expelled with every throaty exclamation.

  He neared the main dining table, upon which he had set a lavish feast of Klingon fare: ornate platinum trays of bregit lung arranged artfully around hearts of targ; silver bowls teeming with gagh or its smaller cousin, racht; deep-dish stoneware plates loaded with rokeg blood pies; a tureen of bahgol, a decadently rich soup; and a steel platter stacked high with krada legs. Dotting the table were pitchers of warnog and onyx decanters brimming with bloodwine.

  Regent Martok sat at the head of the table, half a heart of targ clutched in his fist and its other half stuffed into his copious maw. Syrupy blood squirted and oozed from the raw cardiac muscle as Martok masticated it into pulp. Thick, magenta-hued goop dribbled from the corners of his mouth, and chunks of torn meat were snared in the wiry black whiskers of his uneven beard. He made a hacking noise as he swallowed, then snapped up his warnog and guzzled a long swig to wash down his overflowing mouthful.

  Taurik averted his eyes from Martok and focused on rearranging the dishes on the table to make room for the pipius claws. Setting down the tray, he stole a glance at Martok’s dining companion and honored guest, Darhe’el, the Cardassian ambassador to Qo’noS. The young Vulcan’s face betrayed not one bit of the profound satisfaction he derived from noting Darhe’el’s appalled reaction to Martok’s barbaric table etiquette. Tellingly, the ambassador had not eaten a single bite of his own meal, apparently finding the cuisine less than palatable.

  Martok slammed his empty stein on the table. “More!”

  Mindful of his role as a servant, Taurik moved in quick, soundless strides to the head of the table, lifted a pitcher of warnog, and refilled Martok’s carved-metal mug. Though no Klingon had ever complained about a bit of spillage here or there, Taurik’s technique was precise and flawless, wasting not a single drop due to server error. He set down the pitcher and backed away from Martok, taking care not to turn his back on the notoriously irritable Klingon head of state.

  The regent unleashed a belch that shook the walls, then asked Darhe’el in his rasping growl of a voice, “So… what does Dukat want?”

  Darhe’el affected an air of confusion. “I beg your pardon, Regent?”

  “Spare me the preamble. You didn’t come here for the gagh, and you drink like a taHqeq. So what are you doing here?”

  The Cardassian picked up his onyx goblet and sipped his bloodwine—no doubt, Taurik surmised, to buy himself time to mentally rehearse his reply. Darhe’el drew out the process of swallowing and setting down his goblet. “The Bajor situation is one that demands urgent attention, My Lord Regent.”

  “Yes, yes. After we crush the Talarians, we’ll deal with the Bajorans.”


  “With all respect, My Lord Regent, the Cardassian Union is prepared to take immediate action on the Bajor crisis. Supreme Legate Dukat made it a priority.”

  A fearsome grin possessed Martok’s face. “Has he? Good for him.” He resumed gorging himself on krada legs, cracking open the shells with his back teeth and pulling out the meat with his incisors.

  Darhe’el tilted his head back and drained his goblet. Emboldened, he continued. “Supreme Legate Dukat requests that your empire share with our scientists what they’ve learned from the Romulan cloaking device captured from the rebels by the late Captain Kurn.”

  Martok peered inside the gutted shell of a krada leg and, satisfied it was empty, flung it away. “And what will your scientists do with that knowledge?”

  “I presume they would equip our fleet in anticipation of the attack on Bajor.” Receiving no response from Martok except a noncommittal grunt, the ambassador pressed onward. “Under the Articles of Alliance, technologies captured by either side from third parties are to be shared without delay or restriction.” He pulled a small data device from his coat’s deep pockets. “Need I cite chapter and verse?”

  A tired growl rolled behind Martok’s clenched teeth. Taurik had read the Articles of Alliance and knew that Darhe’el’s invocation was entirely within the spirit and letter of the law. The regent’s capitulation was a foregone conclusion. All his bluster had been for nothing but show, a bid to save face politically.

