THE IRATE ZAKDORN barged into Nelino Quafina’s office. “I’m running late,” Azernal declared. “What do you want?”

Quafina looked up from his work. Even seated behind his fanatically organized desk, the gangly Antedean was still almost as tall as the stout chief of staff was standing up. “Reports from Tezwa,” he said. “There could be trouble.”

Azernal loomed in front of him and glowered. Realizing after several seconds that Quafina wasn’t continuing, he said, “Do you plan to elaborate, or must I suggest everything to you?”

“Nice outfit,” Quafina said in his hollow-sounding, inwardly drawn voice. “Going somewhere?”

Azernal inhaled sharply. “Since I know you’re trying to goad me, I’ll ignore that. What’s the news from Tezwa?”

Quafina handed a padd to Azernal. “La Forge is making waves,” Quafina said. “Questioning our orders to the S.C.E.”

Azernal scanned the official report. The chief engineer of the Enterprise had lodged a formal protest with Ambassador Lagan, who in turn had filed a grievance with Starfleet Operations. Good, he thought. They’re bogging down in details.

“It’s nothing,” Azernal said. He flung the padd back onto Quafina’s desk. The device clattered to a stop in front of the inscrutable icthyoid.

Quafina began, “If his protest is investigated—”

“It won’t be,” Azernal said. “It’s a nonstarter. Even if Starfleet gives it a hearing, I can quash it before the gavel hits the bench. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Hot date?”

Azernal leveled a withering scowl at the impudent Antedean. “Diplomatic reception,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” Quafina said. “Say hello to the new Klingon ambassador for me.”

“Don’t make it sound so pleasant,” Azernal said. “It’s more like the opening falls of a wrestling match.” He glanced at the clocks that were crowded together on the wall in front of Quafina’s desk. “On that note, I’d better get up there before someone pins the president with one of his own remarks.”

Min Zife didn’t mind state functions so much as he loathed the cocktail hours that inevitably followed them.

Lunasphere Artemis was a lovely place for an official function, of course. Beyond its vast and deceptively fragile-looking transparasteel dome, the stars had no atmospheric flicker; they were perfect points of pure light on the glassy black surface of the void. The rising, radiant blue crescent of Earth dominated the vista and overpowered a wide circle of the starfield. Staring at the space-scape, Zife longed for the inviolate silence of the vacuum. His wish was motivated by a growing need to escape the inane chatter of Ferengi Ambassador Derro, who had been prattling on for nearly half an hour about his pet theory for “modernizing” the Federation economy.

At last, Zife reached the end of his patience. “Pardon me, Your Excellency,” he interrupted. “There’s someone on fire over there. I’ll be right back.” Zife stepped away quickly, before the stunned Ferengi diplomat could protest the Bolian’s brazen exit strategy.

Trailed by a pair of bodyguards in civilian attire, Zife strolled over to one of the many dozens of buffet tables that were scattered around the lunasphere’s central plaza. He speared some fruit slices with a fork and unloaded them on to a plate. As he scanned the cheese tray selection, he noticed on the edges of his vision that two persons stepped up to the table on either side of him. To his left was T’Kala, the ambassador from Romulus. On his right, picking through the cold cuts with obvious revulsion, was the Gorn ambassador, Zogozin.

T’Kala nodded to Zife and flashed a deadly smile. “Mr. President,” she said in a warm voice that made him shudder.

“Madam Ambassador,” Zife replied. Zogozin hissed loudly.

“You seem to have landed Starfleet in quite a delicate situation on Tezwa,” T’Kala said. “These must be stressful times for you, and for the Federation.”

“We have Tezwa under control,” he said, then regretted his choice of words almost immediately. “I mean, we have the crisis on Tezwa under control.”

“I understood your meaning perfectly, Mr. President.”

Zogozin made a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a gurgle, and then he flung a handful of sliced lunch meat on the floor. Zife forced himself to offer the olive-scaled reptilian a crooked smile and a nod of recognition. “Ambassador,” he said. Zogozin reciprocated by flashing his jaw full of fangs at the slender Bolian man. Zife turned away from Zogozin and looked directly into T’Kala’s eyes. He immediately wished he had continued talking with the Gorn. The strikingly beautiful Romulan woman seemed to take his measure with her gaze alone.

“I understand Ambassador K’mtok is rather hawkish toward the Federation,” she said. “Rather a surprising stance, considering he was appointed by Chancellor Martok. You don’t suppose the chancellor is souring on the Klingon-Federation alliance, do you?”

“We have no reason to think so,” Zife blurted out.

