Diplomatic Implausibility by Keith R. A. DeCandido

Klag turned to look at Picard’s first officer. “It is good to see you again, Riker.”
    Riker grinned with a face that was now inexplicably beardless.
“Same here, Klag. It’d be good to have a
chance to catch up. If nothing else, I’d love to hear about
what happened to your arm.”
    “That, my old friend, is a long story. Luckily, I have a case of bloodwine that will go quite well with long stories. With your captain’s permission, I will contact you when my business with the chancellor is concluded, and we can speak of old times.”
    Picard nodded.
“My permission is granted, Captain. In
addition, my chief medical officer tells me she has an old
comrade serving on your vessel.”
    This news did not surprise Klag. B’Oraq, the
Gorkon’s
doctor, had studied medicine in the Federation. “She, too, may beam aboard at her leisure, Captain.”
    “Thank you, Captain. Enterprise out.”
    Klag rose from the captain’s chair. “Commander Drex, you are in command until I return from the
Sword of Kah
less.”
    “Yes, sir,” Drex muttered.
    “Is there a problem, Commander?”
    Drex straightened. “None, sir,” he said with more authority.
    “Good. See that that state of affairs continues.”
    With that Klag left the bridge, followed by his own personal guard. The pair of them proceeded to the transporter room in silence.
    Klag arrived in the
Sword of Kahless’s
much larger transporter room to see a Klingon as tall as Klag himself, wearing a brown tunic with silver trim under a gray vest decorated on either lapel with the Federation and Klingon Empire insignias.
    “I am Klag, captain of the
Gorkon,”
he said as he stepped down from the platform. “On behalf of the Defense Force and the High Council, I welcome you, Ambassador Worf.”
    Worf nodded. “Thank you, Captain. It will be an honor to be transported by one of the finest new vessels in the fleet.”
    A
bekk
—the Defense Force equivalent of a noncommissioned security guard—stood in the doorway and said, “The chancellor awaits you both,” then led the way out of the transporter room.
    The
bekk
took them through several corridors, bringing them further into the interior of the massive vessel. A guard was stationed at the door, and Klag’s guard joined him as the captain and Worf entered.
    Only two others had served as head of the High Council in Klag’s lifetime, and Klag had met them both. K’mpec had once traveled on the
Baruk,
on which Klag served as an ensign. He had seemed larger than life to Klag, a near-mythic figure who, at that time, had already served as chancellor longer than anyone in history. K’mpec carried himself as if he had been born to lead the empire, and the old warrior’s death had saddened Klag. Many years later, Klag had met Gowron, who had struck him as little more than a political opportunist who had schemed his way to the top. He had seemed born only to best serve himself rather than the empire.
    Although Klag had, of course, served under Martok—every member of the Defense Force did during his tenure as Gowron’s chief of staff—he’d never met him until now. The man who got up from a chair far more ornate than any on which Klag had ever sat seemed to rank between the two extremes of his predecessors. He had none of K’mpec’s grandeur, nor Gowron’s self-importance—simply the face of a warrior, proudly bearing the scars of the Jem’Hadar blade that had cost him his left eye. The smile with which he greeted them was genuine.
    “Worf!” Martok said as he rose. “It is good to see you again, my friend, as always.” He turned his one eye to Klag. “And the Hero of Marcan. It is an honor to have you aboard my flagship, Captain.”
    To Klag’s surprise and delight, Martok actually sounded like he meant it. “The honor is mine, Chancellor. I simply won a battle. It was you who won the war.”
    “We
all
won the war,” the chancellor said, “the empire, the Federation, and even the Romulans. We claimed