As Spock paused and regarded the audience, movement caught his attention. On the left side of the auditorium, halfway to the rear of the hall, two people had risen from their seats. Spock anticipated a vocal protest, expecting the pair to wield placards with opposition sentiments emblazoned across them. Instead, they simply made their way to one of the exits and departed the event.
Spock continued his speech. He highlighted some of the primary distinctions between the Vulcan and Romulan societies, and posited how they could benefit from the interaction of one with the other, and ultimately from the commingling of the two. He expressed his ideas easily, and in a manner that Romulan audiences had received well during the period that he and the others in the Movement had been speaking publicly. That evening, though, he had a different experience.
As Spock addressed the crowd, more of their number followed the lead of the first two who had exited the rally. He willed himself past the distraction of individuals moving about in the auditorium, but he remained keenly aware of the exodus. By the end of his half-hour oration, a tenth or so of the audience had left—approximately a hundred people.
When he concluded his remarks, Spock received a round of applause, seemingly genuine, but tepid when compared with the ovation granted Corthin. As the other speakers joined him onstage to take questions, he considered whether the mass departure during his address could have been a coordinated effort aimed at weakening the Movement. Perhaps a group from the government, or some other faction opposed to reunification, attended the rally in order to prevent more citizens from doing so. Or their exiting when they did could have been designed as a message to the Movement, or as an attempt to undermine Spock’s perceived value as a spokesperson and leader. Coupled with the appearance of protesters at the event in Vela’Setora earlier, and the subsequent violence, any or all of Spock’s suspicions could be accurate.
But he didn’t think so.
Praetor Kamemor and the Imperial Senate needn’t resort to such deception to effectively shut down the Movement. Spock and his comrades had not grown so popular that their disappearance from the public discourse would merit anything more than limited notice, much less any sort of social uprising. And while the Tal Shiar certainly had a penchant for subterfuge, and its chairwoman a genuine animus for Spock, such efforts at their behest would have seemed … clumsy.
No, Spock thought. Not the actions of the praetor, the Senate, or the Tal Shiar. He would allow Venaster and Dorlok and their security team to investigate those possibilities, but he knew that they would find nothing. Rather, Spock thought it far more likely that the audience in the Cailax Auditorium had delivered its own message, and a much simpler truth: his own status as the de facto standard-bearer and driving force of the Reunification Movement had plateaued, even as the status and reputation of Corthin—and of some other of Spock’s comrades—continued to grow.
In the auditorium, about a quarter of the audience remained in their seats as several of their number asked questions of the six individuals onstage. As Spock expected, based upon the reactions of the crowd throughout the evening, Corthin received the bulk of the attention. No one directed a single query to Spock.
For the first time in fourteen years, since embarking on his quest to see his people reunited with their ancestral cousins, since taking over a leadership role in the Movement from the corrupt Senator Pardek, Spock realized that his days championing reunification might be nearing their natural end.
6
Korzenten Rej Tov-AA, autarch of the Tzenkethi Coalition, strode through his personal corridor in the Anwol Kaht, the great, sprawling edifice that housed the offices of the national government. His footsteps whispered along the black, velvety fabric that swathed every surface. The passage connected from the autarch’s own suite of offices—which included workspaces for him and his advisors—to the Ministerial Gallery. Over time, Korzenten had ornamented the corridor with selections from his extensive art collection, creating an elegant display designed neither to parade his vast wealth nor to shrink from it.
Ahead loomed a large door, a rondure composed of curved, burnished strips of wood, fitted together in a complex and eye-catching pattern. The sigil of the office of the autarch—a slender, silvern triangle set base upward atop a circular yellow background—adorned its center. A narrow lighting ribbon ringed the door; illuminated a deep scarlet, the ribbon indicated that the Tzelnira had all arrived for their session, and that they awaited the appearance of their head of state.
As Korzenten neared the door, it irised open, its arced slats sliding around in an intricate motion. From beyond the open doorway, the autarch heard the bell-like tones of Tzenkethi voices, drowned out a moment later by a series of chimes that automatically announced his entrance. The ringing faded as he stepped across the threshold of the Ministerial Gallery.