“I just gave you a reason,” T’Kala said. “Perhaps the Tezwa debacle is costing the Federation more than you realize.”

Wet, grinding sounds of mastication issued from behind Zife. He looked over his shoulder. Zogozin stuffed the last of the table’s rare roast beef into his mouth. Zife smiled politely at T’Kala. “Excuse me, Madam Ambassador.”

“Of course, Mr. President. A pleasure, as always.”

Zife stepped away from the table and dodged through the milling crowd of Federation representatives, Starfleet officers, and foreign dignitaries. Huddled together on the far side of the courtyard were Federation Council representatives zh’Faila, Gleer, and Enaren. The troika seemed to be engaged in a hushed but spirited discussion with two other members of the Federation Security Council—T’Latrek of Vulcan and the infamously irascible Tomorok of Rigel. That can’t be good, Zife realized.

He stopped in the middle of a wooden bridge. A soft melody of piano music wove through random empty spaces in the low murmur of overlapping conversations. He looked up.

Circling high overhead, near the top of the polarized fourteen-hundred-meter-tall dome, were a pair of recreational fliers. In the featherweight gravity of Earth’s moon, almost any ordinary humanoid could strap on an enormous pair of synthetic wings and soar far above the majestic, Brobdingnagian forests of two-hundred-meter-tall trees that thrived in this ersatz paradise. In fact, the only place in the entire lunasphere with Earth-level artificial gravity was this small portion of the central plaza, and even that was a temporary addition for the party. What I’d give to fly, he thought. To not carry all this weight, just for one night.

One subtle aspect of the place disturbed him, however. There was no wind. The leaves on the trees seemed frozen in time, unmoved by even the slightest breeze.

The rasping voice from behind his back startled him.

“All who dare the heavens must eventually fall.”

The president turned to face the imposing countenance of Ambassador K’mtok. The brutish Klingon loomed over the Bolian politician. Zife did his best to keep his expression steady. “Welcome to the Federation, Mr. Ambassador,” Zife said.

K’mtok eyed the Federation president like a predator sizing up its prey. He flashed a jagged-toothed smile. “Thank you.”

Zife didn’t want to seem rude by looking away from K’mtok, but staring at the hulking Klingon felt equally dangerous. He might think I’m challenging him, Zife worried. He permitted himself a brief glance down at the crystal-clear artificial lake that lay below the bridge and surrounded several small rises of grassy land in the bottom of the domed crater. Looking back to K’mtok, he noticed a carved-iron stein in the man’s hand. The scent from its contents was unmistakable and overpowering.

“Is the warnog to your tastes, Your Excellency?”

The middle-aged, gray-bearded Klingon gave his beverage a disdainful frown. “It is adequate,” he said.

For a warrior race, Klingons are remarkably picky eaters, Zife mused. “Has Ambassador Lantar returned yet to Qo’noS?”

“He left this morning on the vaQchargh,” K’mtok said.

“Oh,” Zife said. “I meant to wish him farewell.”

“Chancellor Martok demanded his immediate recall.”

Zife wondered aloud, “Isn’t it unusual for an appointed ambassador to be replaced so abruptly?”

“Not when they fail the empire.”

“I’d hardly say he—”

“He was ineffectual during the Tezwa crisis,” K’mtok said. “You ignored him and negotiated directly with the chancellor. You might as well have called him a vetlh.”

“Time was a factor,” Zife said. His tone became defensive. “There wasn’t time to work through intermediaries. As a leader, I made the choice to speak personally with Martok.”

“I see,” K’mtok said. He took a deep pull of his warnog. Its pungent fragrance was heavy on his breath as he resumed speaking. “If only Lantar could have been so effective here as your Ambassador Worf was on Qo’noS.”

A nervous tingle traveled up Zife’s spine. “In what way?”

“Naïveté does not suit you, Mr. President,” K’mtok said. Zife was certain the man’s eyes were about to unleash fire upon him as he continued. “Worf was a key tactical asset for you. Assaulting members of our High Council; committing acts of espionage against the Klingon Empire; enabling Picard and his crew to cripple an imperial attack fleet…. Most impressive.”

Flustered, Zife replied, “Ambassador Worf’s duties on Qo’noS are strictly diplomatic. He’s never been ordered to violate his diplomatic charge by engaging in any kind of military action.”

“I never said he had been ordered to do so,” K’mtok said, his faux courtesy thick with condescension. “Only that he had done so.” He swallowed another cheek-swelling mouthful of his drink. “I suppose I should be grateful that you did not insult me with a denial of Worf’s actions.”

