This time, Martok felt less of an urge to rip the android to pieces. “Interesting. You’ve expanded your repertory of idiotic truisms, then, Excellency?”

  “The point, Martok, is that the empire of today is not the same empire that was in sufficient disarray to lead Koroth and the others on Boreth to have me created. We have fought a great war against a mighty enemy and emerged triumphant. We have defeated all those who would oppose the path to honor, from Gothmara and Morjod to the Elabrej. We have restored the Sword of Kahless to its rightful place and the Order of the Bat’leth to its rightful purpose.” He looked at the others. “And we have a chancellor who does not put politics before honor.” Regarding Martok once more, he said, “If you wish a truism, Martok, then here is one: I am no longer necessary.”

  Worf stepped forward. “Kahless, with all due respect, your work is not done.”

  Reaching up to put a hand on the ambassador’s shoulder, the emperor said, “Worf, my good friend, I could live a thousand lifetimes, and the work for which I was created would not be finished.” Again, staring at Martok, Kahless said, “But our people needed a spiritual leader because the political power was in the hands of creatures to whom honor was at best a convenience, to be used or not at whim. Now, though, the High Council leads the way to honor, it leads the way to glory—and I am not needed.”

  “Not needed?” Martok’s shout echoed off the walls of his chambers. “The alliance with the Federation is hanging by a thread. I have acquired more enemies on the High Council than I thought was possible to accumulate in four years. I have been forced to appoint a Federation ambassador who wants war almost as much as that special emissary who is attempting to win the Federation presidency. The—”

  Kahless chuckled. Martok cut off his diatribe and had to use all his willpower to keep himself from strangling the emperor right there. If all these witnesses were not here, willpower might not be enough.

  In a low voice, Martok slowly asked, “What is so funny?”

  “You speak of politics, Martok. There will always be politics. But I was needed because politics had become more important than honor, and I think that even you must admit that that is no longer the case.”

  Picard said, “Such things are cyclical, Emperor.”

  “All things are cyclical, Captain. And if that cycle comes around to a point where I am needed again, then so be it.”

  Silence then blanketed the office. Emotions roiled within Martok’s gut. His throat had gone dry, and he was desperate for a mug of bloodwine, but he could not drink now without offering the same to his guests, and he did not have a sufficient quantity for the task.

  While the chancellor was flattered that Kahless considered him a strong enough leader that he made the emperor’s own function irrelevant, he did not appreciate being lied to or being a puppet in someone else’s game. He had enough of those feelings during the final days of the war. Gowron’s egotistical need to dishonor Martok as a means of dimming the latter’s popularity dictated his tactics against the Dominion, leading Worf to challenge him and install Martok as chancellor when he was victorious. Even now, four years later, he sometimes felt like a puppet on other people’s strings—the very thing Rov and his Klahb fools accused him of being.

  Now Kahless was doing it again.

  It was Riker who broke the silence. “What will you do now, Emperor?”

  “My intention, Commander, is to return to the glade where you came upon me.” He smiled. “I have not yet completed the landscape.”

  “That’s it?” Riker asked. “Just go back, and leave the empire without their emperor?”

  “Millennia ago, the original Kahless united the Klingon people. When that work was done, he gathered his belongings and went to the edge of the city to depart. The people pleaded, saying they needed Kahless. But he said—”

  “ ‘You are Klingons. You need no one but yourselves.’ ” Martok, Worf, and even Alexander said the words. It was from the Story of the Promise, a tale every Klingon was told practically from birth. Martok had few memories of his very difficult childhood that he could truly call happy, but one such was when his father told him many stories of Kahless on their first hunt together in the Ketha Lowlands. The hunting itself was poor, and the weather awful, but he still recalled old Urthog telling him stories all the night long, ending with the Story of the Promise.

  “Those words,” Kahless said, “are as true today as when they were first spoken. Kahless left you then, and you flourished. I will leave you now, and I have no doubt that you will still flourish.”

