Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Part 2

Posted on Mon Feb 9th, 2026 @ 12:41am by Commodore Wilkan Targaryen & Starfleet NPC & Commander Zhora zh'Roothi & Lieutenant Commander Kuzos
Edited on on Mon Feb 9th, 2026 @ 3:00am

5,506 words; about a 28 minute read

Mission: Guile
Location: Deep Space Nine
Timeline: 2439-08-13, 09:00

The corridor leading to Cargo Bay 4 on Deep Space Nine was a radius of harsh Cardassian architecture and dim, amber-hued lighting. Outside the reinforced viewports, the jagged, predatory silhouette of General Krennek’s Bird-of-Prey loomed, its hull plates glowing with a dull, emerald malevolence.

Vice Admiral Astran Deix stood at the center of the passage, his boots planted as firmly as if he were expecting a hull breach. He checked his chronometer for the third time in sixty seconds, the motion sharp and irritable. "A cargo bay, Captain?" Deix rumbled, his voice echoing like gravel in a drum. "The son of Kol is being forced to disembark through a loading airlock meant for industrial replicators and ore shipments. If I wanted to spit in the eye of the High Council, I couldn't have picked a more efficient way to do it."

"Admiral, I assure you, my operations department received no such directive from station command," Captain Gunisi Taalu replied while standing beside the Admiral, his posture elegant and composed. He adjusted the high collar of his uniform, looking every bit the proud successor to the Emissary's station. "Primary Docking Ring ports were clear. This authorization came through a high-level override, likely from the Enterprise’s tactical link before they even cleared the wormhole. I'd have to look into it more closely to give you exact details. "

Deix let out a sound that was half-huff, half-growl. "Targaryen. It has his fingerprints all over it. He’s not just forcing a Vorta down my throat; he’s actively handicapping my diplomacy before the first 'ghos' is even spoken. He wants the Klingons off-balance, but he’s forgotten that a Klingon off-balance is a Klingon with a drawn d'k tahg."

"The Commodore believes in tactical theater, Sir," Gunisi noted, his natural warmth cooling into professional caution. "But theater only works if the audience doesn't burn down the stage. To treat a General of the Klingon Empire like a common freighter captain... it is a dangerous gamble, even for a Targaryen."

Deix turned to look back toward the Turbolift doors, his jaw set, "And he's not even here to take the heat. He’s sitting back there with that Vorta, letting us serve as the 'humble' welcoming committee. I like the man, Gunisi, but his 'vision' is starting to look a lot like a suicide pact. If Odo has the Gamma Quadrant locked down with Weyoun’s fleet, and Wilkan is busy insulting our only Alpha Quadrant allies, then who the hell is actually looking for the 300 souls we lost on DS47?"

Gunisi placed a steadying hand near his PADD, his eyes reflecting the flickering lights of the docking sequence. "Perhaps that is the point, Admiral. Perhaps the 'truth' of 47 is something Wilkan thinks we aren't ready to handle without a Dominion escort."

"I've handled god-beings and Romulan warbirds, Captain. I don't need a Vorta to hold my hand while I look at a casualty report," Deix retorted. He squared his broad shoulders, his presence filling the corridor. "When those doors open, we play it by the book. Starfleet standard. If Krennek starts shouting about the cargo bay, you tell him it was a 'security contingency' due to the sensitive nature of the Envoy. Let the Klingons blame the Vorta for the insult. I won't have Starfleet’s name dragged through the mud because Wilkan wants to play Architect."

The airlock began to hiss, the heavy mechanical seals groaning as they cycled. The smell of ozone and old spent grease began to waft into the corridor.

"Here we go," Deix muttered, his thumb finally stilling against his knuckles. "God help us if the Commodore is late. I don't think I have enough raktajino to keep Krennek from declaring war if he has to wait five minutes in a loading dock."

