A Time to Sow Read online

  The quakes are growing in number and intensity. Sometimes three or four occur at different locations around the world during a single day. On other occasions, a site already tormented by one quake is subjected to another, adding to the toll of death and destruction. Rescue workers are hampered or even thwarted when this happens, helpless to do anything in the face of renewed devastation. Resources for rescue and recovery have long since been pushed beyond their limits, and those citizens who can volunteer to assist are already doing so. Even their efforts are not enough.

  Many here are frustrated at their inability to render aid. I have heard some people talking about trying to return to Dokaal at any cost. Fearful that some might attempt to take matters into their own hands, the colony administrators have placed guards on the few shuttle transports available to us. I guess they hope this will deter anyone from trying to commandeer any of the ships.

  The administrators also have threatened to enact special protection measures on the colonists as well, warning that they will restrict us all to our homes and duty stations if order is not maintained. That seems to be enough incentive for most people to restrain themselves from doing anything foolish, but it does nothing to relieve anyone’s anxiety over the situation.

  For a time, Beeliq and I said little or nothing to one another about the escalating crisis. I know she felt the need to protect me from all of this at first, somehow, but I could always see the stress and fear she tried to keep to herself. I also know that her attempts to reach her parents on the homeworld have not been successful. Nearly a week ago, the news feeds reported a massive quake near the city where they live. The number of people believed dead has been growing with each update. Beeliq knew I comprehended what this probably meant, but I could tell she was not comfortable talking about it.

  Even the meals we shared at the beginning and end of each day were quiet affairs. I think that neither of us wanted to talk for fear of the conversation turning to the situation on Dokaal, after which we would both return to our respective silences more frightened than before.

  At tonight’s meal, however, I finally gave voice to the thoughts plaguing every person on each of the colonies.

  Our planet is dying.

  Perhaps it was the way I said it, not as a question but as a statement of undeniable fact, but Beeliq only nodded when I actually did say it. She seemed almost relieved, as if a mammoth burden had been lifted from her.

  Then she cried, for the first time since her brother’s death.

  I cried with her, for my grandparents lost on Dokaal, for the friends I had left behind when we were transferred to the colonies, for everyone who had suffered during this catastrophe. We even cried for those left to endure whatever was yet to come.

  As for what that might be, people are fearing the worst. The news reports are making no attempts to soften the harsh reality of what is happening to our planet. Plans for evacuation are in progress, and all across the colonies preparations are under way to receive those precious few who will be able to escape the global devastation. It will be but a fraction of the population, a fact not lost on people who have come to realize that our planet’s days, to say nothing of their very own, are numbered.

  And what about those of us who already live here among the asteroids? We are trapped here, helpless to do anything except wait for our homeworld to die. What will we do in the aftermath of the coming disaster? How will we survive? Out of necessity, the colonies are able to sustain themselves for the long periods of time between supply shipments from Dokaal, but what will happen when the ships stop coming? We will have more people living here than the colony facilities were designed to support, so adjustments will have to be made quickly to accommodate them.

  Caesi tells me that his wife and the other administrators have had plans set in motion for some time to deal with this situation. This means that they have known the awful truth for longer than the public has, and have been preparing. Part of me is relieved because I know that those in charge have retained their focus in the midst of this crisis and are working to give us the best chance of survival.

  However, I am also concerned that there may be other facts that our leaders have withheld from us. Perhaps things are more serious than is generally believed, and the administrators are trying to prevent panic from escalating. Were I in charge, I think I would want to inform the people as much as possible, no matter how unsettling the facts might be, and trust that their initial fear and uncertainty would be defeated by their desire to survive and protect their families. I think that displaying great faith in those you lead would better allow them to trust in your guidance.

  In the days ahead, I think that both the people and our leaders will need such trust if we are to survive.

  Chapter Five

  SUNRISE on Qo’noS.

  Since arriving on the homeworld as the Federation’s ambassador to the Klingon Empire, Worf had yet to tire of the magnificent view afforded by the trio of large windows forming his office’s back wall. Beyond the transparasteel barriers, the sun was just beginning to highlight the skyline, burning a fiery red and bathing everything in its harsh crimson hue.

  Before his current position brought him here as a matter of course, he had visited Qo’noS only sporadically since leaving with his parents for Khitomer at the age of six. Most of those visits had not been under pleasant circumstances, so it was with no small amount of comfort that he was able to sit here, as he did most mornings before beginning his official duties, simply to relax and take in the vast metropolis before him. Worf had decided long ago that the First City was at its most peaceful during this time of day.

  It was also one of the few occasions where he felt a true connection to the capital. Just as the robes he now wore as a symbol of diplomacy shrouded the beating heart of a warrior, a blanket of tranquility covered this, the very cradle of the Klingon Empire and the countless soldiers who had served it over the centuries. How easy would it be to simply sit here, ignoring the numerous appointments and responsibilities conspiring to drown him in a sea of bureaucratic chaos, and just watch the city come alive for the start of a glorious new day?

  “They’re calling for rain later this morning,” a voice said from behind him.

