Текст книги "What Judgments Come"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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“I’m only sorry I won’t be there to see his reaction when S’anra actually does mention it,” D’tran replied as he settled into one of two upholstered leather armchairs positioned before Jetanien’s desk. “She takes her duties quite seriously.”

“As do we all,” Jetanien said. “And to that end, thank you for joining me this evening. I think it’s important for the three of us to make a joint appearance at the festival. I like what that show of unity represents to our population.”

A scowl flashed across D’tran’s face and faded away just as quickly. “I’m happy to do so, and if our Klingon counterpart had any sense of punctuality, we could get on with this.”

“I imagine he’ll be along shortly,” Jetanien said.

D’tran shrugged. “I believe he’s been the last to arrive at nearly every meeting we’ve ever held.”

“I would go so far as to say Lugok has, without exception, been late to each and every meeting, Senator,” Jetanien said. “He’s very deliberate about it.”

“That kind of posturing seems unnecessary at this point in our cooperative efforts,” D’tran countered, adjusting his position in his chair.

“You realize that he does this because of you.”

“Me?” D’tran looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“Well,” the ambassador said, “you did keep us waiting on this rather forsaken planet for more than three months. Lugok once told me that he was planning to get those three months back from you, minute by minute if necessary, and he seems to be driven by a singular focus. He mentioned having sworn a blood oath to himself on the matter, but at the time I assumed he was joking.”

D’tran paused as though mulling over what he had just heard, his expression all but unreadable. The Romulan then offered a slight nod, as though to himself, before shifting once more in his seat. “Lugok is a passionate Klingon, though I fear I’ll never be able to predict the targets of his enthusiasm. I exhibited similar exuberance in my younger days, Ambassador, and perhaps it’s my penance for that unbridled zeal that I’m here, undertaking this crusade of yours.”

Jetanien offered a soft, polite laugh in reply, even if he took issue with his friend’s observations. He certainly did not regard his assignment to Nimbus III as retribution for any impetuous behavior in his past. “Come now, Senator. We’ve had our share of hardships in getting Paradise City established, but surely you now can see that our efforts are bearing very promising fruit.”

That he and D’tran along with Klingon ambassador Lugok had successfully negotiated terms for the colony’s construction and operation, let alone that they even had won support for their proposal from their respective governments, still seemed almost incomprehensible to Jetanien whenever he allowed himself pause to consider the events of these past months. Extended negotiations, which had stemmed from the trio’s first clandestine meeting, were the easy part, he thought. Lugok had already benefited from peaceful coexistence during their shared tenures aboard Starbase 47, and that appreciation for cooperative ventures had continued to grow even in the wake of the Organian Peace Treaty. The two diplomats had used that chemistry to work together in convincing Senator D’tran to secure a Romulan commitment toward the test venture on Nimbus III, their arguments matching the veteran senator’s progressive views on diplomatic relations with interstellar powers. That outlook had served D’tran for several decades, dating back to his role in ending the Earth-Romulan War and helping to draft a peace treaty that had remained unbroken during the intervening century.

The subsequent discussions with the diplomats’ respective governments that led to the Nimbus III proposal’s acceptance were nothing short of landmark, at least in Jetanien’s opinion. However, his counterparts had made him privy to precious few details of those negotiations, offering no insight as to how protracted or heated their talks had been, or what personal favors had been promised or exacted in order to secure the needed support. True to form, Lugok complained about his having to exert additional effort with the Klingon High Council, but Jetanien was painfully aware of his propensity to complain about laying out any effort in general. The closest D’tran ever came to discussing his own process was to say that his fellow senators were long used to his grand ideas, and this one simply must have caught them all in a particularly generous and tolerant mood.

Jetanien found that his own challenges had come not in winning the hearts and minds of Federation Council members, but in doing so from his remote posting aboard Vanguard. Rather than leave the station during a time of unrest in the Taurus Reach, Jetanien had negotiated his proposal chiefly via subspace communications, a medium he detested in comparison to conducting such discussions in person. Travel time to Earth from Vanguard made such a meeting impractical, but at the time he also had been motivated by a desire to negotiate with members of the Orion Syndicate—he hesitated to call them diplomats—for the extradition of Diego Reyes from the Omari-Ekon, which according to the most recent status reports remained docked at the station. His efforts on that front had proven futile, even as he gained support from the Federation Council for his Nimbus III proposal.

