Текст книги "What Judgments Come"

Storming through the large double doors to the building that now served as the chancery for the Federation’s ambassadorial delegation, Jetanien locked eyes with his assistant, Sergio Moreno, who rose from behind his reception desk near the rear of the lobby. “How long have they been here?” The query was loud enough to echo off the prefabricated stone walls that were a common facet of nearly every structure in Paradise City.

“They just arrived, Ambassador,” Moreno said as Jetanien strode past. “I was unaware you had scheduled a meeting for this morning.”

“That is because I did not,” Jetanien replied, moving for the stairwell that would take him to his office. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to make the transit from where he had been walking near the retail district, during his morning stroll through the streets of Paradise City. The daily ritual was one he had observed since first occupying the chancery despite the constabulary’s reports and warnings about the increased yet still isolated incidents of disturbances scattered across the colony. That was when he had received the alert message on the private channel reserved for communications between him, Lugok, and D’tran. The summons had come from the Romulan senator, asking that the trio meet at Jetanien’s offices as soon as possible. As he reached the stairs, he called out over his shoulder to Moreno, “Be ready in case I call you up to assist.”

“Of course, sir,” the assistant replied. “Is everything all right, Ambassador?”

“We’ll see about that soon enough, won’t we?” Jetanien replied, his words echoing off the stairwell as he ascended to the third floor of the chancery, which served as both work space and living quarters for him and his staff. His mind racing through the numerous possible reasons his colleagues would need to meet so urgently, he climbed the last few stairs and crossed the landing toward his office. When the door slid aside, he saw D’tran and Lugok standing together before his desk, their backs to him.

“Gentlemen, I got back as soon as I could,” Jetanien said, noting that he sounded more than a bit out of breath. “What brings you to my humble abode, and how may I be of assistance?”

The Klingon and Romulan diplomats turned to face Jetanien, and he noticed their hands were filled—with bottles of drink.

“You can assist by getting yourself a glass,” Lugok replied, laughing as he brandished a square-bodied silver bottle by its neck with such enthusiasm that some of its contents spewed from its open top and fell to the floor.

Jetanien eyed his counterparts with no small amount of confusion. “It seems a bit early for bloodwine, Ambassador.”

His comment evoked a deep laugh from the Klingon. “Not today, my friend,” he replied before bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a lengthy pull from the vessel.

Offering his own satisfied if comparatively restrained smile, D’tran held up his own bottle, which was clear and perhaps three-quarters filled with a bright blue liquid. “I suppose it’s possible that our perception of time is no longer synchronous with yours. We have just concluded a lengthy subspace communication with members of the Klingon High Council and the Romulan Senate.”

Clicking his beak, Jetanein replied, “Your appreciation for Romulan ale seems rather out of sorts this morning, as well.”

“An infrequent indulgence,” D’tran said, bowing his head in mock salute. “I’m obliging my fellow negotiator only to satisfy his desire for ceremony. After all, this is an occasion well worth recognizing and celebrating.”

Realizing now what had so excited his two companions, Jetanien allowed himself a small chuckle. “I take it you have reached some sort of accord?”

“Rather more than that, I should think,” D’tran replied, reaching for the glass he had left atop Jetanien’s desk and refreshing it from the bottle of ale in his withered hand.

Lugok added, “Indeed. The Klingon and Romulan empires have finally agreed to an actual, mutually beneficial alliance—one created out of joint need and cooperation, rather than duplicity and one-upmanship.”

“So, tell me,” Jetanien said, “what was the big breakthrough?”

D’tran settled himself in one of the armchairs positioned before Jetanien’s desk. “Each side was finally able to help the other understand the benefits of working together from their own point of view.” He sipped from his glass before adding, “I like to think the success is owed more to the process itself, rather than any one particular point.”

“And I can’t even take full credit for it,” Lugok added.

“I see,” Jetanien replied, then paused, shaking his head. “Actually, that is a lie. I haven’t the first clue what you mean, D’tran. Is this your way of telling me that you bamboozled them into accepting an agreement with a flurry of obtuse rhetoric?”

This evoked a laugh from Lugok, just as the Klingon was tipping his bloodwine bottle to his lips, and he nearly choked on his drink. “That is precisely what happened,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I spoke with the High Council and explained that what the Romulans sought from us was relatively minor. However, I said that I had already told D’tran that their requests would be difficult to obtain, and that the Romulans needed to make substantial concessions to ensure an agreement. So, my people thought the Romulans were foolishly offering a lot for an accord that could have come at much less than they agreed to concede.”