  Perhaps I will try again tomorrow, Worf amended silently, sighing in amused resignation as he turned from the windows to see Giancarlo Wu standing in the doorway leading from his office.

  As always, his chief aide was impeccably dressed, his black trousers and shoes accentuated by a dark blue shirt and maroon vest. Wu affected an aristocratic air that in Worf’s eyes was ideal for the types of diplomatic and social situations the ambassador found himself navigating, which was a good thing.

  Having served at the embassy for nearly a decade, Wu’s seemingly unmatched familiarity with the political minutiae that consumed so much of Worf’s time, to say nothing of his superior patience for it, had proven invaluable time and again. In fact, the ambassador even had sent his aide on various missions of his own, comfortable in the knowledge that Wu’s consummate skill and experience were more than enough to handle whatever was required.

  “Good morning,” Worf said, knowing that Wu already had been in his own office for at least an hour. As was the human’s habit, he was here before sunrise each day and did not depart until the evening hours. It was normal for him to leave Worf to work alone upon his own arrival, his entry to the ambassador’s office signaling the official start of the day.

  “And to you, Ambassador,” Wu replied before glancing down at the omnipresent padd in his right hand. Studying the device, he affected an amused expression. “I have good news and bad news. Which would you prefer to hear first?”

  They both knew it was a rhetorical question. Within moments of their first meeting two years earlier, Worf had directed Wu never to withhold any information or soften it in any way, no matter how unpleasant it might be to hear. He had expected his aide to resist those instructions at first, as it had probably been Wu’s habit to dissem
ble out of concern for the sensitivities of human diplomats. The man had instead embraced Worf’s preference for direct dialogue in true Klingon fashion.

  Tapping commands into his padd with such speed that Worf thought the melodic tones generated by the individual keystrokes might actually blur into a single extended whine, Wu said, “The emperor sends his regrets at having to cancel the audience you requested with him next week. He has urgent business offworld and will have your meeting rescheduled upon his return.”

  Worf nodded. “Notify his office that I will submit a new request through official channels and appreciate any assistance they can offer in selecting an alternative appointment.” There were protocols to be observed, after all, and His Excellency was free to honor or dismiss such requests at his discretion. As it was, Worf considered it a personal honor that any sort of explanation for the cancellation of their meeting had been offered.

  Of course, he did enjoy a closer relationship with Kahless than most Klingons, including those currently serving on the High Council. After the revelation that clerics at the monastery on Boreth had created a clone of the original emperor in a scheme to provide what they perceived as sorely needed leadership to the troubled Klingon Empire nearly a decade ago, Worf had been the first outsider to meet with him. Later, he had convinced Gowron, chancellor of the High Council at the time, to install the cloned version of the empire’s greatest and most storied warrior as ceremonial emperor to the Klingon people. And two years ago, Kahless was instrumental in aiding Gowron’s successor, Martok, in surviving a coup d’état. With honorable warriors such as Chancellor Martok—Worf’s friend and mentor—leading the way, and Kahless’s guidance, the Empire would regain its former glory.

  Though Kahless had expressed his eternal appreciation to Worf, the ambassador had always been careful not to give the appearance of using his friendship to curry favor, particularly after taking on his diplomatic posting. Worf would not dream of circumventing the normal process for an audience with the emperor.

  “On a brighter note,” Wu continued, “Chancellor Martok passes on word that he still expects you for dinner this evening, assuming your schedule permits, of course.”

  Worf smiled at that. Despite his aide’s straight delivery, there was no mistaking the humor behind the words. After all, even if one were brave enough to casually dismiss an invitation from a chancellor of the High Council, it was sheer foolhardiness to do so when that same person was also the ruler of the House to which one belonged.

  “Assuming there are no interstellar incidents in the offing,” he replied, “please advise the chancellor that I will be there.”

  Nodding, Wu made another entry into his padd. “Here’s the best news of the day. Your son sent a communiqué that he has been granted leave from the Ya’Vang, and plans to be here in about two weeks. Can I assume your schedule will permit a brief vacation for his benefit?”

  Though he knew Wu did not, and could not, mean anything else by asking the question, Worf realized that at another time, he might well have considered not making plans with Alexander. To say that their relationship had been strained from the beginning was an understatement of galactic proportions. After years of struggling to understand one another, father and son had finally reached a point where they enjoyed each other’s company. Alexander’s duties aboard the Ya’Vang coupled with Worf’s own diplomatic responsibilities made those occasions rare, and Worf was thrilled when such opportunities presented themselves.

  “Absolutely,” he said to Wu. “See to it that any routine matters that might take place during his time here are rescheduled accordingly.” With luck, Worf’s duties would permit him the brief respite.

  After a moment, his aide said, “Ambassador, I’ve also done some checking with a friend of mine at Starfleet Command. Apparently, a decision has been made regarding the Enterprise.”

  Worf sat quietly as Wu described the political minefield Captain Picard had left for both the Federation and the Ontailians to traverse, as well as the new “mission” Starfleet had given Picard and his crew. The only outward response he allowed was the tightening of his jaw, his frustration with the situation growing with each second he listened to Wu’s report.