Since returning to the planet, the colony had been the sole focus of Jetanien’s focus and energy. While the plans he had formulated with his fellow diplomats had met with skepticism so far as their content was concerned, he had encountered little resistance to the process by which it would be accomplished. Tenets of the settlement’s cooperative foundation and operation as developed by him and his fellow diplomats were approved, with one caveat. Out of concern for security during the proposal’s initial discussions, one member of the Federation negotiating team insisted that Nimbus III’s location not be discussed openly. In its stead was offered a more inspirational and vague moniker: the Planet of Galactic Peace. To this day, Jetanien remained unsure as to the accuracy of the name, but it had certainly stuck.

With negotiations complete, progress from arid flatlands to habitable colony owed much to the ample resources committed to the project by the governments involved. The central population center’s basic infrastructure was constructed by support specialists in a matter of weeks, complete with roadways, utilities, and the beginnings of a hydroponic agriculture facility. All of this was followed by the initial buildings containing living quarters, office space, and storefronts. Even outdoor recreational areas were planned and constructed by engineers from each contributing government. Then there were the transport ships, laden with the first several hundred colonists and the supplies they would need to begin a new life here on Nimbus III, and when a group of those settlers came forward to suggest a name for their shared enclave, Jetanien enthusiastically championed its acceptance among his peers. Thus, Paradise City was born.

“We have come a long way since that fateful first meeting, Jetanien,” D’tran said, “and had the spacecraft which initially carried me here only been capable of a faster speed, perhaps Ambassador Lugok might have joined us by now.”

Jetanien laughed again. “I’m going to regret mentioning that, aren’t I?”

“I will not speak of it again,” D’tran countered, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “That said, I may not be as concerned with my own punctuality from this point forward.”

“And here I’ve come to count on Lugok’s pettiness as a means of enjoying time with you in private counsel,” Jetanien said. “I hope my remarks will not cost me that, either.”

D’tran shook his head. “Please ascribe my comments to the protests of an empty stomach. I took the liberty of passing by the food vendors on my way here, and their offerings do look promising. I trust you will be able to find something that suits your particular palate.”

“If I’ve found one common denominator among humanoid species,” Jetanien said, “it’s a shared amusement surrounding my choices of food and drink. If memory serves, the bond you forged with Lugok started when you chose to sit together upwind of me during our shared meals.”

“You may be right,” D’tran replied, nodding in agreement. “Perhaps your decision to join him in eating a few Klingon dishes to my disdain warmed his warrior heart to you as well.”

“In uncounted ways has food forged alliances that intoxicants keep lubricated,” Jetanien said. He had heard that quote somewhere, long ago, but he had forgotten the source. That did not stop him from enjoying and employing it whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“Up to the point that they do not,” D’tran replied. “Shall I assume such drink will be offered during the festival as well?”

“It will,” Jetanien said, “with instructions already given to vendors that guests are not to be overserved. I had considered barring some of the more potent Romulan beverages, but that seemed to run counter to the event’s multicultural spirit. I have to assume our residents will use proper discretion.”

Offering a small, derisive laugh, D’tran shook his head. “You may be too generous in your assumptions, my friend. Will the constabulary be a visible presence at the festival?”

“And on the surrounding streets as well.”

Jetanien’s response seemed to do little to assuage the elderly Romulan’s doubts. Representatives of each official state occupied positions within the colony’s civil police force, the initiative being yet another attempt at furthering the concept of equality among the colonists. One of Paradise City’s greatest hurdles—and one that Jetanien knew would take much more time to forge—was the establishment of a civil code that reflected the best balance between the different cultures the colony represented. Though Jetanien did not want to single out Klingon colonists as one of the main contributors to Paradise City’s numerous accounts of social discord, he could not ignore the increasing reports of civil complaints filed by various colonists. Whether made in regard to a dispute over property, perceived threats of personal harm, or incidents of fighting and other violent outbursts, the great majority of incidents shared a common thread of Klingon involvement.

More to assure himself than anything, Jetanien said, “We’re bound to experience our share of conflict as we all get accustomed to living with one another.”

