“We need to call in reinforcements,”Garrett said. “We’ll be a sitting duck if those fleets decide to go at it.”

“Too risky,”Haden said. “I don’t disagree with you, Number One, but Monor and Qaolin already have their bowels in an uproar because I let theHoplite out in the first place. They’re keeping a close eye on us.”

Entek noted the phrases “sitting duck” and “bowels in an uproar” for addition to their growing linguistic database on the Federation. Both had definitions that seemed obvious from context, though Entek tagged them both for verification and a tracing of etymology.

Dax shook his head. “What we need to do is put our cards on the table and call their bluff.”

“That’s a quaint metaphor,”Vaughn said with a level of snideness that Entek couldn’t help but admire. He also made a note for the Order to determine what that metaphor was—it was obviously some kind of contest involving cards, but that hardly narrowed the field. “But I doubt they’re bluffing.”

“I’m sure they think that, too—and will continue to do so, right up until they have to actually play their cards. But one reason why I think they’ve assembled these fleets in the first place—”he looked at Haden “—assuming theyhave assembled the fleets—is because they’re far from home. Reinforcements beyond whatever they’re hiding behind cloaks or in nebulae are days away, and probably not easily diverted. I’m not sure either Zarin or Worf will be willing to start something they can’t finish.”

“I’ve read the transcripts of the meetings so far,”Vaughn said. “I haven’t seen anything to indicate that either side is going to budge. Where does that leave us?”

“I have no idea where it leaves you, Lieutenant, but it leaves me with the winning hand. I just have to play it.”

Again, the alarm beeped. The ten-minute window was about to close. Cursing, Entek turned off the listening device. He had been hoping to hear more, but he dared not risk a second transmission. Another one so soon might be detected by the Carthage’s communications officer even without the automatic scan.

Besides, he’d heard enough. Haden may have had his doubts, but Entek didn’t. Central Command had objected to negotiations from the beginning. It was completely in character for them to assemble a fleet in secret and hide it in the Betreka Nebula, not bothering to inform the Order or the Detapa Council about it.

To Entek’s frustration, there was nothing he could do. His job was purely to gather intelligence—and this meeting had gleaned a great deal, beyond the significance of this particular mission. He had neither the means nor the ability to acton any of it, though. Indeed, he would not even be reporting back to his supervisor until he was back on Cardassia.

Assuming we survive this negotiation,he added dolefully, a state of affairs which hadn’t been in doubt until Entek overheard the meeting in Haden’s ready room.

Entek removed the device from the handheld computer and placed it back in his ear. Then he called up his ongoing report for the Order. He had a great deal to add to it now.

“Enter!” General Worf spoke the single word in the Klingon language when the doorchime to his quarters sounded. As expected, Lorgh walked in.

“You sent for me?” his aide who was not his aide asked.

Seated at the too-comfortable chair Starfleet had provided, Worf reached onto the table that held his workstation and grabbed a mug. He handed it to Lorgh. “Drink with me, Lorgh.”

Taking the mug, Lorgh asked, “For what reason, General?”

“I have just been informed that my son has taken a mate.”

Lorgh smiled. “For that, I will even drink Starfleet’s warnog.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but so great a sacrifice will not be required.” The general indicated the bottle of bloodwine on the table. “I have been saving this for a special occasion.”

Peering at the table, Lorgh saw that the bloodwine was from the Ozhpri vintner—one of the finest in the Empire. “A worthy vintage.” He held up the mug. “To your son.”

“To Mogh, son of Worf, and soon to be mate of Kaasin, daughter of Prella.”

They both drank. Worf reveled in the oily slickness of the bloodwine that seemed to coat his throat as it went down.

“May they both bring you many strong children to perpetuate your House.”

Worf laughed. “Well said, though I will settle for at least one heir.” He took another gulp of wine, then regarded his aide. “At the reception, you said that the Council preferred to fight this battle across a negotiating table. I am beginning to think that such is a battle we cannot win. The Cardassians refuse to even acknowledge the importance of Ch’gran. They denigrate it, call it a mere pile of wreckage. It has been exceedingly difficult to keep from killing Legate Zarin. I believe that we will never reach an understanding. We may need to call in the fleet.”

Lorgh shook his head and walked over to the cabin’s window, which had a spectacular view of the Betreka Nebula. “That may satisfy our honor in the short term, General, but it will not gain us Ch’gran—or much else. The Cardassians are strong, and getting stronger.”

“As are we,” Worf said.

“Yes, but they grow stronger from a position of strength—they are expanding, improving their resources, and their economy can support a military buildup. Cardassia has gone from an unknown and irrelevant nation to an important participant in quadrant politics in a very short time, General. They build on a solid foundation.”

The general snarled. “Whereas we rebuild from weakness.”

“Sad, but true, sir. The Defense Force’s shipyards have lain dormant for several turns. Vessels that should have been decommissioned years ago still fly the stars, some being held together with little more than targguts and wishful thinking. A war with Cardassia is not one we can win.”

Worf shook his head. “I fear you are correct.” He drank down the rest of his wine and poured more. “We have become too reliant on others—the Federation, the Romulans…”

“What have the Romulans to do with this?”

The general gulped his bloodwine. His thoughts took a dark turn, and he wondered how much of Ozhpri’s finest he would need to imbibe before he was sufficiently drunk to deal with those thoughts. “Many of our finest Houses have fallen into debt since the destruction of Praxis. Are you familiar with the House of Duras?”

“Yes. As I recall, they brokered many technological exchanges with the Romulans when we were their allies.”

Worf nodded. “Our Houses have long been in conflict. Their House head is an old man now. His son, Ja’rod, has rekindled those old ties with the Romulans now in the hopes of alleviating debts they have accrued. Further—they have introduced other families to Romulan sources that can aid them.”

“I was not aware of this,” Lorgh said, and Worf wondered if he was honest.

“Your superiors should be. If not, they are fools, and we are in worse trouble than I thought.” He leaned forward. “Do you not see, Lorgh? Our people are becoming weak, desperate. Honor must be served, but honor does not put food on the table. It is no easy thing for a noble-born Klingon to starve like some laborer in the lowlands. Finding Ch’gran is the thing that can save us, remind us of who we are.” He leaned back in the irritatingly pleasant chair and gulped down the rest of his bloodwine. Then he threw the mug across the room; it clattered against the wall, but the noise was muted by the room’s carpeting. Damn Federation even spoils a perfectly good gesture of anger.“If we lose that, too, after losing so much, I fear for the future of the Empire.”

“Our future is strength,” Lorgh said with the confidence of youth. “It is our present that is of concern. We will be great once again.”