DAYBREAK WAS HOURS AWAY, but the corridors of the Great Hall in the First City susurrated with the ominous undertones of a government preparing for war.

Worf noticed that security at the inner gate was tighter than usual. He was certain that the heightened state of alert was in force because of the impending invasion of Tezwa. The two guards who scanned him required that he empty the pockets and folds of his robes. They sifted brusquely through his effects. They eyed his identification card with suspicion, even though he knew the men recognized him from his many previous visits.

The taller of the two soldiers pointed to the diplomatic pouch slung at Worf’s side. “Open it,” the guard said.

“I will not,” Worf said. Behind his shoulder he heard the other guard scrambling to lift his rifle. Worf maintained eye contact with the soldier in front of him. “It is a diplomatic pouch. Its contents are protected under the Khitomer Accords.”

The first warrior backed away and raised his own weapon. Eyes were beginning to turn toward the conflict at the gate.

“Open it,” the guard said again.

A guttural voice interrupted the confrontation. “The diplomatic privilege will be honored,” said an older, gray-maned warrior, whom Worf recognized as General Goluk. The grizzled veteran pushed through the crowd of onlookers. He placed his hand on top of the guard’s weapon and firmly lowered its barrel away from Worf. “He will not be searched. That is the law.” He looked at Worf. “Apologies, Ambassador Worf, son of Mogh, House of Martok.” Worf understood that the excessively formal greeting was Goluk’s subtle way of rebuking the two overzealous guards.

Worf plucked his identification card from the hand of the guard behind him, then turned back to his benefactor and fellow member of the Order of the Bat’leth. “Apology accepted, General Goluk,” Worf said. “I have urgent business with the chancellor.”

“Of course, Mr. Ambassador,” Goluk said. He turned and marched into the midst of the throng that stood between Worf and the private turbolift to the High Council chamber. “Move!” he bellowed, and his voice resounded off the distant arches of the ceiling, whose shape reminded Worf of a carbonized skeleton covered by a swath of blackened skin. The crowd parted, and Goluk marched through the gap and across the cavernous hall in long strides. Worf followed close behind him.

The turbolift ride to the top of the majestic structure was quiet. Worf had not had many dealings with General Goluk, but he found him to be more agreeable than most members of the Klingon elite with whom he’d dealt since assuming his diplomatic post at the Federation Embassy—mostly because Goluk hated small talk.

The turbolift door opened to reveal a shadowy corridor. Its sparse lighting was a soothing dark crimson hue, like the standard duty lighting aboard a Klingon warship. Councillors’ attachés and military advisors choked the corridor, moving from room to room, or scurrying toward the High Council chamber. A trio of young women, garbed in the robes of apprentice lawyers—and all from noble Houses, judging by the ancient family crests embroidered on their ceremonial white stoles—pushed past Worf as he stepped off the turbolift.

He heard the turbolift door hiss closed. Looking back, he saw that Goluk was no longer accompanying him.

He walked quickly and dodged through the slalom of bodies toward Martok’s private chambers. Worf hadn’t seen such manic goings-on in the Great Hall since the encounter with the Elabrej two years ago. It made sense, of course, that Martok would have summoned an emergency session of the High Council and marshaled every resource at his disposal. Unfortunately for Worf, the mass of people now crowding the Great Hall was going to make it difficult for him to accomplish his mission with any kind of discretion.

He arrived at the entrance to Martok’s chambers. The huge double doors were cut from black granite and reinforced with duranium edge banding. The outer faces of the doors were engraved with a single, enormous gilded outline of the imperial trefoil inside a circle. Two warriors stood guard, one in front of each door. One kept his disruptor rifle slung low but clearly primed for action; the other stood in a classic ready position, feet apart, his bat’leth gripped in both hands and held horizontally, cutting edge down, in front of his waist.

The two guards pressed together to block Worf’s path as he stepped toward the doors. “I have business with the chancellor,” he said. The guards did not answer him. “Let me pass.”

“He’s not here,” said the guard with the bat’leth.

“Council’s in session,” the other guard said.

Martok’s voice resounded from the far end of the corridor behind Worf. “Mr. Ambassador!” Worf turned to see Martok stomping toward him with his usual bravado.

“Chancellor,” Worf said. “I require a moment of your time.”

“A moment is all I have,” Martok said.

Worf stepped aside to let him pass. The two guards also moved out of Martok’s path. At the chancellor’s approach, the doors to his chambers swung inward. “Come in,” Martok said to Worf as he marched past the ambassador, into his inner sanctum. Worf shot withering stares at the two guards, who made a point of avoiding eye contact with him. He followed Martok inside. The massive doors silently closed behind him.