  He was already fully aware of the incident with the Juno and the Ontailian vessels that had been destroyed. Colleagues in Starfleet had kept him apprised of the Enterprise crew’s treatment in the aftermath of that tragedy. At the outset of the incident, Worf could understand the need to investigate the matter with utmost care, including the possibility that Jean-Luc Picard could have become mentally unbalanced to the point of willfully murdering innocent people.

  The very idea was laughable, of course, a fact later confirmed by Starfleet specialists. What galled Worf even more than Picard’s initial treatment following the incident was how he and the Enterprise crew had been “disposed of,” at least for the time being.

  Exhaling in disgust, Worf let his eyes wander to the wall of his office where he kept the small collection of mementos he allowed himself. Awards bestowed from both Starfleet and the Empire hung alongside photographs of Alexander and his son’s mother, K’Ehleyr, as well as a still-humorous image of him and the command staff of Deep Space 9, dressed in the uniforms of the Earth game called “baseball.” His eyes lingered for a moment on his wedding photo with Jadzia Dax, and he paused long enough to send a silent message to her in Sto-Vo-Kor, where she now hunted with the other warriors who had honorably given their lives in combat.

  For the first time, Worf realized that among the keepsakes was no overt reminder of his time on the Enterprise. While he would scarcely have given the observation a second thought only a few years ago, he now found the idea troubling for reasons he could not explain, at least not yet.

  Was it because of the situation his former shipmates currently faced, and that he was not there to stand with them?

  Opportunities to see his friends on the Enterprise had been rare, particularly since he took on his role as ambassador. Other than the time the ship had ferried him to the Klingon border for his first diplomatic assignment on taD, the gateways crisis, and the mission involving the mysterious Malkus artifact, the opportunities had been few and far between. While he knew he was carrying out important duties here on behalf of both the Federation and the Empire, there were times he wished he were still serving in Starfleet, doing his part to look after his comrades. He wanted to help them now, but what could he do from here?

  As if reading his mind, Wu said, “You know, with your travel schedule being what it is in coming months, it would not be unusual to request a Starfleet vessel be detailed for courier duty. I’m sure that special consideration would be given if you were to ask for a specific vessel for that purpose, assuming that ship’s mission priorities permitted it.”

  It was an interesting notion, Worf decided, and a tempting one. Such an assignment normally was viewed as an honor by Starfleet brass, even if individual ship crews and their captains regarded the duty as only slightly less glamorous than replacing navigational buoys. Being specifically requested for such a mission was further considered to be a singular privilege. Worf also realized that by having the Enterprise as his courier vessel, he would be able to call upon Picard’s own formidable diplomatic skills. If nothing else, it would surely be a better assignment than being “banished” to some faraway corner of the galaxy.

  For that reason alone, Worf discarded the idea.

  Shaking his head, he replied, “No. That could be perceived as using my position to come to Captain Picard’s aid.” While he did not care how such a move might reflect on him personally, Worf did not want to add further unfavorable light to Picard or the Enterprise. Besides, he knew his shipmates would find a way to weather this controversy without his help, and they would do so beginning with this odd assignment Starfleet had seen fit to give them.

  “Where is this Dokaal system?” he asked.

  Checking his padd, Wu replied, “Beyond the limits of explored space, it seems, out
past Cardassian and Tholian territory. Ordinarily it would be a plum assignment, especially for such a passionate explorer as Captain Picard. Under the circumstances, however, anyone with even cursory knowledge of the situation will see this tasking for what it truly is.”

  Worf agreed. Not actually a punishment, so far as the legal or technical definition of the term was concerned, the Enterprise’s assignment to investigate the origin of a distress signal sent more than two centuries ago was a slap in the face to a man of Picard’s stature and accomplishments, to say nothing of the rest of his crew.

  While the complete details of the so-called Ontailian Incident had been classified, Worf knew that there were those in Starfleet who had called for Picard’s dismissal from service in the wake of the Juno’s loss. Despite his exoneration, political schemers who had lost face during the incident would be looking for restitution. Publicly reprimanding the Enterprise crew, particularly Picard, would not sit well with the numerous allies the captain had garnered over the years. Therefore, all they could do was send him on a mundane assignment and get him out of the way. Perhaps they would dispatch him on another such mission once he had completed this one, and another after that, and keep doing so until Picard finally resigned in frustration.

  That was unlikely, Worf decided. Admiral Nechayev was far too shrewd an officer to allow the captain to leave under such circumstances. As she had with other officers on different occasions, she would find a way to protect Picard until the current situation subsided.

  As for Picard himself, he was as adept at playing the “political game” as anyone he had ever encountered. His brinksmanship skills were on par with his command abilities, rivaling even the very talented individuals Worf had come across since becoming an ambassador. The big difference between Picard and career politicians, of course, was how and why he put those skills into play, and a key advantage he held over those who would see him removed from command of the Enterprise was his seemingly limitless reserves of patience.