The Art of the Impossible Read online

  “We’ve picked up refined metal, and some of what might be DNA traces, in a small area on the northern continent. No life signs as such, though—and there are no other indications anywhere else on the continent.” Ekron looked up and almost changed his facial expression, a rare thing. “Sir, the readings we’re getting are consistent with a crashed ship.”

  “A what?”

  “A crashed ship, sir. I recommend we send a squadron down to investigate.”

  Monor frowned. “You’ve confirmed that the atmosphere is breathable?”

  “Yes, sir, quite fit for Cardassian life,” Ekron said with more enthusiasm than he’d ever shown in Monor’s presence before. “I’d like to lead the squadron, sir.”

  That made the gul suspicious. “You’ve never been this eager to go planetside, Ekron.”

  “It’s a new world, sir.”

  Shaking his head, Monor said, “It’s just a pile of dirt, Ekron. Some day you’ll realize that. You children today, you think the galaxy’s full of wonder and new experiences, but the damn truth of it is that it’s all the same. Just more and more piles of dirt.” He waved his arms in disgust. “Well, fine, go check this pile, and see who it is who crashed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ekron moved off to the aft doors.

  Again, Monor shook his head. “You’d think he was anxious to get off the bridge for some reason.”

  Chapter 2

  Raknal V

  It had been far too long since Ekron felt the wind blowing through his hair.

  Once, Ekron preferred the regulated atmosphere of a ship, but that was before he spent six months on one. Now, he welcomed weather: the smell of salt water on the wind, the uneven feel of the rock and dirt under his feet, the unique song of animal life in the background, the pull of real gravity on his body.

  He had no doubt that he’d be well and truly sick of it within the first hour, and go fleeing back to the Sontok begging for its artificial stale simplicity, but for now, he was going to enjoy it.

  The area into which they had transported was a rocky terrain, not far from one of Raknal V’s oceans. Ekron could hear waves crashing against rock to his left, but he and his team were out of sight of the water—it was at least fifty meters away, and several dozen meters straight down, according to his hand-scanner.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it, Glinn?” one of the troops asked. He stood just behind Ekron—Darnay was his name. “A good stiff sea breeze—nothing like it. Of course, I should think you’d be used to having hot air blasting about your ears, being on the bridge all the time.”

  Darnay laughed at his own joke, as did several of the other troops.

  The laughter ceased when Ekron turned to look at Darnay. “Gul Monor is one of the greatest commanders in the Cardassian military. You should be grateful to be serving under one with his accomplishments.”

  Holding up a hand, Darnay said, “Oh, of course it is a privilege to serve under Monor’s command—as long as I don’t have to listen to him.” Another laugh. “I think that if I should have to spend my time on duty listening to the old gul ramble, I’d go mad.”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten,” Ekron said sharply, “that Gul Monor led the campaign against the Lissepians. Perhaps you’ve forgotten about Gul Monor’s breaking of the Ferengi privateer ring in the Septimus system, or his destruction of those Orion pirates at Quinor. And perhaps you’ve forgotten about the penalty for insubordination.”

  The look on Darnay’s face indicated that he had not forgotten the last thing, at least.

  Ekron activated the communicator on his left wrist with his right hand. “This is Ekron. Beam Darnay back to the ship and place him under arrest. I will deal with him upon our return from the mission.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moments later, Darnay disappeared in a burst of yellow light, transported back to the ship.

  Looking out at the remaining six troops, Ekron asked, “Is there anyone else who would like to criticize his superior? No? Then let us move on.” He looked down at his hand-scanner. “The fragments are this way. Quick time.”

  In near-perfect formation—there was a Darnay-sized hole in it—the squadron jogged to where sensors had indicated the wreckage was to be found.