Martok’s chambers were well appointed, but not opulent. The amalgamation of ancient weapons, modest comforts, and one of the newest House crests in the Empire reflected the chancellor’s rise from common-born soldier to imperial head of state.

The floor, walls, and ceiling were rough, gray stone. The walls on either side of the main door were draped with six enormous war banners. The colorful flags—which were replete with rips, burned edges, bloodstains, and the dust of battlefields light-years away—were testaments to Martok’s distinguished decades of service.

Eight broad, hard armchairs surrounded a low, octagonal stone table, which sat atop a huge Kryonian tiger-skin rug in the middle of the room, between four wide pillars. On the pillars, two meters above the floor, were black iron sconces, inside of which danced licks of bright orange flame.

At the far end of the room was a broad desk. Its shape was irregular—organic, like an amoeba. The desktop was composed of immaculately polished petrified wood, and was utterly bare and pristine. At the desk was a high-backed, hardwood seat that Martok simply called a chair, but which Worf thought looked more like a throne. The wall behind the desk was dominated by a huge, multipanel window shaped like the Klingon trefoil.

To the left was a door that led to the chancellor’s private wardrobe. On the right was the room’s single extravagance: a well-stocked liquor cabinet, including onyx bloodwine goblets and polished-steel steins for ale and warnog.

Martok moved past his desk. “I have to get back soon,” the chancellor said as he opened the door to his wardrobe and stepped inside. “What do you need?”

Worf stopped in front of the desk. “I am concerned that your invasion of Tezwa violates the Khitomer Accords,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Martok growled from the antechamber. “The accords specifically permit us to defend ourselves from attack.”

“And if Tezwa attacks Qi’Vol, you will be within your rights to retaliate,” Worf said. Arguing, even insincerely, on behalf of the Tezwans sickened him, but for now he needed to think like a diplomat instead of like a warrior. “But to invade a planet that might be able to claim it was acting in self-defense—”

“You can’t be serious.” Martok stepped out of his wardrobe, attired in a different ceremonial robe. Worf recognized the vestments as the ones traditionally worn when making formal declarations of war. “Self-defense? They launched a sneak attack! They murdered six thousand Klingon warriors!”

“The Tezwans will say they had no right to be there,” Worf said. “They will insist that the very presence of your ships above their world was an act of aggression—from which they defended themselves.” Defending the cowardly petaQpu’ made Worf furious, but his mask of calm dignity didn’t waver. Martok dismissed Worf’s arguments with an angry wave of his arm.

“Ridiculous,” Martok said. “They permitted us entry for negotiation. Safe conduct was promised.”

Worf had no rebuttal; Martok was right. Interstellar law was clear on the matter of safe conduct. Worf changed tactics.

“Regardless,” he said, “the Federation is alarmed by the ramifications of such a precedent. We must ask the High Council to consider our petition for limitations on the Empire’s actions in this matter.” Worf was treading on dangerous ground; by speaking with the voice of the Federation, he could ensure that his request would have to be officially reviewed by the High Council, in accordance with imperial law. That would get Martok out of his chambers for a few minutes, giving Worf the time he needed. But if his plan backfired, this overstepping of his authority could result in his own arrest by the Federation.

Martok clearly did not like what he was hearing. “What kind of limitations?”

“First, the planet and its star system must remain neutral,” Worf said. “Rather than an invasion followed by an occupation, we ask that the Empire restrict its mission to pacification, then withdraw its military forces.”

“It’s too late to negotiate these terms,” Martok said. “The order’s been given. Tezwa will be invaded.”

“If the Klingon flag is raised on Tezwa, we will demand parity,” Worf said. “The Federation will claim sovereignty over two unpopulated star systems on our shared border—Mahtaan and Hrabosk.”

Martok considered that idea, then harrumphed. “That’s more reasonable,” he said. After a moment, the idea seemed to grow on him. “Very well, then. Parity. I’ll offer your proposal to the council.” The chancellor adjusted the front of his robe. “If there’s nothing else…?” Martok gestured toward the door.

Worf stood his ground. “I would prefer to wait here for the council’s answer.”

Martok grunted, then marched toward the door. “Suit yourself,” he bellowed as the doors swung open before him. “I expect it will be a short debate,” Martok said. The doors closed behind him with a heavy bump.