The heavy, circular Cardassian airlock didn't just slide; it rotated with a heavy, grinding mechanical roll, the massive cog-teeth of the seal interlocking with a shudder that felt like the station itself was shifting. As the great wheel finished its revolution, the seal broke with a sharp hiss of pressure equalization, revealing General Krennek and his aides standing firm. Krennek stepped over the threshold, his presence immediately making the wide corridor feel claustrophobic. He was younger than many of the High Council’s representatives, but he carried the weight of the House of Korath with a sharp, jagged edge. His armor, dark and meticulously maintained, bore the crest of a house hungry for a legacy, and his eyes were piercing and cold. The Klingon Warrior scanned the industrial surroundings with visible disgust.

"Admiral Deix," Krennek rumbled, his voice a low snarl that ignored the traditional Klingon greetings. He didn't stop moving until he was mere inches from Deix’s chest, forcing the older man to hold his ground. "I was under the impression that Deep Space Nine was a jewel of the Federation. Instead, I find myself disembarking in a pit of grease and coolant. Is this how our Federation allies treat the warriors of the Empire? Or have you simply run out of room for your friends while you make space for the ghosts of the Gamma Quadrant?"

Deix didn't flinch. He met Krennek’s gaze with the weary, iron-clad resolve of a man who had stared down worse than an ambitious General. "General Krennek. Welcome to Deep Space Nine. The docking assignment was a security necessity - a protocol dictated by the sensitive nature of the summit. I’m sure a man of action such as yourself understands that the shortest path to a target isn't always the most comfortable one."

Krennek’s lip curled into a sneer, his hand resting provocatively on the hilt of his d’k tahg. "Security? Or cowardice? You hide behind protocols because you are afraid of the shadows that followed you back from DS47."

Captain Gunisi stepped forward, his expression a mask of practiced Bajoran hospitality that barely concealed his discomfort. "General, I am Captain Gunisi Taalu, Commanding Officer of this station. I assure you, no insult was intended. If you will follow us, the Wardroom is prepared. We have raktajino and..."

"I did not come for pleasantries, Bajoran," Krennek snapped, his eyes flicking to Taalu with dismissive cruelty. "I came for the truth of the Gamma Quadrant. I came to see if the Federation has the stomach to hold the borders they claim, or if the House of Korath must do it for you." He looked back at Deix, his impatience boiling over. "Where is Commodore Targaryen? And where is the creature he brought with him? Do not try to hide it, Admiral, my sensors picked up a Vorta on the Enterprise as we approached. If you intend for it to be at a table of honor while I am forced to walk through a loading dock, this 'summit' will end before the first breath is drawn."

Deix felt the pressure in his temples rising. The General was already at a boiling point, and the mention of the Vorta confirmed that the surprise Wilkan had planned was already backfiring. "The Commodore is waiting in the Wardroom, General," Deix said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, professional baritone. "And as for the 'creature,' he is a diplomatic envoy under Federation protection. I suggest we move this conversation to a secure environment before your 'ambition' causes a diplomatic incident we both might regret."

Krennek let out a short, harsh bark of laughter. "Regret is for the weak, Admiral. Lead the way. But know this: if that Vorta smiles at me, I will consider it an act of war."

The walk from the cargo bay was tense. The rhythmic thud of Klingon boots on the deck plating sounded like a funeral march. Deix walked slightly ahead, the weight of the Khitomer Alliance on his shoulders, while Gunisi trailed slightly behind Krennek, his eyes scanning the corridors for any potential security breaches as they entered the turbolift.

"You should be careful, Admiral," Krennek said, his voice echoing in the turbolift. "You play with Dominion fire, and you invite the House of Korath to your table. You are trying to balance a scale that has already tipped. My House sees the Gamma Quadrant not as a laboratory for your 'joint research,' but as a frontier that needs a firm hand. The Federation has proven it lacks that hand at DS47."

Deix tightened his grip on the lift rail. "The Federation hasn't lost its hand, General. We just prefer to use it for something other than a closed fist. We are going to find out what happened to that station, and we are going to do it without turning the wormhole into a graveyard."