  Taurik kept his head down and his hands folded at his waist, drawing no attention as he circled behind Martok. Situating himself a few meters directly behind the regent’s chair, he knew he would be all but obscured from Darhe’el’s field of vision by Martok himself. Like all the best servants, he became invisible.

  I must focus my thoughts, was his silent mantra. See the regent’s mind, like an island in a dark ocean. My mind to his mind, a whisper in the wind, felt but not heard. He reached out with his psionic abilities and made contact with Martok’s turbulent subconscious. Having spent years as one of Martok’s servants, Taurik had on several occasions, when Martok was submerged in alcoholic stupors, made physical contact and primed the regent’s mental pathways for this sort of touch-free invasion. The churning emotions that impelled the Klingon’s psyche made it easy for Taurik to push and probe the regent’s unconscious thoughts without giving away his own telepathic presence. He began polluting Martok’s mind with inflammatory questions. Who are the Cardassians to demand anything? Why should the Empire aid the weak? Feeling the regent’s ire rising, Taurik stoked it into a bonfire of rage with fleeting images of Cardassian depravities and of Klingons being dominated by Cardassians. A wave of prejudice and resentment surged through Martok’s thoughts, and he banged his fist on the table.

  “How dare you come into my hall and demand I surrender what my soldiers have claimed as spoils of war!” He pushed away from the table with such fury that his chair fell over behind him. He stalked beside the table toward Darhe’el, who froze at the regent’s advance. “You Cardassians are all the same. Sniveling opportunists, always ready to profit from other people’s sweat!” Martok swatted the goblet from Darhe’el’s trembling hand.

  As the onyx vessel shattered across the floor, Darhe’el scrambled from his chair. The Cardassian spluttered angrily as he backed toward the door. “This is an outrage, Martok! The supreme legate will be told every word of your treachery!”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat?” Martok unsheathed his d’k tahg and continued prowling toward the retreating Darhe’el. “Let me show what a real threat looks like, you bloated petaQ!”

  Darhe’el quickened his pace, only to trip over his own feet. He fell backward and landed roughly on his copious buttocks.

  The ambassador’s predicament drew howls of laughter from Martok. As Darhe’el floundered on the floor, the regent kicked the portly diplomat in his posterior, and Darhe’el face-planted into the stone floor. Taurik almost let himself feel pity for the middle-aged Cardassian, who, soft from years of state-sponsored debauchery and gluttony, clearly was no match for the Klingons’ warrior-king.

  Visibly disgusted with Darhe’el, Martok sheathed his dagger and spat on the ambassador. “Go back to your embassy and cry to Dukat. Tell him the Union can have the Romulan cloaking device when it’s ready to offer something of equal value to the Empire! Until then”—he grabbed the edge of the enormous and frightfully heavy dining table and flipped it on its side, scattering food and drinks across the floor—“don’t darken my hall again.”

  The regent marched out through his private access door at one end of the dining room, and Darhe’el stiffly collected himself from the floor and slipped out the main entrance with his head hung in shame.

  Lingering in one shadow-steeped corner, Taurik gloated. All too easy. He took stock of his intervention’s aftermath. Then, having done his part to nudge the galaxy one step closer to freedom, he went in search of a mop.

  “That arrogant animal!” Dukat paced inside the sauna chamber. “Who does Martok think he is, that he can treat our ambassador that way?”

  Damar cracked open one eye. “He’s the Klingon regent. He can do whatever he wants.” His voice was muffled because his face was pressed against the padded headrest of the massage table, luxuriating in the soothing fragrance of mint-scented oils while his Vulcan masseuse, T’Lana, kneaded the muscles beneath his neck ridges with exceptional skill and precision. He didn’t care how many times Dukat complained that it was a disgrace to bring a slave inside the executive bath house; the woman had uniquely talented hands, strong and supple, as well as an intuitive knack for releasing the tension from Damar’s aching joints and muscles. It also helped that, unlike the Terran and Bolian women who had preceded her in recent years, T’Lana seemed well adapted to the extreme heat and high humidity of a Cardassian sauna. The only way Dukat could ever force Damar to exclude his most-prized servant from the bath house would be to pass a law against it—and risk aggrieving the scores of high-ranking officials from the civilian government, Central Command, and Obsidian Order who had followed Damar’s lead and begun bringing their own Vulcan slaves to service them in the sultry twilight.