“And I convinced the Senate of the same,” D’tran added. “So long as each side was able to believe it had received the better benefit, everyone seems happy.”

Now Jetanien laughed, appreciating his comrades’ shrewd if unorthodox tactics. “Given how previous attempts at consensus always seemed to be fueled by one side working to deceive or defraud the other, it’s amusing to think that a reverse of such thinking is actually what brings about agreement.” He shook his head. “Gentlemen, it’s quite possible that interstellar diplomacy is well and truly doomed.” In truth, the news was welcome, no matter how the arrangement itself had been reached, and could not have come at a better time—after what could only be described as “escalating tensions” between Klingon and Romulan forces near the outer boundary of the Taurus Reach in recent weeks. Lugok and D’tran, along with Jetanien, had also been involved in negotiations dedicated to defusing that situation. That those earlier efforts might now have yielded additional, tangential results would be well worth celebrating. “Dare I ask what each side conceded to the other?”

“Technology rights,” D’tran replied. “The Klingons once again have asked for further insights into our cloaking systems, for which they offer heartfelt assurances that it will not be turned against us as an instrument of aggression.”

Lugok said, “Whereas the Romulans have requested safe passage using agreed-upon lanes of travel through Klingon space so that they might have greater access to areas of space beyond their own borders and which in turn are in proximity to imperial territory.” He turned to regard Jetanien before adding, “Including the Gonmog Sector.”

“The Gonmog Sector?” the Chelon asked, schooling his reaction so as not to appear too concerned about this new development. “Really?”

Grinning, the Klingon ambassador nodded. “Come, Jetanien, don’t be so coy. You know full well my people are aware of the ancient technology to be found there. After all, your Starfleet has done an exceptionally horrid job keeping that secret.”

Despite a fervent desire to dispel his companion’s claims, Jetanien knew Lugok was correct. Though intelligence reports showed that Klingon operatives working in the Taurus Reach were aware of the Shedai and the technology they commanded, there was almost no evidence suggesting the Empire held any real knowledge regarding the Taurus Meta-Genome itself or the potential it contained. It was a slim distinction, but an important one. At present, the only access to Shedai artifacts was through the use of specialized equipment developed by Doctor Carol Marcus, Lieutenant Ming Xiong, and their team of research scientists aboard Starbase 47. So far as had been determined, the Klingons possessed nothing approaching that level of sophistication.

So far, Jetanien reminded himself.

“For one capable of so few expressions, yours is a face that is easy to read,” D’tran said, picking up on the unspoken conversation around which Jetanien and Lugok were dancing. “If our three governments can demonstrate an ability to cooperate here, within the confines of our little experiment, then surely such mutual respect can be extended beyond this worthless dustball of a planet. Wouldn’t you say, Jetanien?”

Nodding, the Chelon replied, “Of course.”

“Don’t fret, Jetanien,” Lugok said, holding up his bottle of bloodwine. “We look upon this as an opportunity to build trust between our peoples. After all, the trust we foster with this agreement can’t help but influence goodwill toward the next one.”

“Just as our efforts here perhaps played a role in reaching compromise with the accord you forged today,” Jetanien replied. “So, no one ended up with—as my human friends are prone to say—the short end of the stick?”

“Only the Federation,” was all Lugok managed to say before erupting with booming laughter. “That is what’s most glorious of all.”

Perhaps sensing Jetanien’s wariness, D’tran said, “Our Klingon friend overstates the ramifications of what was accomplished here today. While it’s true to say that at least some of the agreement’s appeal lies in how it might serve to frustrate or concern certain Federation officials. That is not to say we remain closed to talks with you and your leaders, my friend.”

Jetanien certainly had considered what a Klingon-Romulan alliance might mean for the Federation on any number of fronts. He had given the matter serious thought upon learning of the original pact the two powers had fostered nearly a year earlier, which had resulted in the Romulans’ sharing some of their cloaking technology in exchange for a small fleet of Klingon battle cruisers. What had begun as a seemingly legitimate exchange of information and ideas had soured when it was learned the Klingon officer responsible for brokering the deal had engaged in duplicity and deception to tip the agreement in his favor. The ruse had even involved a spy embedded within the ranks of support staff attached to the Romulan Senate itself. Though the covert agent had been discovered and eliminated, the arrangement itself had fallen apart, leaving both sides to eye one another with renewed suspicion and resentment. At first, that accord’s failure seemed be fortunate happenstance so far as the Federation was concerned. If the efforts of Lugok and D’tran were to be believed, however, then it seemed obvious to Jetanien that—eventually—the Klingons and Romulans might well achieve some form of permanent, formidable partnership.