The lift stopped. The doors hissed open to the level of the Wardroom. Deix stepped out first, squaring his shoulders for the final confrontation. "Remember, General," Deix warned, pausing at the threshold of the Wardroom. "Whatever you see in this room is here by the Commodore's design. If you have a quarrel, take it up with the 'Architect.' But for the sake of the Accords, keep your blade in its sheath."

Krennek didn’t answer. He simply pushed past the Admiral, his hand already gripping the hilt of his weapon as he neared the Cardassian doors, which opened with a heavy mechanical hum.

Inside, the lighting was low, the shadows of the station's architecture creating sharp, dark angles across the long table. At the far end, Commodore Wilkan Targaryen stood like a statue in his pristine service dress. Beside him, Administrator Kuzos sat with his hands folded, his violet silks vibrant against the room's drab tones. Commander Zhora zh'Roothi was across from the Vorta, the blue contrasting with her crimson uniform.

Krennek stopped dead in the doorway. He didn't look at Wilkan. He didn't look at Loatha or Zhora. His eyes locked onto the Vorta. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the low, dangerous growl beginning to build in Krennek’s throat.

Kuzos's eyes met Krennek's.His eyes like twin phasers boring into Krennek. He didn't look at Wilkan or Loatha or even zh'Roothi. They were locked on the general. he didn't blink or bat an eyelid. His face was an unreadable mask as it looked carved out of neutronium. He remained seated and his hands stayed folded as he took in the measure of the Klingon general.

"General," Commodore Wilkan Targaryen greeted the Klingon Envoy, sidestepping his wife - despite her being the one who should have done the introductions as Sector Commander, "Welcome to Deep Space Nine. I regret that I was unable to meet you at the airlock myself," he glanced at Vice Admiral Deix as he said it, "as I was here making final preparations for this summit, but I am pleased to have the opportunity to meet with you now. This is Commodore Loatha Targaryen," Wilkan directed toward his wife, "Whom I believe you may know?"

"General Krennek. It has been some time," Loatha said, her voice a cool, stabilizing frequency in the room. She didn't look at Wilkan; she didn't need to. Her husband’s breach of protocol was a tactical choice she had already integrated into her own mental map of the room.

To keep the General off balance, Wilkan motioned toward the Andorian to his left, "This is Commander Zhora zh'Roothi, Executive Officer of the Starship Enterprise."

"Greetings General," the Andorian woman forced a half smile on her lips at the brooding Klingon while the atmosphere in the room shifted with heavy tension.

"And finally," Wilkan said, his voice dropping an octave as he gestured to the seated Vorta, "Ambassador Kuzos of the Dominion. He is here to discuss what it would take for the Dominion to consider the Klingon Empire's petition to visit the Gamma Quadrant."

At Wilkan's introduction, Kuzos stood, slowly, majestically his eyes remaining locked on the Klingon until he was on level with the Krennek. Seconds passed with infinite slowness and Kuzos had no intention to rush then along until he finally spoke. "General Krennek." He answered, "It is a pleasure to put a face to the name, I have heard so much about."

The mention of a "petition" hit Krennek with the force of a disruptor blast to the chest. His nostrils flared, and for a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic rasp of his breathing. The word was a calculated slur—an attempt to frame the warriors of the Empire as beggars at the feet of a genetically engineered middleman.

"Petition?" Krennek’s voice was a low, vibrating tectonic shift. He stepped forward, the heavy plates of his armor clanking with a sound that signaled a predator closing in. He ignored the Vorta's greeting entirely, his focus zeroing in on Wilkan. "The House of Korath does not petition, Commodore. We state terms. We take what is ours by right of blood and battle. If you have brought me here to listen to the bureaucratic whining of a slave-race, then you have wasted more than just my time—you have wasted the patience of the High Council."

