Curince spoke again. “I also apologize that we are not meeting in the capitol building. The rebels refused to negotiate in a place that was completely under the rightful government’s control. We will, instead, be meeting in a private arena, whose location is being decided upon as we speak.”
“Will both First Protector Ruardh and Grand General Falhain be present at these negotiations, as planned?” asked Tabor.
“Yes. As will the Romulan diplomatic delegation. Their own ship arrived a few hours ago.”
“Ah,” said Tabor, bobbing his head agreeably. “I trust that they have sent their best diplomats?”
“The leader of their group is a woman named T’Alik. I do not bother to remember those of her subordinates.”
“T’Alik can be very persuasive,” Tabor said soberly.
“I think she will not persuade our First Protector much,” Curince said. “The Romulan presence is tolerated only because they have not struck against us. They claim neutrality, but Falhain’s minions—the so-called ‘Army of Light’—have allied themselves politically with the Romulans. We feel that taints the Star Empire, showing them as the enemy of the duly proper government of our world.”
One of the Chiarosan escorts let out a discreet clicking sound, holding up a smaller version of the padd-like device Curince had given Picard. The senator looked at it briefly, then back to the landing party. “The location has been announced. Security will be minimal, so it is our fervent hope that Falhain’s people will act honorably in this matter.” She paused for a moment, before looking pointedly at Tabor and Picard. “I am hopeful that the presence of an outside arbiter at this meeting—and that of the Federation—will allow for a sense of security, and begin a closure of this difficult rift among our people.”
Tabor smiled warmly. “Madam Senator, I believe I can promise you that the dÈtente that we are about to inaugurate today will change the future of Chiaros IV—for the better . . . and forever.”
Picard stared at Tabor for a moment. He hadn’t liked the ambassador much, but he had to admit that the man had both charm and a persuasive demeanor. Perhaps he could help to bring an end to the Chiarosan political struggle.
As they stepped forward, Tabor leaned in toward Picard and whispered. “Senator Curince is telling the truth about the Archimedes. At least as far as she knows.” Picard did not need to question how the Ullian ambassador was aware of what Curince knew or did not know. He also knew that Ullian telepathy tended to be more intrusive than one of Troi’s empathic scans.
Picard wondered: If the man would enter the senator’s mind with so little compunction, then what else might he be capable of?
Curince didn’t explain what their meeting place had once been used for, and neither Picard nor Tabor asked. The circular arena had many columns and benches in the main part, with shadowed recesses and rows of stadium seating rising up on every side. Although it seemed almost like a sporting or gladiatorial arena, Picard was under the impression that it might actually have been used for lectures or debates of some sort. Given the visible dust, it had not been used in quite some time.
Standing in the well-lit center of the arena was First Protector Ruardh and her bodyguards, while the perimeter of the room was ringed with a dozen or more soldiers. A stately matron, Ruardh was wearing an auburn dress that complimented the long plaited braid of brownblond hair that curled down her shoulders. The dress was split in the center, wrapping around each leg, allowing for more ease of movement.
Senator Curince introduced Tabor to Ruardh, and the ambassador performed the elaborate hand greeting again. Picard stepped forward as his own name was called, bowing slightly to the Chiarosan leader. “I’m sorry that I cannot greet you in the manner of your people, First Protector,” he said, echoing Tabor’s earlier comment. He also knew better than to introduce his “subordinates” this time.
“No slight is taken, Captain. And your very presence here suggests to me that you will be much more . . . successful than the previous delegation the Federation sent.”
“Captain Picard is often successful, First Protector,” said a strong voice. A robed Romulan woman stepped toward the group from a side entrance, three other Romulan functionaries at her sides. “He commands Starfleet’s finest warcraft, the vaunted U.S.S. Enterprise. He brings you a honey-tongued diplomat in a vessel that could level your city if he commanded it. Small wonder you would choose to ally yourself with the Federation; but can you truly trust a people who are so weak that they lose ships and weapons one day, then arrive in a battleship the next?”