And what then? It was a question for which Jetanien possessed no answer.

“Your unease is evident,” D’tran said. “Remember that this treaty between the Klingon and Romulan empires has been a long time coming, and has suffered from the machinations of a shortsighted few.” He gestured with both hands, indicating not only Jetanien’s office but also—presumably—the rest of Paradise City. “Surely you, more so than anyone, can see that what we’ve managed to achieve here is too great for us to stand by and let it be squandered, much less take active steps to sabotage our own efforts.”

Lugok nodded. “He speaks the truth. I for one did not spend all those months sitting on this cursed ball of dirt just to throw away all of that time, energy, and work.”

“Of course not,” Jetanien said. On the other hand, he knew from experience that Lugok was more than capable of engaging in deception, as he had done early on during his assignment as part of the Klingon diplomatic delegation to Starbase 47. One of his numerous duties had been overseeing the activities of Anna Sandesjo, a covert Klingon agent surgically altered to pass as a human female. For a time, she had been a member of Jetanien’s staff, at least until he and the station’s intelligence officer, T’Prynn, had uncovered her real identity. Sandesjo had later been killed in a mishap involving an explosion aboard a cargo ship docked at the station, and Jetanien had never been convinced that her death was anything other than murder, perhaps at the hands of an agent dispatched by Lugok. Jetanien, naturally, had never shared his knowledge or feelings of the situation with the Klingon, but he knew it could be argued that Lugok merely was doing the bidding of a superior, at least then. But now? Jetanien had spent a great deal of time with the Klingon as they waited for D’tran to arrive on Nimbus III, after which the trio set to the task of laying the groundwork for what had become the joint colony. Was it possible that Lugok could still be working to deceive him?

All things are possible, Jetanien reminded himself, then tried to recall something he once had read from an ancient human text given to him by a former assistant. The book had contained anecdotal passages about warfare, which the Chelon quickly had learned could be translated to diplomacy as well as any other competitive endeavor. It took him an additional moment to retrieve the passage from the depths of his memory: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

“What our friend requires,” D’tran said, shifting in his seat to reach for an empty glass sitting atop Jetanien’s desk, “is to join us in our celebration. There will be time later for political maneuvering, posturing, and brinksmanship.”

Lugok nodded. “Agreed,” he said, hoisting his bottle. “Come, Jetanien, and learn why bloodwine is a most excellent substitute for any breakfast beverage you might otherwise choose to imbibe.”

“Very well, my friends,” Jetanien said, moving around his companions to the seat behind his desk. His movements were halted as a low rumble rattled his office windows and even the artwork hanging on his walls. The overhead light flickered, and there was a noticeable interruption in the bulb’s audible hum.

“What was that?” D’tran asked, rising from his seat as Lugok did the same.

Frowning, Jetanien turned toward the doors leading to his balcony. “That sounded like a crash of some kind.” Had an accident occurred, either on one of the nearby streets or even outside Paradise City’s perimeter wall? Even before he reached for the control to open the door, he now could hear the faint sounds of alarm sirens wailing in the early morning air from some distance away.

But not that far.

“No,” Lugok said, moving in the direction of the balcony. “That was an explosion.”

Jetanien opened the door and stepped onto the balcony, where it took him no time to locate the origin point of the crash, explosion, or whatever had happened. A plume of dark smoke was rising into the sky from south of the city, where the colony’s rudimentary spaceport resided.

“Some kind of accident?” Jetanien asked.

“Or sabotage,” D’tran replied.

From behind them, the intercom on Jetanien’s desk beeped for attention, followed by Sergio Moreno’s voice. “Ambassador, you have an urgent call from the spaceport administrator’s office. It’s Constable Schiappacasse.”

“Route it to my viewer,” Jetanien called out, walking back into the office and taking a position behind his desk so that he could see his computer display. The unit’s compact viewscreen activated, providing an image of Carla Schiappacasse, her eyes wide with concern and her hair tucked under a white brimmed cap that distinguished her as a member of the colony’s security force.

“Ambassador Jetanien, I was told Senator D’tran was with you this morning. As you’re no doubt aware by now, we’ve had an incident here at the spaceport involving the Romulan senator’s private shuttle.”

“This is D’tran,” the elder Romulan called to the viewer as he moved to stand next to Jetanian. “What has happened?”

“I’m relieved to see you, Senator,” the security liaison said. “I was unable to raise you on your personal communicator.”