  In truth, Ekron agreed with many of Darnay’s sentiments. Monor was long-winded and tiresome, and sometimes a chore to serve under. But to think it was one thing, to voice it in front of the ship’s second-in-command quite another. Ekron supposed that sort of lapse in discipline was inevitable after six long months in space, but that didn’t mean he was going to tolerate it. Obviously, he thought, we need to schedule more drills. And maybe we need to start airing those patriotic speeches on the monitors again. Ekron had stopped showing them after a few months, as Central Command had only provided five of them, and their effect lessened with repetition. Besides, the crew, at the time, hardly needed reminders of the great state they lived under and how privileged they were to be part of the Cardassian Union and its grand military governing body. By serving the military, they served the people, and by serving the people, they served the Union. Until today, Ekron had no reason to think the rank-and-file had forgetten that. But if discipline has gotten this lax…

  Ekron doubted he’d have any trouble convincing Gul Monor to accede to his request. The hard part had been getting him to allow the cessation of the broadcasts in the first place.

  When the squadron came within a few meters of the apparent wreckage, Ekron put thoughts of crew morale to the back of his mind. That was for when he was back aboard the Sontok. Now, on Raknal V, he had a mission to perform.

  The path of their scans led them up an outcropping, which ended in a very steep cliff. The once-gentle sea breeze became gusty when Ekron approached the edge of the cliff, a sheer drop of about thirty-five meters or so. Below them was a circular sandy inlet about a kilometer in diameter. Scattered about the sand—mostly under it—were the metal fragments they’d detected from orbit. Some pieces protruded upward, others were only a decimeter or so below the surface sand. The changing tide probably affects how high the pieces are. Ekron’s scanner also picked up DNA traces, though it could not distinguish the type.

  One of the troops approached Ekron and pointed eastward. “Sir, if we go around the outcropping here, there is a natural path down to the inlet.”

  Nodding, Ekron said, “Good. Let’s go.”

  Within a few minutes, they had worked their way down a natural rocky pathway that looked to Ekron like it had once been a stream that fed into the ocean. Ekron also saw that the metal fragments were indeed spread across the entire inlet, and also that some of the pieces were corroded.

  Another troop said, “Sir, the readings we took on the ship confirm several of the metals present in the alloys of these fragments are not native to this planet.”

  Ekron nodded as his boots sank slightly into the sand, which was leavened with a variety of small shells and rocks. He turned to the five remaining troops. “Spread out. Standard hexagonal formation. Visually survey and record everything in your sector. Move.”

  They moved. With Darnay beamed back up to the ship, Ekron took his sector and started examining the wreckage. His own readings confirmed what the trooper had said: this wreckage was from something constructed off world. There was no indication that there had ever been any kind of civilization here, so that meant that this was almost certainly alien.

  Then he saw the skull.

  Niral Ekron was a soldier, not a scientist, but one of the reasons why he had joined the military was because he loved to look at relics. Sadly, most of the museums on Cardassia had been gutted to pay for the Union’s expansion. In order for him to see the treasures of old, he knew he’d have to go off world. But Ekron had been born far too poor ever to be able to afford travel off Cardassia Prime, so he joined the military—which had the added benefit of pleasing his parents, who desperately wanted a better life for their son. Luckily, the Cardassian Union was a nation that rewarded service. By giving his
life to Cardassia, Ekron was able to improve the quality of that life, not just for him, but for his family. Thanks to his salary as an officer serving Central Command, Ekron’s parents owned their own house in the capital city and no longer had to worry about struggling for their next meal or paying the rent on the hovel in Arinak. Father was able to grow the garden he’d always wanted to have, Mother not only had been able to purchase the best sculpting tools but also at last had the space in which to practice her art, and Ekron himself was finally able to travel to other worlds, and occasionally indulge in a favorite hobby.

  So it was with no thought to the dignity of his position as second-in-command of the Sontok that he got down on his knees, heedless of the ever-growing pile of sand that was collecting in his boots and would no doubt infest his uniform for the next week, and started digging the skull out.

  He found a collarbone next to the skull. Both bones were long since bleached, encrusted with some sand and sea life from the beach, but no evidence of meat or muscle remained. The skull also had an unusually high and pronounced forehead. To Ekron’s mind, that indicated Nausicaans, Chalnoth, Klingons, or some other related species.