“The situation is something we need to monitor and to temper should the trend continue,” D’tran replied. “Citizens have not been as quick to occupy the city as I had hoped. If this is to work, we need them to live and work together in the colony proper, and not continue to stay segregated in the outlying camps.”

Jetanien could not disagree with his friend’s contention. “We decided not to force an exodus of the camps, but instead to let volunteers come forward of their own accord. Do we need to set a deadline?”

“Possibly,” D’tran replied. “More socialization will help further an appreciation of tolerance. We cannot let them view Paradise City as a place to visit. It must be a place to live.”

The door chime sounded again, and when it opened this time it was to reveal a portly Klingon, dressed in an ill-fitting black and gray military uniform.

“Ambassador Lugok, son of Breg,” Jetanien said, as though announcing the new arrival to a room full of guests. “Happy Great Hope Day!”

Offering a groan of disdain, Lugok sneered as he shuffled past Jetanien into the room. From the smell of the Klingon’s breath and the grimy metal tankard clutched in his right hand, Jetanien surmised that Lugok had commenced his own celebrations earlier than the rest of the ambassadorial team.

“Remind me again what it is we’re celebrating?” Lugok asked as he stood beside the unoccupied chair next to where D’tran was seated.

“The completion of the residential facilities within Paradise City, for one thing,” Jetanien replied. “We were just discussing incentives to get more of the colonists to move within the city’s perimeter. Now that we’re able to accommodate all of the colonists, we can set about eliminating the outlying encampments.”

“I understand the theory behind your incentives,” Lugok said, “but I doubt the Klingon colonists will vacate the camp until they are ordered. Once they occupy the city residences, we’d better prepare for a settling-in period.”

D’tran added, “Until they get used to their accommodations?”

“More like until everyone else gets used to the Klingons,” Jetanien said.

Lugok laughed. “My people are not as used to such structured living arrangements. They seem to be handling themselves reasonably well in their camp. You might want to consider letting them stay there.”

“You speak as though the mere act of bringing them into Paradise City is only asking for trouble,” Jetanien said.

A sharp scream from somewhere outside made the ambassador rise from his chair and make his way to the balcony. Down the street, he could see the crowd, which had grown noticeably since he last looked, roiling against itself. More shouts followed as people fled the courtyard, while a handful of others broke from the pack to engage in shoving matches and fistfights.

As D’tran and Lugok joined him on the balcony, Jetanien watched a number of city constables—each wearing distinguishing white jumpsuits—pushing their way into the crowd. One of them was grabbed and hoisted aloft by an enraged Tellarite before being flung to the street. The wail of an alert siren rose above the crowd, which Jetanien knew was a call for more constables to converge on the scene.

Lugok snorted and released a loud belly laugh. “This now concludes Great Hope Day on the Planet of Galactic Peace. We hope you have enjoyed your evening.”

“Your humor is ill-timed, Ambassador,” Jetanien snapped, feeling his ire beginning to rise. “This is exactly the sort of problem we’re working to prevent.”

“Klingons are a proud people, Jetanian,” Lugok said. “Forcing them into a peaceful retirement community with their lifelong sworn enemies is not going to be easy.”

Jetanien shook his head. “Ordinarily, I’d agree, but they did volunteer to come to this planet, did they not? Besides, responding to a celebration of unification by starting a street riot is not what I would call acting with honor.”

“Do not speak to me of honor, Jetanien,” Lugok countered, pointing one gloved finger at the Chelon. “Not that it matters to those petaQ. You know as well as I do that our test subjects—excuse me, our colonists—do not come from the most respected Houses of the Empire.”

“Did you empty your prisons to populate Nimbus III, Ambassador?” D’tran asked.

The Klingon paused, eyeing the aged senator with contempt. “Of course not, though many of our colonists volunteered to take part in this ‘experiment’ as an alternative to prison, or worse. As such, living among us is a shame to their Houses. I wouldn’t bother tainting my blade with their blood, but they are here, and we must work with them.” Raising his tankard to his lips and scowling at the realization that it was empty, he grunted in irritation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going down there to see things for myself.”

“Now does not seem the appropriate time for us to make an appearance,” D’tran offered.

