by Dayton Ward
Nodding, Nogura replied, “That’s certainly true.” After an Orion freighter had been damaged by an unknown gravitational anomaly in Gorn space, it was determined that the phenomenon it had encountered had displayed elements of the Jinoteur Pattern, an energy waveform that, when employed in concert with the Taurus Meta-Genome, appeared to be the key to decrypting the massive artificially engineered raw genetic material created by the Shedai. The pattern had received its name from Lieutenant Ming Xiong, who had employed the moniker in reference to the equally enigmatic solar system determined to be the source of the Shedai and all the technology and power the ancient race once commanded. Though it had fueled much of the research and discovery conducted by Operation Vanguard since the top secret project’s inception, all traces of the waveform appeared to vanish along with the Jinoteur system itself at the hands of the mysterious entity known as the Shedai Apostate. The powerful alien had engineered the staggering feat as a means of preventing the other surviving members of his race from regaining control over their technology and the immense power it once had given them.
As for the damaged Orion ship, it had been captured for study by a Gorn military vessel. Operating with the clandestine support of the U.S.S. Endeavour, Quinn and McLellan attempted to obtain sensor and navigational logs of the anomaly that had crippled the freighter. During their operation they almost lost the valuable data to a Klingon spy who also was pursuing the information. The covert agents ultimately were successful in their mission: preventing the Klingons from obtaining knowledge of the Jinoteur Pattern reading or its source. They also had received information from the Shedai Apostate about the existence of even more of the artifacts, which might be the key to defeating the rest of the astonishing being’s race.
If only McLellan had been so lucky on her next assignment, Nogura mused, with no small amount of regret. The retrieval mission had spawned yet another assignment for Quinn and McLellan, with a similar goal of keeping out of Klingon hands not only Shedai technology, but also that of the Tkon, another ancient, long-dead race, and the one responsible for the Mirdonyae Artifacts. It was while carrying out that demanding task that McLellan had given her life in order to preserve the mission objective.
“There’s a larger issue,” Moyer said. “If the Orions catch him, they’ll turn it into a public relations nightmare for us. They’ll broadcast whatever show trial they decide to hold for him across subspace, and they’ll execute him in front of the entire quadrant.”
Jackson added, “The Klingons would provide a clean execution, but not these thugs.” He paused, shaking his head. “That’s no way for anybody to go.”
“Then we should probably take steps to ensure that doesn’t happen,” ch’Nayla said.
Nogura rose from his chair. “That would be my preference, Commander.” Crossing his arms, he began walking the length of his office, aware of his officers turning to watch him. “However, let us make no mistake, if we enlist Mister Reyes in this effort, the priority must be obtaining any and all information that might help us to track the source of the Mirdonyae Artifacts. His safety, as well as any black eye the Orions could give the Federation if they were to capture him, would regrettably have to be viewed as secondary concerns.” Halting his pacing, he turned to T’Prynn. “Lieutenant, are you certain he’s willing to take on such a risk?”
“I am, Admiral,” the Vulcan replied without hesitation. “I believe Diego Reyes to be incapable of shirking his duty, regardless of his current standing.”
Nodding in agreement with her assessment, Nogura reached up to stroke his chin. He was no stranger to difficult decisions, and this certainly would not be the first time he issued orders that put people at risk. So, why did this feel different, and for reasons he could not explain?
I’m damned if I know.
“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Commander ch’Nayla, Lieutenant T’Prynn: you may proceed.”
7
Music filled the evening air over Paradise City.
Ambassador Jetanien stepped from his third-story office onto his small balcony, itself the lone architectural indulgence he had allowed himself when outlining his facility needs to the Corps of Engineers attachment tasked with the building’s construction. His vantage point offered him an unobstructed view of the city’s main courtyard, and out here the music was loud and vibrant. Not that the song being played necessarily was to his liking—he believed it to be an inventive take on a traditional Tellarite work chantey—but it was a vast improvement over construction noise, shouts of disagreement, or other flavors of cacophony he had grown accustomed to hearing in recent weeks.
Leaning over the balcony railing, Jetanien looked down at the street to find the source of the song. He saw what appeared to be the beginnings of a street party, complete with musicians occupying a small performance stage at the center of the thoroughfare. A pair of block-long rows of dining tables and benches radiated from the stage and down the street, and booths lining the sidewalks offered freshly prepared dishes from the cuisines of a dozen species. A crowd that Jetanien judged to be several hundred strong, representing easily half of the new settlement’s population, had already collected in the courtyard to enjoy food and fellowship. The atmosphere in the streets was one of warmth and welcome.
“Happy Great Hope Day!”
Turning at the sound of the voice, Jetanien stepped back into his office to find his administrative attaché, Sergio Moreno, waiting for him. Extending his manus in greeting to the smiling, brown-skinned young human standing near his desk, Jetanien said, “And I do think it will be, Mister Moreno.”
Moreno returned the gesture by clasping Jetanien’s scaled mitt within his hands. “Are you watching the celebration? I think we’re getting a great turnout.”
“As this is likely to be the only social event this evening in Paradise City, let alone on all of Nimbus III,” Jetanien said, “I would certainly hope so.” He added a few clicks of laughter that seemed to cause Moreno’s smile to fade. “Don’t get me wrong, Sergio. I’m very encouraged by what I see.”