“I know that I cannot trust the Romulans, Ambassador T’Alik,” Ruardh said, her head swiveling to the side. “You have chosen to ally yourself with those who oppose me.”
“We have not chosen either side, Protector. It is not our weaponry that your opposition has used against you,” T’Alik said, her haughty gaze moving toward Picard and his crew. “We have offered the rulers of Chiaros IV the protection of the Romulan Star Empire. It is you who have chosen to side with the Federation. You might, upon further consideration, choose to ally yourself with us. That is our hope.”
Picard looked to Tabor to see if the man was going to respond, but Tabor’s gaze told him to let the matter alone. As if cued by T’Alik’s speech, the rebel Chiarosans melted out of the shadows in the arena, their triple-jointed forms moving lithely and almost soundlessly. Ruardh and her men did not seem surprised—and the Romulans’ preternatural calm implied that they expected the intrusion—but the Starfleet officers didn’t disguise their own jumpiness quite as well. With the rebels now ringing the outer perimeter of the arena, Picard felt like prey—even more so, given that both the rebels and the bodyguards were all heavily armed.
A few of the rebels parted, allowing a tall, blondhaired Chiarosan to stride forward, a shorter dark-haired man trailing him. “Ruardh!” the blond snarled. “I halfexpected you to renege on our meeting.”
The matronly Chiarosan leader stared impassively at the light-haired rebel. “And I had expected you to attack rather than to negotiate, Falhain.”
Aubin Tabor stepped forward, holding his hands out, palms facing upward. “It seems that both sides have come in good faith, despite any preconceptions either had held toward the other. Shall we proceed? There is precious little time remaining—three days, in fact—before the Chiarosan referendum begins.”
Falhain turned his head, his crystalline eyes narrowed and steely. “You must be the Federation ambassador, come to convince us of the rightness of Ruardh’s cause.”
Tabor bowed his head slightly, and again performed the complex series of hand-gestures that Picard had seen twice earlier. “I am Aubin Tabor, Grand General Falhain. But I am not here to champion Protector Ruardh’s cause, only to find a pathway to peace between your faction and hers.”
The darker rebel by Falhain’s side spoke up then, his voice challenging. “As far as we know, your Federation’s laws forbid you to interfere with indigenous cultures. Why do you meddle with ours?” The man looked briefly at T’Alik and her contingent, who stood to the side, passive.
Tabor smiled benignly, his voice not rising at all. “You speak of the Prime Directive. A wise and wonderful rule, but it is not the only thing that governs us, just as one law is not all that governs you. And because we have been asked to intervene on behalf of the legal government of Chiaros—”
“Legal?” Falhain shouted then, taking a menacing step forward. Picard gave a quick glance over to Riker, who had taken a defensive stance. Riker stood down after Picard’s gaze traveled to the face of Deanna Troi. Her dark eyes were intent on Tabor and the two Chiarosans as she appraised their intentions. The captain was relieved to note that the counselor seemed to find the natives’ emotions more accessible than those of the ambassador. Seeing no immediate alarm on Troi’s face, Picard relaxed a bit.
“Does the Federation know how the ‘legal’ Protector keeps hold of her throne?” Falhain continued. “Are they aware of the thousands of Chiaros
ans she has ordered slaughtered, the villages she has commanded to be burned, the children she has willed to be eviscerated? The dry riverbeds of Chiaros now run gray with her victims’ lifeblood.”
Ruardh looked appalled. “You exaggerate, Falhain, as always. You were the one who left my service, just as those who follow you made their choice to embrace political dissidence.” She turned her back on Falhain, though her head swiveled to remain looking at him as she walked behind one of the desk-style platforms nearby. “You paint me as a monster, and yet where is the proof of my alleged atrocities?”
Tabor stepped forward, his voice soothing. “Protector, General, we need to focus on the matters at—”
“You think that this is not the matter at hand?” Falhain reared back, and Picard realized that his full height was more imposing than he had originally imagined. His brows furrowed, and his sharp teeth glistened as he spat his interruption. “The government that the Federation has allied itself with has been practicing genocide. It is not enough that their raiding parties remove our precious soil and water, leaving the outland villages to choke on dust—they also murder any who have the courage to gainsay their greed, whether armed or not. Our fight is not about politics. We struggle for our very survival!”