Lugok laughed again. “For the two of you, I agree, but this is my kind of celebration.” He turned to leave, but stopped upon seeing the frustration on Jetanien’s face, and he adopted a more serious tone. “Do not worry yourself, Jetanien. This little commotion will die out on its own, and if it doesn’t, we can always call for a warship to destroy the planet.” The smile returned, and he released another deep rumbling laugh that echoed in the office as he made his way to the door and left.

Once the Klingon had departed, Jetanien said, “This is not the most promising of starts for a Great Hope Day tradition.”

D’tran placed a hand on his shoulder. “Paradise City is an experiment, my friend, and for many of the colonists, it is a place for second chances. I’d imagine very few of our settlers are coming with unblemished pasts and ignorance of life’s less savory quarters. We should show great patience as well as hope.”

Jetanien could only wonder how long his own patience might endure.

8

Streaks of multihued light retreated on the viewscreen, settling into distant pinpricks in the dark curtain of space as the Defiant dropped out of warp. From where he sat in the captain’s chair at the center of the ship’s bridge, Thomas Blair regarded the screen, instinctively looking for threats even though reason—and the starship’s sensors—told him there was no danger.

“Maintain Yellow Alert,” he ordered, rising from his seat and stepping around the helm and navigation console situated before him so that he might have a clear view of the screen. “Okay, let’s see it.”

“Aye, sir,” said Lieutenant T’Lehr, the Vulcan seated at the helm station. Her long fingers played across her console and a moment later the image on the main viewscreen shifted. Instead of empty space, the screen now depicted what Blair recognized as a Tholian vessel.

Or what’s left of one, anyway.

From where he stood next to the command chair, Commander Mbugua released a small grunt that Blair recognized as the first officer’s normal reaction to something that had interested him. “Somebody didn’t like these guys very much, did they?”

Moving to stand so that he could lean against the red railing separating the command well from the upper deck at the front of the bridge, Blair nodded. “That’s putting it mildly. T’Lehr, can you magnify the image?”

“Yes, Captain,” the helm officer replied, and the view changed yet again to bring the Tholian vessel into sharper focus. Torn metal was now clearly visible, outlined by scorch marks from what Blair figured to be powerful particle-beam weapons. A cloud of debris surrounded the ship, which was dark and drifting without any obvious means of propulsion.

“What are your sensors telling you, Nyn?” Blair asked.

At the science station, Lieutenant Commander Clarissa Nyn bent over her console’s hooded sensor viewer. “I’m not picking up any life signs, sir,” she replied without looking up from her instruments, her words carrying a soft Dutch accent. “The only power source appears to be an emergency battery, but it’s weak. My guess is it’ll be exhausted within a day or so.” Her attention remained on her instruments throughout her report. It was a habit that Blair had found irritating during the first weeks after Nyn arrived aboard the Defiant, replacing his former science officer after her transfer to the U.S.S. Kongo. Commander Mbugua was the one who had made him see that Nyn was not being intentionally disrespectful with this practice, but simply very focused on her work. At his recommendation, Blair opted not to mention his peeve, itself a reluctant decision made easier by the fact that Clarissa Nyn was damned good at her job.

Or, you’re just getting soft in your old age.

“Just enough to run their comm system and keep sending that message,” Mbugua said. “For a while, anyway. Any idea how long the signal’s been broadcasting?”

Turning from her station, Nyn stepped closer to the railing, her hands clasped behind her back. “According to sensor readings from the backup power system, I’d have to say somewhere in the neighborhood of two weeks. Three, at the outside.”

“Judging by the damage to that ship,” Blair added, “the crew had to know they wouldn’t survive long enough for anyone to come to their rescue.” Turning from the viewscreen, he said, “Nyn, are there any escape pods on that ship, or evidence of any having been launched?”

The science officer nodded. “One escape pod, sir, still in its berth. Whatever happened, the crew didn’t have time to make use of it.”

Considering this, Blair said, “Any idea who’s responsible?” The likely suspects had already been the topic of much discussion in the hours since Blair’s first learning of the distress call, but all of that had been without the aid of any supporting evidence.

“Residual energy signatures don’t match Klingon weapons, sir,” Nyn said, “but Orion pirate ships have been known to possess disruptors that fit the pattern.”