  “Glinn Ekron!”

  Ekron looked up to see one of the troops holding up a fragment of metal. “I’m sorry to report prematurely, sir, but I think you should see this.”

  Peering at the fragment, Ekron saw a trefoil emblem. Ekron recognized it instantly, though the design was cruder than the ones seen on modern ships.

  The symbol of the Klingon Empire.

  Chapter 3

  I.K.S. Wo’bortas

  “Enter,” Captain Qaolin of the I.K.S. Wo’bortas said after the doorchime to his tiny office sounded.

  The door rumbled open, and his first officer, Commander Narrk, entered. Qaolin immediately stood up. Narrk was older than Qaolin, and also shorter. And, while he had shown no overt signs in the ten weeks that Qaolin had been in command of the Wo’bortas, the captain found it impossible to credit that Narrk didn’t resent serving under someone younger than he was, especially given the amount of time Narrk had served at the rank of commander. There was nothing in Narrk’s service record, nor anything in his performance of duty to date, to indicate why he hadn’t been given a ship of his own.

  “What do you want?” Qaolin asked by way of greeting. He walked around to the other side of his workstation, face-to-face with the commander.

  Narrk looked up at the captain, his gray eyes darting and tense, his long mane of hair, which was black streaked with gray, almost quivering. “The crew grows restless. We have been following the Cardassian survey ship for over a month!”

  “I am aware of the amount of time that has passed since we began following the Sontok, Commander.”

  “Then why do we just sit here, hiding behind our cloaking device?” Narrk’s fists were clenched with fury.

  “I understand your anger, Commander, but we shall continue to follow our orders.”

  Narrk now held his fists close to his chest, as if trying to hold himself in check. “If those orders had come from Command, I would not argue with you, but since when do Defense Force vessels bow to the whims of I.I. petaQ?”

  Qaolin now began to understand why Narrk was still a commander. They had been detached to Imperial Intelligence for this mission, with their specific instructions coming from an I.I. agent, Yovang, who had been placed on board. More for the benefit of the listening device that Qaolin knew was somewhere in this office, he said, “Imperial Intelligence has always had the authority to commandeer Defense Force vessels for missions they deem important. And our orders did not come from I.I., Commander, they came from General Korit. Or do you consider him a petaQ, as well?”

  If anything, this seemed to incense Narrk more. “Are you questioning my loyalty?”

  Moving close enough to smell the raktajino on his first officer’s breath, Qaolin said, “I question your sanity, Commander. Our orders are to follow Yovang’s instructions, which are to observe the Sontok while cloaked. Until those instructions change, I will follow them—and so will you.”

  For a moment, the two warriors locked eyes. Qaolin refused to back down—indeed, he dared not, for it would be a sign of weakness, and Narrk would then attempt to gain a captaincy by rightfully challenging Qaolin for the position.

  Instead, Narrk looked away, snarling, and walked over to the bulkhead. “Why do we not simply attack? We can capture those Cardassian toDSaH and take the information we need about their attempts at expansion.”

  “Have you ever tried to interrogate a Cardassian, Commander?”

  The silence that greeted Qaolin’s question provided sufficient answer.

  “Their high-ranking officers have all been conditioned against the usual interrogation techniques, and their rank-and-file have no useful intelligence. No, Commander, we must—”

  “Captain Qaolin.”

  The captain looked up sharply at the sound of the voice that came suddenly over the speakers. That is Yovang. “Qaolin.”

  “Report to the bridge.”

  The communication cut off. Narrk turned to look at his captain. “He does not even treat you with the respect of your rank. I.I. are honorless cowards who hide in shadows instead of facing their enemies head-on.”