The dark-haired aide to Falhain reached behind his back, his arms swiveling impossibly in his shoulder sockets. As the Chiarosan bodyguards defensively unsheathed their weapons, he removed a device from a satchel he wore on his back and displayed it in front of him. It was less than half a meter tall, with three short legs at its base, and a circular lens at its top.
“You ask for proof, Ruardh?” Falhain swiveled his head toward Picard and his officers. “No doubt your Starfleet allies are equally suspicious of my motives, having heard only your arguments to the Federation. Here then are the records of your monstrous deeds. Grelun?”
Responding to Falhain’s command, the dark-haired warrior touched a recessed space on the device, which he had placed on the floor. A flickering light shot up into the air, before coalescing into a three-dimensional, fullmotion image of a village. Homes were burning, as their inhabitants tried to put them out. Chiarosan troops, in military garb, were attacking the villagers, killing many of them. Picard winced to see that many of the victims were women and children.
Data leaned toward Picard and Riker, his voice carefully modulated so that it was not heard by the others. “It appears to be a holographic projection, sir.”
“That I can figure out for myself, Data,” Picard whispered. “What I need to know is whether or not these images are genuine.”
“Understood, sir.”
The first image dissolved into another image, this time of the Chiarosan soldiers leading villagers down a road. Their captives—people of all ages—were bound, with halfmeter tethers holding each of them together from neck to neck. That hologram changed to another, this one showing a soldier bayoneting an older man in the back as he stood at the edge of a long trench dug into the soil. Lying in the trench were the bodies of many others, their gray blood oozing from wounds in their backs or sides, or from slit throats. Thick clouds of insects buzzed above the corpses.
Data leaned in again. “While it is possible to forge any scene with holographic technology, I believe these images are taken from real events. The slight focus problems and partial blockage in these images implies that the person or persons recording them were in concealment.”
But a clever forger could fake that as well, Picard thought. Still, it did seem real enough to raise his concern.
Picard stepped forward, tugging at the bottom of his tunic. “General Falhain, I believe we have seen enough for the moment. Despite your conviction that we are siding wholeheartedly with Protector Ruardh, it seems that some doubt has been raised about the manner in which she governs her people. None of these images, nor this information, were ever presented to the Federation Council—”
“There’s a good reason for that, Captain,” Ruardh said, imperiously spitting out the final word as though it left a bad taste in her mouth. “The reason is that these images are partially a fabrication, and partially the work of Falhain himself. As you are aware, Falhain used to lead my royal troops, and many of the regiments are still faithful to him. He commanded his men to commit these crimes, then accused me of giving the orders.”
“You dare imply that this is my work?” Falhain bellowed. “You are known by the people as the ‘Ashen Ruler,’ for the blood that creeps up the trains of your gowns. I left your service after your political mandates began afflicting the outlanders with further hardships—where goods could be sold, how the clans could support each other, where we could live, and how many of us could continue to eat and drink. Your parliamentary decisions filled the prisons with the desperately poor and the infirm. I have opposed you in the streets and in the shadows ever since these injustices began. But I have never, never killed an innocent!”
Tabor stepped forward, his voice louder, but still soothing. Picard could tell that he was trying to exert some calm control over the situation, which was quickly deteriorating. “General Falhain, Protector Ruardh, please. This wall of recrimination and accusation cannot stem the tide of unrest amongst the Chiarosans. The referendum begins in three days, and it is the people who will decide then whether your planet becomes a part of the Federation, or falls under the control of the Romulan Star Empire.”
“And who will vote in an election that threatens their lives and families?” asked Falhain. “The rebels are not allowed to vote or they will be incarcerated or executed. And are you truly so naive as to believe that a ruler who so oppresses her people would allow for a true and just election?”