As the magnetic locks engaged, Worf opened his diplomatic pouch and reached inside. The “package” Zeitsev had somehow delivered to Worf’s office with hardly any advance notice of his intentions—or so it seemed—had contained several devices tailored to facilitate his mission. He knew Zeitsev was well connected, but this had surpassed all expectations. Some of the tools in the kit were ones that Worf had heard of being used by Starfleet Intelligence; a few he had thought were still at the prototype stage. Two he had never realized existed at all, until tonight. He hoped most of them would be unnecessary.

Martok had no computer hardware in his office, despite Zeitsev’s insistence that this was one of the few direct links to the Fleet Command Center. Worf had been here only twice before, and on neither occasion had he seen Martok use a computer. The chancellor despised replicators, and preferred to conduct state business face-to-face whenever possible.

Worf palmed a tiny scanner and pulled it from the pouch. He kept it tucked clandestinely inside his palm while he checked the room for security devices. He detected four. He keyed the device’s signal jammer, confirmed the security devices were offline, and set the tool on the desk.

Reaching back into his pouch, he removed a tricorder. He did three sweeps of the room before he registered the matte-surfaced holographic emitter crystal embedded into the ceiling above Martok’s desk. That makes sense, Worf thought. He hates clutter. He moved behind the desk and seated himself in Martok’s chair. His fingertips traced the undersides of the armrests, searching for a concealed switch. There wasn’t one. It must be voice-activated, Worf concluded.

“Computer, activate holographic interface.”

Nothing happened. It has to be his voice, he realized.

Digging inside the pouch, he found the small dermal patch he sought. He pressed it to his throat, just above his trachea, then fished its remote control from under the holomask emitter. He cycled through the remote’s preset options, and selected Martok’s voice pattern, which he’d recorded just minutes ago.

It unnerved him to hear Martok’s voice roaring out of his mouth. “Computer,” he barked. “Activate holographic interface.”

“Submit for retinal-pattern verification,” the deep, masculine computer said.

Worf had feared this might be the case. Imperial Command was justifiably paranoid when it came to information security. If he had been able to gain physical access to the primary headquarters, he might have been able to access the system with little more than a stolen password or a decryption algorithm on his tricorder. But for remote terminals such as these, Imperial Intelligence had no doubt insisted upon biometric security protocols, to prevent unauthorized access.

Worf saw little point in attempting to bypass the system. If he made a mistake, it would almost certainly trigger an alarm. And although Zeitsev had been able to provide Worf with a bundle of high-tech gadgets, none of them contained Martok’s security code.

With less than two hours remaining to the invasion of Tezwa, Worf had three options.

He could attempt to infiltrate the Fleet Command Center and steal the master command codes from its computer by direct access. The odds against his survival were staggering. The odds of his success were infinitesimal. This was not so much a plan as a death wish, a futile road to be taken when all others had clearly failed. Worf was still far from that course of action.

He could set up surveillance equipment in Martok’s office, wait for the chancellor to access the system, then record Martok’s password. Its merits were that it was simple and presented minimal risk. Its most serious flaw was that there was no guarantee Martok would need to access the Fleet Command network in the next two hours. Equally troubling was the fact that Worf might have to resort to violence against his own kinsman in order to copy his retinal patterns, to fool the system’s biometric-identification system.

The thought of so directly betraying Martok galled Worf. Infiltrating the Fleet Command Center might have provided him with numerous access codes to choose from; he could have accomplished his mission without necessarily compromising the chancellor himself. If he broke into the system using Martok’s codes and biometric profile, the ensuing disgrace might place the chancellor’s political future—as well as his life—in jeopardy.

There was one last possibility, but it would mean crossing the line into outright criminality; he would have to commit to an agenda of espionage, extortion, and perhaps even murder.

The magnetic locks of the main door released with a soft, muffled click.

“Computer, terminate connection.” The holographic trefoil blinked off as he removed the dermal voice patch from his throat with one hand and scooped up his signal jammer with the other. He stepped over to the liquor cabinet and thrust his hands into his pockets to hide the gadgets. He deactivated the jammer as the doors opened and Martok returned.

“Good news, Mr. Ambassador,” Martok said with a gagh-eating grin. “The council accepts your request for parity.”

“Excellent,” Worf said.

Martok eyed him strangely. “Planning on raiding my stash of bloodwine?”

“I was just leaving.” As he passed by Martok he paused and added, “Perhaps next time.”

Martok gave him a hard, friendly slap on the back. “Count on it,” he said. “Come back later, we’ll celebrate. This is going to be a glorious day for the Empire!”

Or not, Worf mused glumly as he left Martok’s chambers and set out to commit a great evil in the service of a greater good.