  Qaolin considered the fact that, in over two months, Narrk himself had also never referred to Qaolin as “sir” or “Captain,” avoiding any kind of respectful nomenclature. “I.I. is the scout that precedes the attack party—the swordsmith who sharpens the bat’leth. Only a fool goes into battle blindly. The Cardassians have begun an aggressive phase of exploration—but they are not like the Federation. They are not natural explorers who wish to ‘seek out new life’—they are predators. For now, they seem to be limiting themselves to lifeless planets in unclaimed space, or easily conquerable worlds like Bajor. But they have been coming ever closer to territory that interests us. It is best to know what they intend before we attack in force.”

  Narrk said nothing, but instead headed to the exit—not allowing Qaolin to leave first, as was proper.

  Up until now, he has not been insubordinate. I will have to deal with this soon.

  Qaolin entered the Wo’bortas’s cramped bridge to see officers at all the duty stations, and one man standing in front of the raised command chair, between it and the pilot’s console: Yovang of Imperial Intelligence. Unlike the others on the bridge, he did not wear a uniform, preferring an all-black one-piece outfit that made him almost blend into the darkness of the bridge—which was, no doubt, the intended effect. He kept his black hair unusually short, and his dark green eyes never seemed to blink. His crest was fairly nondescript—Qaolin had found that, no matter how many times he looked at Yovang, he could not recall the exact pattern of the crest on the man’s forehead. The captain suspected that the crest had been surgically altered to achieve precisely that effect, since, thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember details of any of the crests of the few known I.I. agents he’d met over the years. Since the crest was a tie to family, and since I.I. claimed no allegiances to any of the Houses—in order to do their jobs, they had to be removed from mainstream Klingon aristocracy—such alterations were probably standard.

  As he entered the bridge, he made it a point to look at the crest, and found that it was a fairly straightforward three-ridge pattern, with no marks that Qaolin found distinguishing. Naturally.

  Without preamble, Yovang started speaking in the near-monotone he favored. “A priority-coded communication has been intercepted from the Cardassian ship. The transmission is being directed to their Central Command. It is being decoded now. Its transmission follows a party beaming to the surface of Raknal V. The obvious conclusion is that they have found something useful.”

  From the operations console behind the command chair, a bekk whose name Qaolin had never bothered to learn said, “The transmission has been decoded, Captain. Shall I transfer the message to your office?”

  The bekk pointedly did not look at Yovan
g.

  For the briefest of moments, Qaolin hesitated. Strictly speaking, of course, the decision was Yovang’s. Leaving aside any other considerations, the only reason why the ship’s computer could decode the transmission was because of a program Yovang had installed. And Yovang was in charge of this mission.

  But Qaolin was in charge of the ship, and had only been so for a few short weeks. His first officer obviously wanted his job. He had to be careful not to seem weak, but also not to incur the wrath of I.I.

  “Yes, Bekk.” He turned to Narrk. “You have the bridge, Commander.”

  Then he turned his back on Yovang and went into his office. If Yovang wished to follow the captain, that was, of course, his right. He made it clear that he did not consider Yovang to be a threat. Yet he had not actually challenged Yovang’s authority on the bridge.

  As an added bonus, he had not permitted Narrk to hear the communication, leaving him on the bridge. The commander needed to be taught a lesson.

  Unsurprisingly, Yovang did follow him into the office. Qaolin sat at his desk and called up the communication that the bekk had transferred to his workstation.

  The message was text only, with sensor data attached to it. “They have found the remains of a Klingon ship!” Qaolin said in surprise. “The wreckage appears to be at least one thousand years old.” The captain fell backward in his chair. “A thousand years…” He looked up at Yovang, who remained as still as a statue. Worse, he thought after a moment. At least a statue is generally posed heroically. “You do realize what this probably is? We are not far from the Betreka Nebula…”

  “Our mission is not to draw conclusions, Captain Qaolin. Our mission is to gather information. You can rest assured that when—”

  Angrily, Qaolin stood up. “The Cardassians may have found the remains of Ch’gran! We cannot simply let them—”

  “I will decide what we can and cannot do, Captain.”