“Your plan to create a citywide celebration is being well received, Ambassador,” Moreno said as he released Jetanien’s manus. “A new holiday we can call our own is not only a great unifier, but a boost to morale after a lot of hard work.”
Jetanien felt a small surge of pride upon hearing that. While not overly grand in scope, the street festival to celebrate Great Hope Day had been his idea, and it certainly was something he hoped might succeed enough to continue as an annual event for the colony. He had marked the date on his calendar weeks ago, eyeing it as a means of rewarding the efforts of Paradise City residents for completing construction on the experimental colony’s first phase. Events in past weeks, including a few altercations and accusations among the colonists themselves, apparently had begun to take an emotional toll on all involved in the endeavor. Such behavior was not unexpected, of course; it was part of the natural and unavoidable growing pains for the first settlement ever to be shared by citizens of three such disparate political and social entities as the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon and Romulan empires. Despite these and other minor issues, in the end the colonists had persevered, and the results were all around them.
“New holiday?” Jetanien asked. “I appreciate your optimism, Sergio, and I can only hope that it’s contagious.”
“I’ll do my best to spread it,” Moreno replied as Jetanien settled onto his glenget, a special chair constructed to fit his large, ungainly physique, which allowed him comfortable access to his large stained-wood desk. “Will you be going to the festival yourself?”
“Of course,” Jetanien said. “I first have a brief meeting to attend, after which I shall do my level best to … what do you humans say? Dance the night away.”
Sergio asked, “Then you have time for a few progress reports? Unless you would prefer that I submit them at our morning meeting.”
Jetanien twisted his mandible to affect an expression he h
ad learned best approximated a human’s smile. “You aren’t seeking an excuse to avoid the celebration yourself, are you, Sergio? Surely the smell of the Klingon food isn’t enough to keep you off the streets tonight.”
The attaché smiled. “No, Ambassador, I’ll be going. Actually, I’m waiting for S’anra to arrive so I can accompany her this evening.”
Recognizing the name, Jetanien nodded in approval. “And is this your first date with a Romulan, my good man?”
“Oh, no,” Sergio replied, though Jetanien noticed the color shift in his face indicating the young man was embarrassed.
“Ah!” the ambassador exclaimed. “So, you make a habit of entertaining Romulan women? And what would your mother say?”
Moreno seemed to trip over his own laughter before replying, “No, Ambassador, I mean that this isn’t a date. We’re simply immersing ourselves in the idea of ‘cultural exchange.’ It’s actually more of a wager, to be honest.”
This piqued Jetanien’s curiosity. “How so?”
“We’re each going to see who can find the most foods that the other will like,” Moreno replied. “I talked one of the vendors into using my grandfather’s recipe for chorizo. Very smoky and very spicy. Any Romulan would love it.”
Jetanien nodded. “And I trust you know just what you’ll be letting yourself in for?”
“Oh, I’m fine with anything but the Andorian dishes,” Moreno said. “I’m just not into tuber root and cabbage. I need more meat.”
The chime to Jetanien’s office door sounded, interrupting their discussion. “Come in,” he called out, and the door slid aside to reveal an aged Romulan male, his thin white hair neatly trimmed around his pointed ears. Straight bangs all but covered his brow, and his face, deeply lined and wan, contrasted with the ruddy ceremonial robes draping his withered body.
“Senator D’tran,” Jetanien said, surprised and happy at the sight of his guest. “Please, join me. My aide was just leaving.”
If Moreno was at all surprised by his abrupt dismissal, he did not reveal it through facial expression or body language, a response Jetanien noted as indicating a level of self-control that would befit a successful member of the Diplomatic Corps. Sergio Moreno was the youngest and least experienced of Jetanien’s two-member staff on Nimbus III, but the ambassador considered him well suited to the challenges that came with the significant if not historic mission of overseeing the prototype community of Paradise City. The young man’s soft-spoken demeanor and amiable, accommodating approach to problem-solving seemed to ingratiate him to the diverse local population, which certainly could benefit from as much social lubrication as Jetanien’s office might provide.
“Yes, Senator, I was,” Moreno said. “And Happy Great Hope Day to you, sir.” When D’tran said nothing, the attaché returned his attention to Jetanien. “Enjoy your evening, Ambassador. Should you need me for any reason, don’t hesitate to call.”
Jetanien shook his head. “I cannot imagine needing to interrupt your … cultural exchange. Please give my best to S’anra.”
That prompted D’tran’s first words since his arrival. “She is sure to inform you that her duties in my office will start promptly at our usual hour in the morning.” His voice was low and raspy with age, lending it an edge of intimidation that evoked a wide-eyed expression from Moreno. “And if she does not inform you, you will inform her.” When D’tran’s eyes met Jetanien’s, it was all the ambassador could do not to laugh.
“Certainly, Senator,” Moreno replied, his words tinged with pronounced sincerity. He passed through the doorway, and D’tran waited for the door to close before allowing his smile to widen. “Youth. It is wasted on the young.”
Now free to laugh, Jetanien released a string of clicks and chirps as he indicated a chair in front of his desk for the elderly Romulan. “You enjoy that sort of thing, don’t you?”
“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. T
he 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.