  Dukat ambled back and forth beside Damar’s massage table, his bare feet slapping on the tiled floor. “Mark my words, Damar: The Alliance is devolving into a farce. What kind of nation treats its allies the way Martok has abused us?”

  “The Tholians, for one. Would you relax? You’re making me tense.” He glanced back at T’Lana. “A bit more oil, and focus on my lower back.”

  Ignoring Damar’s advice, Dukat continued to tread from his table’s foot to its head and back. “I grow weary of Cardassia being treated like a second-rate power. Where would the Klingons be without us? They needed our strength to stop the Terran Empire, to pacify local space, to keep order. We’ve borne their burdens long enough, Damar. It’s time the Klingon Empire gave us our due.”

  “As I’m sure they will,” Damar mumbled, lost in the bliss produced by T’Lana’s thumbs exorcising his pains and cares, one circular motion at a time. “But there’s nothing to be gained by confronting them now. It will just make the Alliance look weak and divided to its enemies.”

  “Far from it.” Dukat circled around to stand at the head of Damar’s table, which he grabbed with both hands as he squatted to talk directly into Damar’s face. The Supreme Legate had a crazed look in his eyes. “We’ll strike fear into our foes and put the Klingons in their place at the same time when we crush Bajor!”

  Damar grunted and glared at Dukat. “Skrain, we’ve been over this. We don’t have enough ships to guarantee a successful assault unless we can cloak them. Since the Klingons won’t share the Romulan cloaking device, we need to wait until the Seventh Order can be regrouped and transferred from Arawath, or until the Klingons finish off the Talarians and send us their Sixth Fleet as reinforcements.”

  “Nonsense. We just need to be decisive.”

  Laying his head back down, Damar replied, “I am
being decisive. I’ve decided to postpone the attack until the odds tilt in our favor.”

  Dukat walked away, fuming but silent.

  T’Lana continued unraveling the coiled spring of tension in Damar’s lower back, and as she kneaded the pain from his hip sockets, he considered directing her efforts toward a more intimate form of release.

  Tepid water crashed over Damar’s head and back, and he leaped to his feet in a rage to find Dukat standing naked in front of him. The leader cast away the sauna’s now empty water bucket and regarded his dripping-wet nude subordinate. “If I tell you to attack Bajor with the forces you have, you do not question me, Damar. Your role is to obey and secure a victory for Cardassia.”

  “Damn you, Dukat! You put me in charge of the assault. How can I command our military if you undercut my authority?”

  Dukat stepped forward, invading Damar’s personal space. “In public you will have my full support, but remember that I gave you your authority, which means I can take it away. You serve at my pleasure, Damar. Never forget that.”

  “I assure you, Supreme Legate, I never do.”

  Dukat’s mouth curled into a smile, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “Good.” He turned and walked away.

  Damar called after him, “I still don’t think Bajor is worth the risk.”

  “I do.” Dukat threw open the sauna’s glass door, which spidered white as it rebounded off the wall outside. As it drifted shut, Dukat added, “Get it done.” The door closed with a soft click, and Damar felt the kiss of cold air on his feet. He stared at the door for several seconds, seething with a resentment he could never voice for fear of summary execution.

  His diminutive Vulcan handmaiden sidled cautiously into his field of vision. “Pardon me, master,” T’Lana asked in a near whisper. “Do you wish to continue your massage?”

  He looked at her, then reached out, lifted her chin, and gingerly traced her lower lip with his thumb. “You know how I like it finished, yes?”