He finally turned his gaze to Kuzos. Up close, the Vorta’s "majestic" stance was an affront to every Klingon instinct. Krennek leaned in, looming over the smaller man, the scent of blood and old iron seemingly radiating from his uniform.
"You talk of 'pleasure,' creature," Krennek spat, the word dripping with venom. "I find no pleasure in the presence of those who hide behind white-clothed walls and fleets of mindless drones. You claim to hold the gate? I have seen gates broken. I have seen 'immovable' empires crumbled into dust by the edge of a bat'leth. If you think a few Jem'Hadar ships at the mouth of the wormhole make you a god, you are as deluded as the Founders who birthed you."

Deix felt the bridge of his nose begin to throb in a physical manifestation of the diplomatic train wreck he was witnessing. Wilkan’s choice of the word "petition" had been a broadsword to the gut of Klingon pride, and Krennek was reacting exactly as predicted. But as the General loomed over the Vorta, Deix didn't just see a hot-headed warrior; he saw the catalyst for a war the Federation wasn't ready to fight.

"That is enough!" Deix’s voice cut through the growl in the room like a phaser set to kill. He didn't just speak; he occupied the space between the Klingon and the Vorta, his broad frame creating a physical barrier. He was a head shorter than Krennek, but in this moment, his presence was twice as heavy.

"General, take your seat. Now," Deix rumbled, his eyes fixed on Krennek with a flat, dangerous intensity. "You are an Envoy of the High Council, not a duelist in a First City alleyway. You came here to discuss the expansion of the Empire’s interests in the Gamma Quadrant. You will not win a single centimeter of territory by barking at a guest of the Federation. If you want a seat at this table, start acting like you intend to stay in it."

He turned a sharp, warning glance toward Kuzos, though he kept his words directed at the room at large to avoid appearing as the Vorta's defender. "We are here to discuss the status of the wormhole and the stability of the frontier. I have three hundred dead Federation citizens from DS47 who deserve the truth, and I will not have their memory buried under a pile of insults and posturing."

Deix slammed his palm onto the table, the sound echoing sharply off the Cardassian bulkhead. "If we cannot move past the chest-beating in the next five minutes, I will adjourn this summit and recommend the Federation Council close the wormhole to all traffic until the Alpha Quadrant stops bleeding. Is that clear to everyone?"

He remained standing, his hands flat on the table, looking every bit the man who was prepared to physically drag this conference back to sanity, even if he had to threaten the very access Krennek craved to do it.

Wilkan nodded in agreement, his voice a smooth, low-frequency counterpoint to the Admiral's thunder. "Understood, Admiral."

Enterprise's Commanding Officer watched the scene with the detached intensity of a chess grandmaster observing a mid-game gambit. His strategy had successfully tilted the General, but Deix’s sudden, forceful pivot was a variable he had not anticipated. As a Ligonian, Wilkan recognized the raw, honor-bound authority Deix was wielding. His performance was meant to display power, which resonated with Klingon psychology better than any Starfleet manual ever could. Wilkan found his superior clever in that response as his El-Aurian senses cataloged the shift in Krennek's tension. Wilkan was already looking past the outburst though, recognizing that Deix was trying to save the summit. Wilkan himself was trying to redefine the Quadrant.

Kuzos stood unfazed by Krennek's angry, boastful words. The words were just hot air, the general posturing for effect. He turned to face Deix. "Are we Admiral? It seems that general Krennek has already decided on the Klingon's course of action by declaring here their 'right' and stating terms to the Dominion, whose very space they wish to 'explore.'" He then turned back to Krennek. "I too have seen empires crumble and it would behoove you to take care of your own empire before trying to take ours otherwise you may not have an empire to come back to."

Krennek’s jaw tightened, the muscles bulging beneath his beard as he processed the Admiral’s threat. Closing the wormhole was a blunt instrument, but it was the one thing that could turn the House of Korath’s hunger for glory into a starving exile. He looked at Deix, then shifted his gaze back to the Vorta, his lip curling. With a slow, deliberate motion, Krennek pulled himself back to his full height. He sensed the fracture in the room: Deix was a man haunted by a ghost story called DS47, while the others were already dividing up the spoils of a new era.