  Snarling, Martok asked, “And what are we to tell the people? I will not lie to them, but we cannot tell them the truth.”

  Picard said, “The wisest move, Chancellor, would be to do neither. Condemn Rov and his terrorists as madmen, but neither confirm nor deny that Kahless has been a hologram for six months.”

  “I will also address the people one final time,” Kahless said. “I will tell them what I have just told you—that it is time for me to once again leave our people. If I am needed again, I will return.” He grinned. “Or perhaps the true Kahless will.”

  Martok shook his head. “I hope you are correct, Excellency.”

  “Hope is the first step on the road to victory.”

  “That,” the android said, “is one of Kahless’s tiresome aphorisms.”

  Unable to stop himself, Martok burst out laughing. “Indeed it is, Commander, indeed it is. Very well, Excellency, if that is truly what you wish, it shall be done. You will address the people immediately—I will have no more accusations against our allies, nor will I let the empire be governed by rumor and supposition. You will participate in the vIt ’Iw tay.”

  Picard and Riker both frowned. The former said, “I’m not familiar with that ritual.”

  Before Martok could explain, the android said, “The vIt ’Iw tay is a ceremony whereby a being whose biological origins are in doubt is cut by at least six different warriors with their respective d’k tahgs in order to prove that the being is truly a Klingon. The ritual was created by the High Council shortly after Imperial Intelligence began surgically altering deep-cover agents to infiltrate the empire’s enemies. The council at the time feared that the tactic might be used against them, and so created the vIt ’Iw tay.”

  Riker smirked. “I’ll bet that ritual was popular after we made contact with the Dominion.”

  Martok licked his teeth. “No Founders were discovered that way, though many who were accused of being changelings were forced to participate.” Unbidden, the memories of being captured by the Dominion and put in a prison camp while a shapeshifting slime devil took his place as Gowron’s chief of staff returned to Martok. Shaking them off, he turned back to Kahless. “You will do this in open council with myself, three councillors, Captain Wovogh, and a commoner whom we will choose at random.” Wovogh was the first officer to one of the captains who fired upon the Starfleet supply ships near Tezwa. That captain was put to death for his effrontery and Wovogh promoted; Martok felt it important to have someone from one of the ships that believed the Federation had taken their emperor participate in the vIt ’Iw tay.

  Nodding, Kahless said, “Of course.”

  “Good.” Martok was about to declare the meeting ended when Alexander stepped forward.

  “Excellency, can I ask you something—please?”

  “Of course, Alexander. Questions are, after all, the beginning of wisdom.”

  Yet another aphorism, Martok thought, shaking his head, stunned that the android hadn’t provided a full citation for it.

  “Actually, it’s the same question the chancellor asked before: Why?”

  “I gave my reasons for what I did.” Kahless sounded confused, which matched Martok’s own feelings. Wasn’t the boy paying attention?

  “No, sir, you gave some reasons—and they’re good ones, and I’m sure it’s the best way to sell this to the people. But I want to know the real reason.” He pointed to his chest. “The one in here.”

  Kahless threw his head back and laughed. “As ever, the son is but a smaller version of the father. Like him, Alexander, you use your words to cut directly into the heart without need for a blade.”

  Worf said, “So there is another reason.”

  “Yes, Worf, there is.”

  This, Martok thought, should be interesting.

  “I have grown weary of doing what I am supposed to do. I have served my purpose, and I have done my duty. Now is the time for me to be selfish. Now is the time for me to find my own path, not the path that the clonemakers of Boreth mapped out in my genetic structure. As I told Commander Riker on Cygnet IV, it is time I did what I wanted.”

  Alexander grinned. “That’s kind of what I thought.”

  “If we are quite finished baring our souls,” Martok said impatiently, “it is time we restored a bit of order to the empire.”

