Kahless - Michael Jan Friedman [52]
Several silvery shapes, each too big and irregularly shaped to be a star, reflected the light of the homeworld’s sun. Testimonies, the captain mused, to the Klingon tendency to fragment themselves at every opportunity.
Once, more than seventy-five years ago, there had been a moon in these heavens. Called Praxis, it supplied the Klingons with more than three-fourths of their energy resources. Then, due to years of overmining and insufficient safety precautions, a reactor explodedcontaminating the homeworld’s atmosphere, poking great holes in its delicate ozone layer, and creating a quirk in its orbit.
Klingon scientists had turned pale as they anticipated the result. In half a century, Qo’noSo would have become a lifeless husk, abandoned by its people. Of course, there were ways to save it, to preserve Klingon culture and tradition. But they were expensive ways-made implausible by the size of the Klingons” military budget.
There was but one option. The High Council opened a dialogue with the Federation, aiming for peace between the two spacefaring entities. Once that was accomplished, funds could be diverted from military uses to the rescue of the homeworld.
As it turned out, peace was not an easy row to hoe.
Factions in both the Klingon hierarchy and the Federation tried to halt the process at every turn. There was considerable hardship, considerable violence. Nonetheless, by dint of courage and tolerance and hard work, a treaty was signed.
There would be peace between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. But that didn’t mean the Klingons would stop warring with each other. Not by a long shot.
Over the next seventy-five years, the complexion of the High Council changed again and again. The story was always the same-some rising power challenging an established one at the point of a sharpened battelth. And no sooner was the upstart ensconced on the council than some newcomer appeared to challenge him.
As a young man, Picard had heard about the Klingons’ overwhelming thirst for power, which made them tear at each other like ravening beasts. He had accepted it, but he had never truly understood it.
Now, he understood it all too well. It wasn’t power that motivated the Klingons so much as instinct. It was in their nature to fight. If they couldn’t battle an outside foe, they would battle each other.
Hence, this conspiracy to overthrow Gowron, which had begun to carve its bloody path to the council chamber. Perhaps the captain would not have been so angered by it, perhaps he could have accepted it better, if its victims had not been innocent children.
Turning, he saw Worf and Kahless standing by the hearth, staring into its flames. Picard could only imagine what they saw there.
Chaos? Destruction? The deaths of multitudes? Or the irresistible glory of battle? Even in his officer’s case, he wasn’t entirely sure.
Abruptly, the doors to the chamber opened and Kurn returned to them. Closing the doors behind him, he glanced at the captain.
“As you suggested,” he said, “I’ve arranged with Rajuc to report my death in the explosion. Also, the deaths of several other adults. With luck, our enemies will believe you three perished as well.”
Kahless nodded. “Well done, Kurn. If they think we’re dead, they will lower their guards. And it will give us the opportunity to strike.”
“Yes,” the master of the house agreed. “But strike how, my friend? Where do we begin?”
The clone made a sound of disgust. “I had entertained the hope you could speak to Gowron for us. I thought you would have his ear.”
Kurn shook his head. “Gowron has changed. He has forgotten who supported him when the House of Duras went for his head. I no longer understand what he is thinking half the time.”
“Surely,” said Picard, “the firebombing of the academy should be enough to arouse his suspicions.”
“He will say it could have been an accident,” Kurn argued. “Or the work of someone other than a conspirator.”
“Still,” Worf maintained, “if