"You speak of 'our' space, creature," Krennek rumbled, the snarl controlled but lethal. "But you forget that space is only as sovereign as the fleet that can hold it. If the Federation wishes to close the gate and hide in their caves, let them. We shall see how long your 'Dominion' survives."

He turned away from Kuzos, the clank of his armor echoing as he finally moved toward the empty chair. He didn't sit immediately. He looked at Deix, acknowledging the Admiral's authority with a sharp, singular nod, the bare minimum of respect required to keep the room from exploding.

"I will sit, Admiral. Not because of your threats, but because the House of Korath does not leave a field of battle until the spoils are tallied." He dropped into the chair with a heavy thud, his hands resting on the table in a mirror of Deix’s posture. "But do not mistake my silence for submission. If you want to talk of 'truth,' Admiral, then let us speak of the only truth that matters: The Federation has failed to hold its borders. DS47 is not a tragedy to be mourned, it is a confession of weakness."

He leaned back, his eyes flicking to Wilkan with a predatory glint. "You want to talk of 'petitions' and 'trust' while your people are slaughtered in the dark? The Empire is not here to hold your hand while you weep over casualty reports, Deix. We are here to take the watch you are clearly too tired to keep. If the Dominion has 'assets' to offer, let them offer them to warriors who know how to use them, rather than explorers who prefer to build monuments to their own failures."

Loatha remained as still as a statue, her hands folded with mathematical precision on the table. While the men had spent the last several minutes measuring the volume of their voices and the sharpness of their threats, she had been filtering the room’s psychic and emotional exhaust. The raw, jagged heat of Deix’s grief was a constant, heavy thrum, but it was Krennek’s dismissal of the DS47 casualties that finally drew her focus. She didn't raise her voice. Instead, she lowered it, utilizing a frequency that forced the room to quiet down just to hear her.

"A 'confession of weakness,' General?" Loatha said, her dark eyes locking onto Krennek with a gaze that felt like a physical probe. "It is fascinating how quickly you pivot to the language of conquest when three hundred lives are mentioned. You speak as if the disappearance of a station is merely a tactical error - a hole in a fence that you are eager to patch with Klingon duranium. You use the death of our officers to justify your expansion, yet you haven't asked a single question about the nature of the threat that took them."

She paused, her Betazoid senses brushing against the perimeter of Krennek’s mind. The rage was there, but it was layered over something else. "You aren't here for the spoils of a 'weak' Federation, Krennek," she continued, her voice cool and resonant. "You are here because the House of Korath is hungry, and you see the Gamma Quadrant as a feast you can claim before anyone realizes the table is already set. You hide your ambition behind insults because you're afraid."

She turned her gaze slightly, catching Wilkan’s eye for a fraction of a second in a silent acknowledgment of the "theater" they were all participating in before looking back at the General.

Krennek’s reaction was not the explosive outburst of a young warrior, but the slow, dangerous simmer of a veteran who knew he was being dissected. When Loatha spoke the word "afraid," the air in the Wardroom seemed to thicken. Krennek did not shout. He did not reach for his blade. Instead, he leaned forward until the flickering amber light of the station caught the deep, jagged scars on his brow.

A low, guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl—vibrated in his chest.

"Afraid?" Krennek repeated, the word sounding like grinding stones. He turned his head slowly to meet Loatha’s telepathic gaze, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "You Starfleet aristocrats love your words. You hide behind 'empathy' and 'analysis' because you cannot fathom a mind that does not function on your logic. You think you feel a tremor of fear? What you feel, Commodore, is the anticipation of the kill. The hunger of a House that has been kept on a leash while the Federation plays at being the galaxy’s conscience."