  “Indeed it is, Chancellor,” Picard said. “With your permission, we’ll remain in orbit of Qo’noS until the emperor has concluded his business here. Then we shall take him wherever he wishes to go.”

  Martok considered the captain’s words. “Your offer is appreciated, Captain, and you may remain in orbit as long as you wish—but I think it would be best if a Defense Force vessel bring the emperor to his new home.”

  “Why not both?” Alexander asked.

  Martok frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “My son is correct,” Worf said. “It would be a more potent symbol if both the Enterprise and a Klingon ship—preferably a Chancellor-class vessel—escort Kahless together, as a sign of unity between our people.”

  Unable to find a good argument against the suggestion, Martok said, “Very well. I believe the Ditagh is within the system. I will have Captain Vikagh report here immediately.”

  “Grand,” Picard said.

  Martok moved around from behind his desk toward the door. “Let us proceed, then.”

  “It is the end of an era, Martok,” Kahless said, “but the beginning of a greater one, I think.”

  Shaking his head as he approached the door, Martok said, “Somehow, Excellency, I knew you would not let this meeting end without one final aphorism.”

  Chapter 13

  Sarona VIII

  ESPERANZA PIÑIERO SAT nursing a cobalt soda in the Blue Parrot Café, wondering if Jas Abrik was actually going to show up.

  The election had begun, a laborious process involving the entirety of the Federation—all the worlds, stations, and spacefaring vessels that were part of it. The sheer number of votes to be tabulated over interstellar distances, as well as the complicated oversight, meant it would take a week for all the votes to be tallied, counted, verified, and announced.

  From this point forward, both the Bacco and Pagro campaigns, which had worked tirelessly for the past three weeks, had nothing to do but wait.

  And speculate. We’re doing plenty of that.

  The governor’s last campaign stop had been on Pacifica, and she was now en route back to Cestus III to await the results and probably to get some sleep. Piñiero hoped that said sleep would finally be free of dreams. She knew that Bacco’s restless nights were due primarily to the stress of the campaign, and she hoped that next week, regardless of whether she was the new president or the old governor, the dreams would abate. She deserves better than that after all she’s accomplished.

  Abrik had said that he would meet with her here on the eighth planet in the Sarona system at 1500 hours, but that was half an hour ago. She had never met the man during the time when they both were in Starfleet, but from what she knew of him, he was always punctual. Let’s face it, Esperanza, if he’s this late, it means he probably isn’t coming.

  Her seat was near the door. Its location notwithstanding, it was one of the more private booths in the place, thanks to the café’s peculiar architecture. The Blue Parrot was built in the shape of the Saronan emblem, which was a dodecahedron that was vaguely crescent-shaped. In practical terms, it gave the place a labyrinthine feel, but it was one that made it ideal for private conversations.

  Assuming, of course, that the other half of that conversation deigns to turn up.

  Even if the architecture hadn’t favored privacy, the booth would have served Piñiero’s purpose nicely, as the midafternoon crowd was sparse—it was late for lunch and early for dinner. The Blue Parrot generally catered to visitors to the nearby conference center, but there were no events there at the moment.

  She finished off her soda, and started debating the merits of ordering another versus giving up and leaving when she heard the familiar whine of a transporter, meaning someone was arriving via the station in the lobby.

  To her surprise and relief, Jas Abrik then entered the main part of the café.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the old Trill said as he sat down in the booth opposite Piñiero. “The transport I was taking here got diverted.”

  “Not a problem,” Piñiero said, glad to see that Abrik’s reputation remained unscathed.

  A Saronan server approached. “What may I bring you?”

  Holding up her empty glass, Piñiero said, “Another cobalt soda, please.”

  “An allira punch, if you’ve got it,” Abrik said.

  Bowing, the Saronan said, “Of course.” She took Piñiero’s glass and departed.

  “Thanks for coming, Admiral.”

  Abrik made a dismissive noise. “Please don’t call me ‘Admiral,’ Commander. I left Starfleet.”

