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.”