Falhain gestured over toward T’Alik and her contingent. “And as for the Romulans, they do not appear overly interested in any struggle of Chiarosan against Chiarosan.”
Picard shot a quick glance at Troi, who shrugged slightly. She can’t tell whether that’s true or not, he thought.
“Then why do you suppose they want this system?” Picard said to Falhain. “In my experience, the Romulans never do anything just because it helps someone else. They are conquerors. What makes you so sure that they will not enslave your entire society if the Chiarosans choose not to ally themselves with the Federation?”
Falhain looked to Picard again, one eyebrow raised. “Your question is rather pointless, is it not, Captain? If the Romulans were going to conquer us, why have they not done so before now?” He paused for a moment, seemingly for the question to sink in, then continued. “I am not a blind man, Picard, nor one who is easily convinced in any argument. The Romulans have neither hindered nor aided us in our battles. My belief is that their chief concern in whether or not Ruardh continues to rule is that they wish to expand the boundaries of the worlds that are a part of their empire, and to stop the creeping expansion and domination of your people. If the referendum moves to Ruardh’s wishes—toward acceptance of Federation membership—the Empire will ultimately lose. If the people’s will wins out, and we reject the Federation, then we will be able to continue to chart our own destiny, free of an oppressive outside structure which would support a government that kills its own children!”
Tabor held up his hands to call for order, and Picard broke his eyes away from his steady gaze into Falhain’s. Behind him, and to his side, he saw Deanna Troi’s expression change dramatically, from one of concern to one of pain and shock. Suddenly, she leaped forward, pushing Picard to the ground. A sizzling beam of energy sliced through the air where he had been standing seconds before.
And then all hell broke loose. From the top of the arena, disruptor fire rained down upon the Chiarosan leaders, the Romulans, and the Starfleet personnel. The second blast struck one of Falhain’s rebels in the chest, leaving a smoking crater in his furred skin as he toppled backward. In moments, the Chiarosans—on both sides of the political spectrum—had drawn their scimitar-like swords, or other bladed weapons, and a melee erupted.
As Troi dove toward a be
nch, a disruptor blast searing the marble floor by her feet, Picard rolled to one side. A Chiarosan rebel turned and saw him, and raised one scimitar above his head to strike a killing blow. Picard kicked his foot up between the warrior’s legs, and the impact had the desired effect. Picard rolled again as the rebel’s now-unsteady swing missed its mark. A sharp whistling sound went over the captain’s head, as a nearby Chiarosan used his own blade to chop off the sword arm of the attacker, burying the metal into his foe’s chest. The severed Chiarosan arm flopped down on top of Picard, still clutching its curved weapon.
The captain quickly wrested the scimitar from the hand’s grasp and stood in a defensive crouch. In his mind, Picard cursed the rules of Federation diplomacy that forbade weapons, leaving himself and his officers the only ones unprotected in the fight. He searched for his friends in the melee, but couldn’t spot them. Nor could he see Tabor.
The fighting was loud and brutal, and inhumanly fast. The soldiers and the rebels were interlocked in savagery, their guttural yowls and clanging steel blades creating an awesome din. Picard spotted a soldier advancing on two of the Romulans, holding his weapons in both hands. The captain launched himself at the warrior with a yell, but one of the Romulans was killed before he could cover the distance.
The Chiarosan swung one sword high, and the other low, but Picard ducked and brought his own blade to parry the lower blow. Picard kept the blades in contact and forced both to swing to one side. Before the warrior could recover, Picard brought his weapon down again. It connected with his opponent’s wrist, and the lightly furred hand was cleanly separated from his arm.
The attacker howled, and slashed at Picard with his remaining scythe. Although his aim was unsteady, he still managed to connect, the tip of his weapon slicing through Picard’s tunic and slitting his upper chest. Suddenly, the Chiarosan howled and crumpled forward, a saber wound bleeding at the base of his spine. Behind him was one of Ruardh’s bodyguards, who gave Picard a brief glance of respect before turning to fight another of the rebels.
Rogue Page 8