The president heard hurried footfalls tromping across the bridge behind him. He turned to see Koll Azernal lumbering toward him. The overweight Zakdorn was perspiring lightly and breathing raggedly. “Mr. President,” he said. He nodded to K’mtok, his manner the very epitome of a deferential political inferior. “Your Excellency. Please forgive my interruption. Mr. President, I need to relay important news to you, if you can spare me a moment.” Shifting his eyes sideways toward K’mtok, he added, “In private.”

“Of course,” Zife said, recognizing Azernal’s time-worn conversational rescue tactic. “Please excuse me, Ambassador.”

K’mtok grinned lethally at Azernal. “You arrived in the nick of time,” he said. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. President.” The Klingon let that remark hang fire for a moment before he added, “To have such an effective and well-mannered assistant.”

Zife felt Azernal’s temper rising to the insult.

“Thank you” was all Zife said to K’mtok. Then he turned and motioned to Azernal to lead the way back to the mingling throng of distinguished guests.

Once they moved out of earshot, Azernal’s supplicative expression transmogrified into an arrogant snarl. “What did he say to you?”

“They know about Worf,” Zife said. His collar suddenly felt too tight. He tugged on it nervously.

Azernal shook his head. “Everyone knows about Worf. No one can prove anything.” A dark thought seemed to flit past behind the Zakdorn’s dark eyes. “What did you say to him?”

“It’s not important,” Zife muttered.

“The hell it isn’t,” Azernal said. “One badly chosen word with a man like K’mtok can start a war. What did you say?” Zife glared at his chief of staff, who then amended the end of his statement to include, “Mr. President, sir.”

“Nothing that will get us into a war.” He followed Azernal to the bar. The Zakdorn waved over the bartender—a two-meter-tall Stroyerian man. For a moment, Zife thought he recognized him, then realized that he had confused him with the once-omnipresent valet to Betazed’s most famous ambassador, Lwaxana Troi. He was unable to remember that valet’s name, but he recalled that Troi had grieved deeply after the man was killed during the Dominion’s invasion of Betazed.

Azernal placed his order. “Kentucky bourbon. A double.”

The bartender nodded, and then looked to Zife.

“A balso tonic,” Zife said. The bartender lurched away to prepare the drinks. The president leaned on the bar and spoke in a low voice. “How are we doing with damage control?” As euphemisms went, “damage control” seemed to Zife like a perfectly apt substitute for “our criminal fraud on Tezwa.”

“Everything looks on track so far,” Azernal said. “The pieces are where they need to be, and I haven’t heard of any problems.”

“Good,” Zife said. He held back his next remark while the bartender delivered his and Azernal’s drinks. Zife sampled his nonalcoholic libation. The lanky Stroyerian moved away to serve other patrons. The president continued, “When can we finish?”

“As soon as tomorrow,” Azernal said. “If all goes well.” He downed his bourbon, plunked his empty tumbler glass onto the bar, and then motioned to the bartender for a refill.

Zife shook his head. “But then what? I’m beginning to doubt the Klingons will believe it. K’mtok seems like a throwback to the pre-Gorkon days. If that’s who Martok’s sending us—”

“It wasn’t really up to Martok,” Azernal said. “He’s getting a lot of heat from the High Council right now. One councillor in particular, a nobleman named Kopek, has been drumming up elitist, anticommoner sentiment against Martok. He’s also pushing the High Council to start a war. He’d prefer it be against us, but I think he’ll take any war he can get.”

“So K’mtok is the High Council’s message to us?”

“More like Kopek’s personal slap in Martok’s face,” Azernal said. The bartender poured him another double. “I think K’mtok and Kopek might be kinsmen.” He emptied the glass in a single tilt. After a dry-mouthed gasp, he added, “At the very least, they’re allies who go back more than two decades.”

Now Zife was concerned. He hadn’t been briefed on internal developments in Klingon politics for more than a month, and it sounded like matters on Qo’noS had taken a turn for the worse. Leaning close to Azernal, he whispered nervously, “Is Martok losing control of the empire?”

“Not yet,” Azernal said in a conspiratorial tone. “But he’s definitely in for a fight. And having Worf as a member of his House isn’t doing him a lot of good right now.”

“Should we consider recalling Worf?”

Azernal grinned. “No! He might not be doing Martok much good, but he’s the best resource we’ve had on Qo’noS in thirty years.” He motioned for another shot and chuckled. “The fact that he drives Kopek absolutely crazy is just a bonus.”