“That’s hardly conclusive,” Mbugua countered. “Orions have been buying and selling weapons systems for as long as anyone can remember. Besides, this is a bit out of the way, even for Orion pirates.”

Blair frowned. “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’d put it past them, either. Even if it is Orions, the big question is whether they did it on their own, or if they were paid to do somebody else’s dirty work.” He had read the report of how Orion pirates, contracted by a Klingon agent, had attacked and destroyed the U.S.S. Nowlan while the transport ship was on its way to Earth. It had all been part of an elaborate smokescreen to cover their kidnapping and delivery into Klingon custody of Diego Reyes, former commander of Starbase 47, who had been convicted by a Starfleet court-martial and sentenced to a ten-year prison term.

“For what it’s worth, sir,” Nyn said, “I scanned the ship’s cargo hold, or at least what I think was the hold, and found nothing. If they were carrying anything, it’s long gone now.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Mbugua added, “It’s an awfully small ship. I’m not sure what cargo they could be carrying that’s worth the risk of coming all the way out here by themselves. Plus, where would they be going? Are there any planets in the vicinity that are likely destinations for a Tholian vessel?”

“None that I’ve been able to determine, sir,” Nyn replied, “though we’re not that far from the Tholian border—a day’s travel at their vessel’s top speed.”

“And what about the Klingons?” Blair asked. “We’re sure they’ve not been reported in this area?”

Mbugua said, “I double-checked the latest intelligence reports and didn’t find anything new. That said, we’re less than a week out from at least two systems with planets known to be under Klingon control: Traelus and Leramin. Both systems are within spitting distance of the Tholian border.”

“We’ve had scattered reports of Tholian ships running surveys of Klingon-occupied systems in the Taurus Reach,” Blair added, “particularly those in proximity to their territory.” He gestured toward the viewscreen. “Maybe this ship was doing that, and got too close to something that someone else didn’t want seen, scanned, or reported.”

“That’s a lot of theory,” Mbugua replied, “without much of anything to back it up.”

Blair nodded. “I know, but the more I think about it, the less I believe that pirates, Orion or otherwise, would bother with a ship like that. As you said, it’s pretty small to be carrying much in the way of impressive cargo. The fact that it’s a Tholian ship in the Taurus Reach makes me think they were checking out something they didn’t like, and the big item on that list would be the Klingons.”

From the intelligence reports he had read while the Defiant was en route to take on this assignment, Blair knew the Tholian government had been none too happy to learn that the Klingon Empire had planted its flag in the Traelus system nearly three years earlier. Of course, that claim had put the Federation on edge, as well, coming as it had following a tense confrontation with the U.S.S. Sagittarius, one of the Starfleet vessels assigned to Starbase 47, during an early survey of that area. The system’s proximity to Tholian territory was a primary point of contention, with Starfleet tactical analysts concluding that a Klingon base in that region could serve as an effective launching point for military offensives into Tholian space. So far, the Klingons appeared to be uninterested in such action, preferring instead to establish a mining support colony on the system’s second planet and take advantage of the world’s rich deposits of dilithium and other useful minerals.

“Even if that’s true,” Nyn said as she reached up to brush aside an errant lock of blond hair, “we still don’t have any evidence of Klingon involvement.”

Gesturing toward the viewscreen, Blair asked, “Have engineering retrieve some of the debris and give it a complete onceover. Maybe Mister Stevok and his team can find us an additional clue or two as to who’s responsible for this attack.” If anyone could convince the remnants of the wrecked Tholian ship to divulge any secrets they might hold, it was Stevok, the Defiant’s chief engineer. The Vulcan’s investigative talents were on a par with his technical skills, which were formidable.

Mbugua replied, “Aye, sir. What do we do in the meantime?”

“Update Vanguard on our latest findings, and carry on with our patrol,” Blair said, his attention returning to the viewscreen and the image of the destroyed vessel. “If Admiral Nogura wants us to investigate further, he’ll let us know.”

Thomas Blair’s gut was already telling him exactly what the admiral would say.

9

“Turn your head and say, ‘Ahhh.’ Oh, wait. I mean, open your mouth and cough. Whatever. I never could get those straight.”