  Smiling sweetly, Piñiero said, “Then don’t call me ‘Commander,’ since I haven’t been one for three years.”

  “Can we get to the point, please?” Abrik shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  He doesn’t want to be here, Piñiero thought. I wonder why he bothered to show up, then. “You have access to the same polling data I do, so you know that there’s a pretty good chance that Nan Bacco’s going to be the next president.”

  Abrik snapped, “In your dreams, Commander. The votes haven’t been tallied yet.”

  “You’re right, they haven’t. But the FNS’s exit polls are predicting that the governor will be the winner. Do you know when the last time the FNS’s exit polls made a wrong prediction was?”

  Frowning, Abrik said, “No, actually.”

  “Neither do I. That’s because such a time doesn’t exist. They’ve never not called an election at this stage.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Piñiero nodded. “True. After all, this was the first time that a Federation president resigned without warning. And you and I both know the real reason for that resignation, don’t we?”

  Abrik stared at Piñiero for several seconds. For her part, Piñiero held her breath. She wasn’t entirely sure that Abrik knew the truth about Zife and Azernal arming the Tezwans, but she couldn’t believe that Abrik—a longtime admiral whose departure from Starfleet was more recent than her own—couldn’t have found out something that Piñiero herself could learn, even if her own method of obtaining the information was a direct result of Admiral Upton’s libido.

  The Saronan returned with their drinks, which gave Abrik a few moments to compose an answer. And, Piñiero thought, he’s definitely composing an answer. His eyes are darting back and forth like crazy. She took a sip of her cobalt soda, the electric tingle of the blue-hued drink tickling her tongue.

  After the Saronan left and Abrik took a swig of his punch, he finally said, “Assuming I know what you’re talking about—”

  Paydirt, Piñiero thought. Nobody started a sentence like that unless they really did know what you were talking about. “You do, Admiral, so don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t. Regardless of who wins, you’re going to reveal what you know about Tezwa.”

  “Not if I don’t have to. But the Klingons have to be stopped, and we can’t call ourselves a truly free society if we’re going to let this kind of thing go on. Yes, it’ll give the Federation a black eye, but it’ll be worth it to—”

  “Start another war?” At Piñiero’s words, Abrik recoiled as if she’d hit him. Pressing her advantage, she continued: “Because that’s what’s going to happen if you let this out. The Klingons will—quite justifiably, I might add—go supernova on us.”

  Glaring at her, Abrik said, “So, what—I’m supposed to sit on this?”

  “You have for this long, and I think that’s because you know damn well that this is way too incendiary to let out.”

  Abrik clenched his fists. Piñiero tensed.

  Then Abrik unclenched them, let out a long breath, and almost seemed to deflate. His posture went out the window, and he all but slumped over his punch, staring at the liquid for several seconds.

  When he looked back up at Piñiero, he looked defeated. “You mind telling me something, Esperanza?”

  Encouraged by the sudden familiarity, she said, “Don’t mind a bit, Jas.”

  “Where the hell did you find that woman?”

  Piñiero couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t need to find her. My parents were two of the governor’s closest friends, so I’ve literally known her all my life.”

  Shaking his head, Abrik said, “She’s quite a woman. I figured she’d give us a good run for our money, but that she’d never be able to play on the big stage. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Fel’s still in shock from the first debate.”

  “She really did kick his ass all over the moon, didn’t she?”

  “Not at first.” He picked up the glass and started whirling the punch around in it. “He had it pretty much in the bag, and then—I don’t know what happened, it’s like she threw a switch, and we’ve been on the defensive ever since.”

  “That’s what she does,” Piñiero said. “She adapts. No matter what life has thrown at her, she’s faced it head-on. Sometimes it takes her a little while to readjust, but she does it, and comes out swinging.”

  That elicited a snort. “I see she’s got you doing those sports metaphors, too.”