“I apologize,” D’tran replied, reaching into the folds of his robes to produce the compact communications device. “I had deactivated it.”

“As long as you’re safe,” Schiappacasse said, frowning as she lowered her head as though studying something off-screen. “I’m afraid the same can’t be said for your shuttle, sir. It’s been destroyed.”

D’tran’s expression showed his alarm at the news. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Not so far as we’ve been able to determine, sir,” Schiappacasse replied. “We’ve had several injuries among our security staff, and they’re being treated at the infirmary.”

Standing to Jetanien’s right, Lugok grunted in disapproval at the report. “Do you know what happened?”

The image, which jostled enough for Jetanien to realize they were seeing the view as transmitted from a handheld device, shifted to move Schiappacasse out of frame and focus on the tarmac. There was now a clear view of the smoldering wreckage of what Jetanien recognized as the Romulan transport. The smoke streaming from the ruined craft matched what he had seen from his balcony, and the ship itself was continuing to burn.

“We’re still waiting on a detachment from the fire brigade to arrive on scene,” Schiappacasse said after a moment. “We were attacked, Ambassador. Our best estimates count a dozen colonists who infiltrated the port’s secure area. All of them were angry and demanding access to a spacecraft so that they could leave the planet.”

“What?” Jetanien asked, stunned by what he was hearing. While pockets of unrest had continued to be trouble for the constabulary almost since the colony’s first day, none of the incidents so far had risen to the level of deliberate, malicious attacks on private property. More troubling than the assault itself was its apparent motivation.

Schiappacasse’s face returned to the viewer. “I admit we didn’t consider how serious they were. I thought it was something we could get under control, but they weren’t being very receptive.”

“Who was it?” D’tran asked.

Clearing her throat, the security liaison replied, “Klingons, sir. They said they were tired of being lied to about the situation here. There was something about their farming work being doomed before they could even start, and that they refused to stay here. When my staff and I tried to get them under control, they stormed the tarmac.”

Lugok said, “Consider yourself fortunate, Constable. They might just as easily have killed you and your staff.” Turning his attention to Jetanien, he added, “It sounds as though this group is among our newer arrivals, brought here specifically for the task of assisting with our agricultural needs.” He frowned, shaking his head. “I was told they had a warrior’s drive to help us, but I found them to be less than motivated from the moment they arrived. I should have known they would cause trouble.”

“Constable,” D’tran said, “you indicated they were seeking transport off-world?”

On the screen, Schiappacasse nodded. “Yes, Senator. Your transport was among those vessels they were able to access after reaching the tarmac. Though we were able to keep them from hijacking the ship, once it was clear they wouldn’t succeed, one of the colonists—a female, according to the initial report by security teams at the scene—broke away from the group and threw some sort of explosive underneath it. After that, it was too late to do anything else. I must stress that we won’t know more until we’ve had time to conduct an investigation.” She paused, reaching up to cover her mouth as she coughed, perhaps from inhaling smoke. “Obviously, we need to find out where they got the explosive, and if they have any more.”

Jetanien asked, “Are you worried they may have smuggled contraband weapons to the colony, Constable?”

“They would have no need to do that,” Lugok countered. “I suspect the components for building an improvised explosive are in abundance here, despite the colony’s standing directives against weapons.”

D’tran grunted. “Now, there’s a comforting thought.” To the viewscreen, he said, “Have the infiltrators been taken into custody?”

“Yes, Ambassador,” the liaison replied. “They’re being held here until we can secure transport to the brig.”

“I’ll question them myself,” Lugok said, almost growling the words.

Jetanien nodded. “We need to know if this is an isolated incident, or the symptom of a larger problem.”

“Indeed,” the Klingon said, before setting the bottle of blood-wine on Jetanien’s desk and making his way from the office.

Turning his attention back to Schiappacasse, Jetanien said, “Thank you for your report, Constable. Please keep us informed of your findings as you are able.”

“Of course, sir. Schiappacasse out.”

As the viewer deactivated, Jetanien looked to D’tran. “Well, for the moment, I think we can assume that your ship was not deliberately targeted.”

“Perhaps it was coincidental,” the aged Romulan replied, “but I cannot help but be troubled by this. Taken with the other incidents of unrest, I am beginning to fear that a pattern is emerging.” Sighing, he added, “Jetanien, have you considered the possibility that there might be some form of organized, united effort being brought to bear against our mission here?”

In point of fact, Jetanien had lost count of the occasions on which he had pondered that very notion. “If that is the case, then we do not have the resources to combat it.”