Though Reyes thought he detected the hint of a whimsical smile on the face of Ezekiel Fisher, the doctor offered no other hint that he might be joking. Still, Reyes was certain he knew his old friend well enough to sense a scam in the offing, so he decided to play along for a bit and see what might happen. “Any other parts of your job you tend to mix up? Medications, operations, patients, that sort of thing?” He sat in one of two chairs that, along with the small, unadorned table positioned against the wall, comprised the sole furnishings within the drab, windowless office that had been provided by Ganz for Fisher during the doctor’s visit to the Omari-Ekon.

The doctor shrugged, keeping his attention on the status display of the tricorder he held in his left hand as he waved a medical scanner over Reyes. “I may have slipped up from time to time, but I’m lucky in that I have people who all are willing to cover up for my mistakes.”

“That figures,” Reyes countered, now certain his friend was playing at something despite his implacable expression. “Wish I’d had them on my staff. I might’ve been able to avoid all this trouble.”

Shaking his head in apparent disagreement, Fisher replied, “I doubt it. Subordinates tend to hold a grudge when you don’t remember birthdays, anniversaries, or other special occasions. You always were lousy at that sort of thing.”

“That’s why I had a yeoman,” Reyes said, before pausing to reconsider his comment. “Come to think of it, I probably forgot her birthday, too.”

“And there you go,” Fisher said, deactivating the medical scanner and returning it to his tricorder’s storage compartment. From where he sat, Reyes had been able to see and interpret the unit’s status displays, and he knew that the doctor’s scans had found nothing out of the ordinary. Despite some rough days in the early going, Reyes had suffered no lasting effects during his tenure as a guest first of the Klingons and now the Orions.

“So, what’s the verdict, Doc?” he asked after a moment, wondering what Fisher’s response might be and hoping it at least would be entertaining.

Drawing a breath, the doctor replied, “My scans are inconclusive. It’s possible you came into contact with someone who’s infected, but so far no symptoms have manifested themselves. I’m going to inoculate you anyway, just to be safe.”

Rather than reply, Reyes offered a nod with an expression he hoped would convey the proper level of concern for anyone who might be observing the examination, not the least of whom was the towering, muscled Orion male who had been assigned as Fisher’s escort. He stood behind the doctor, blocking the only exit from the office.

“You cannot do that,” the sentry said.

Fisher offered the guard an admonishing glare. “Says who?”

The blunt nature of the question seemed to catch the Orion by surprise, and Reyes watched while the guard blinked several times, as though struggling to formulate a reply. “My orders are to prevent you from having any physical contact with this human.”

“Son,” Fisher said, “you want to live, right?” He crossed his arms, adopting his most disapproving demeanor—the one Reyes knew was reserved for wayward interns and low-ranking Starfleet officers who came to Vanguard’s hospital with injuries sustained during a bout of binge drinking at Stars Landing. The expression on the sentry’s face was such that Reyes almost laughed, though he was able to maintain his professional decorum.

“Yes,” the guard replied after a moment, uncertainty beginning to cloud his stern expression.

Nodding in what Reyes took to be understanding, Fisher replied, “Well, okay then.” He indicated Reyes with a wave of his hand. “This man has presented preliminary indications of having been infected, which means he requires a vaccination, the same vaccination I gave you an hour ago. If I miss inoculating even one person on this ship who’s come into contact with the contagion, it means that I’ve wasted a lot of valuable time and medicine vaccinating the rest of you. Get what I’m saying?”

His expression wavering as he appeared to ponder Fisher’s words, the sentry finally said, “I will have to verify this with Ganz.”

“You do that,” Fisher replied, “and while you’re at it, remind Mister Ganz that Starfleet regulations state that in the event of any form of potential viral contagion, the station’s chief medical officer is required to conduct a thorough inspection of all vessels docked or seeking to dock at this facility. Further, all infected persons aboard any such ship are required to receive the proper vaccinations in order to arrest the possibility of widespread infection.” He indicated himself by pointing his thumb at his chest. “Since I’m the chief medical officer, if I don’t get to do what regulations require me to do while your ship’s docked at our station, the alternative is for you to undock your little ship from our station and be on your merry way. I’m betting Mister Ganz won’t be happy when he finds out his having to leave is all your fault, and that’s before the fever really takes hold and body parts start falling off people in a day or so.”

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