He slammed a closed fist onto the table, not in rage, but for emphasis, the sound echoing the finality of a gavel, "The Federation stood guard over the Gamma Quadrant, and the Federation fell. To you, your failure is a mystery to be solved. To us, your failure is proof that the frontier is vacant and we intend to fill it." The Klingon shifted his gaze back to Deix, then to Wilkan, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper, "The Klingon Empire does not need to 'understand' the darkness to know that we are the only ones with the strength to light a fire in its place. Give us control over the region you can no longer defend and step aside. Stop pretending this is a laboratory for 'joint research' and admit what it truly is: a race to see who claims the vacuum you've left behind. You denied us access because you feared our ambition, yet you cannot even protect your own outposts."

He bared his teeth in a grimace that might have been a smile on a less violent face. "If that is 'desperation' to a Betazoid, then perhaps your people have forgotten what it looks like when a predator finally finds the scent of blood." He looked at the Vorta, "The Dominion need partners that can match their military might, Vorta, not explorers who would leave them to the cold."

Krennek didn't wait for Loatha to counter. He leaned back in his chair, the heavy Cardassian metal creaking under his weight, and looked at the Vorta with a gaze that ignored every other person in the room. "Your Dominion was born of the need for order," Krennek rumbled, his voice thick with the gravity of a general who had studied his enemies as much as his allies. "The Federation offers you 'research' and 'protocol,' the slow rot of bureaucracy. They give you 'explorers' who lose their stations in the night and then weep about the 'darkness.' The House of Korath offers you something else. We offer a border that does not move. We offer a blade that does not dull. If the gate is closed, it is because you do not trust the hands currently holding the keys."

Krennek’s hand remained near his d'k tahg, a silent reminder that for a Klingon, diplomacy was merely a different way of stating the terms of victory, "The Admiral wants to solve a puzzle. I want to secure a frontier. Tell me, Kuzos... does the Great Link prefer the company of those who can fight, or those who can only mourn?"

Kuzos's eyes glinted with amusement at Krennek's boastful words. "I must say General, you do a credible job of taking a defenseless position and trying to make it sound honorable. You need not cause yourself or your House to lose sleep over who holds the keys to the gate that keeps you out. They are in good hands. As to what the Dominion seeks in a partner or ally is one it can work with, one it can turn it's back on and not have a dagger between the shoulder blades. One who listens and not orders. One who understands that there are times to be patient and not rush in where angels fear to tread. One that can see the broad picture, does not have tunnel vision." He paused and took in the room before continuing, "Our borders are secure. make no mistake. Where you speak of glory and battle. The Dominion makes no claims, it acts."

Astran Deix had heard enough. He had spent his entire career in the shadow of giants, learning when to use a scalpel and when to use a sledgehammer. Right now, the room was thick with the stench of ego and expansionism, and the Admiral felt a cold, hard knot of fury tightening in his chest. To Krennek, the 300 souls on DS47 were a "confession of weakness." To Kuzos, they were an irrelevant byproduct of a border dispute.

Deix stood up. He didn’t do it with the explosive violence of a Klingon or the practiced grace of a Vorta. He stood with the weary, tectonic weight of a man who carried the casualty reports in his breast pocket. He leaned forward, his large hands flat on the table, looming over the map of the sector like a storm front.

"You’re all very good at this," Deix said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate the floorplates. "The General wants to carve his name into a quadrant he hasn't even bled for yet. The Ambassador wants to talk about 'patience' while his borders remain a black hole of information. And the 'Architect'..." he flicked a sharp, tired glance toward Wilkan, "...wants to rearrange the stars like they're pieces on a game board."

He turned his gaze back to Krennek, his eyes hard as flint, "You call DS47 a confession of weakness, General? I call it a warning. The station is still there. It hasn't been destroyed, it hasn't been reclaimed by the stars. It is sitting in your 'frontier' right now as a coffin. Three hundred of my people are dead on those decks—not in a glorious battle, not with their hands on their weapons, but slaughtered while they were supposed to be under the protection of the very Accords we’re all here to pretend still exist."

He turned a searing look toward Kuzos, "You say the Dominion 'acts.' Well, your 'action' resulted in a Federation station becoming a morgue in your backyard. And you," he snapped his head toward Krennek, "you want to march in there and plant a flag on a graveyard? You think the High Council will find 'glory' in scavenging a station filled with the bodies of allies? That’s not a conquest, Krennek. That’s grave-robbing."

Deix slammed both palms onto the table, the crack echoing like a phaser discharge, "I am the only one in this room who gives a damn about the people who were actually standing that watch. You want the Gamma Quadrant? You want 'terms'? Fine. But here is the Federation's term: There is no expansion, there is no 'frontier,' and there is no 'petition' until I have an answer. I will not authorize a single Klingon warp signature through that wormhole until we know what turned a reinforced Starfleet complement into a collection of corpses without a single hull breach being reported."

"Administrator Kuzos, you brought 'assets.' If those assets aren't the sensor logs of the moment those three hundred people stopped breathing, then you’re wasting my air," he straightened up, adjusting the hem of his tunic with a violent, sharp tug, "And General, if your next words are about 'sovereignty' instead of 'investigation,' I’m going to assume the House of Korath is more interested in looting than leading."

Wilkan smirked in response to the Vice Admiral's ultimatum, genuinely surprised by the actions of his superior officer. Despite everything, Wilkan had not anticipated Astrun's reaction in that he effectively locked down the entire Gamma Quadrant over the lives of 300 soldiers lost on Deep Space 47. Astrun had effectively ended the discussion in a quick, fluid argument by inflicting mutually assured desperation amongst the parties. It was really quite ingenious and, perhaps, proved the Admiral deserved to be in his seat.

"I concur with the Admiral's direction," the El-Aurian/Lanthanite hybrid acknowledged in his deep baritone. "At the moment, none of us may travel to the Gamma Quadrant, aside from the Dominion Ambassador and that is to return to his native government." He looked at his superior, "I will order Enterprise and Defiant to deploy to patrol the entrance to the wormhole until a more permanent solution can be achieved to secure our border."

"Nonetheless, this is a short-term solution to a long-term problem," Targaryen continued. "By locking down the Alpha Quadrant, we still are without information regarding the source of the attack on DS47 and the deaths of the persons living there. We are, essentially, abandoning them to their fate. It is a classic dilemma of the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few." He looked between the two alien diplomats, "Gentlemen, the simple fact is that we need both of you if we are to ensure a future for both quadrants. We need the Dominion because the Gamma Quadrant is their native soil. We need the Klingons for protection from the dangers. Frankly, whoever caused this assault upon our people, could come for the Dominion as well."

Loatha felt the room’s psychic profile shift from the jagged, hot fire of Krennek’s ambition to the heavy, suffocating lead of Deix’s grief. She could feel her husband's mind already calculating the next three moves, but she knew the room couldn't survive another ten minutes of this pressure without a physical rupture.

"Admiral Deix has spoken the only truth that cannot be negotiated," Loatha said, her voice a cool, stabilizing chime against the low thrum of the station. "Three hundred lives are not a currency to be traded for territory. They are a debt. And right now, this room is bankrupt."

She turned her gaze to Krennek, then to Kuzos, her black eyes reflecting nothing but their own reflections. "The Admiral's proposal to close the wormhole is not a threat, General, it's the logical consequence of our failure here today. I propose a short recess of one hour to allow us a moment to coordinate with our governments."

"I do not need an hour, nor to consult with my government, Commodore," Krennek said as he rose from the table. "If the Federation, or the Dominion, seals off our access to the Gamma Quadrant our fates will have been sealed. The Klingon Empire will formally disband the Khitomer Accords," he looked at Deix as he said it and turned to the Vorta, "and declare war on the Dominion and its allies." He looked back at the Commodore, "formal and informal."

Through clenched teeth, "You have your hour." He slammed a finger into a control on his communicator, beaming back to his ship in the blood red beam of the Klingon Transporter.

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