Without breaking his gait, Korzenten headed across the empty space toward its center, toward its only feature: a low, circular wall that surrounded the dais from which he presided over the Tzelnira. Looking directly forward, he did not see the Tzenkethi ministers, though he heard the lyrical notes of their muted conversations. As he made his way across the chamber, those voices quieted.
At the low wall, a panel slid aside, allowing Korzenten to mount the dais. A cylindrical block of polished black stone sat at its center, and he eased himself down onto it. Only after pulling his legs up and wrapping them around the lower portion of his torso did he raise his head.
Above him—at least from his perspective on the Gallery’s superior floor—he saw the Tzelnira. They sat arrayed in a concentric configuration on the inferior floor, at long, solid slabs of stone that formed circular tables. A single path cut through each of the tables, from the outer section of the Gallery to its center, allowing each of the ministers access to their positions.
Korzenten surveyed the ranks of the eighty-one officials who formed the Tzelnira. They all gazed at him with large pupils, the colors of their eyes as varied as that of their flesh. The skin tones of the ministers ran mostly from a dusky orange to a deep, ocean green, all of them radiating a gentle glow. The autarch could see a few reds scattered throughout the chamber, though none as brightly hued as himself, nor any of those with his highly contrasting golden eyes.
“Ministers of the Tzenkethi Coalition,” he intoned, “I call this session of the Tzelnira to order.” An audio pickup amplified his words and carried them throughout the Gallery. Unlike the high-pitched voices of many Tzenkethi, Korzenten spoke in deep, low tones. “We are gathered today to discuss an issue involving worlds proximate to our borders.”
Technically, as autarch, Korzenten wielded absolute power. The ministers and their staffs for the most part managed the day-to-day and longer-term needs and operations of individual localities, coordinating with each other on national matters as circumstances dictated, but any of their decisions could be overridden by the autarch. As a matter of law, he required no authorization from the Tzelnira or anybody else to take any action he deemed advisable. From the standpoint of practicality, however, he believed that it made sense for him to seek out information, opinion, and advice. With his genetic disposition placing him firmly in the Tov classification—the echelon of governmental leaders—his valuation as one of the few AA levels in Tzenkethi society left him as one of the very few eligible to serve as Rej—as autarch of the Coalition. But even as the most qualified for the position, and even after his long experience serving in that capacity—he had succeeded the previous autarch upon her death during the last Tzenkethi-Federation War—he still found benefit in consulting the Tzelnira. Korzenten’s superior DNA had gone unsurpassed during the time of his rule, but he understood that made him neither omniscient nor infallible.
At the same time, he had already decided on a course of action with respect to the issue he would raise before the Tzelnira.
Korzenten scanned the inferior floor for his aides, and saw two of them situated in a corner, apart from the ministers. Velenez Bel Gar-A an
d Zelent Bel Gar-A formed a useful tandem, providing the autarch a great deal of support. Both glowed a pale yellow, one with yellow eyes, the other with orange.
“My aides have prepared a brief presentation about the issue,” Korzenten told the Tzelnira.
On his cue, the lighting dimmed, although the natural luminescence of all the Tzenkethi present prevented the chamber from darkening completely. The autarch lowered his gaze from the Tzelnira and peered to the side, at the lateral floor that connected the superior and inferior floors. There, on the curved surface, a large display activated. On it appeared the image of a blue-and-white world hanging in space.
“This is the planet Laskitor Three,” said Velenez, his voice amplified and transmitted throughout the chamber. “It is on the Coalition frontier, and it was first mapped three generations ago by the astronomer Corliad Ank Zon-B, and later surveyed by the crew of the vessel Seyer.” On the display, the planet vanished, replaced by a pastoral scene of tall grasses swaying atop rolling hills. “Its atmosphere, surface temperature, and gravity make Laskitor suitable for Tzenkethi life. It possesses an abundance of natural, though by no means exotic or particularly valuable, resources. It is uninhabited.” Velenez paused, and the image of the world reappeared. This time, a starship orbited above it, but not one of Tzenkethi design.
“At least, it was uninhabited.”
A peal of voices immediately rang out in the Gallery. Korzenten appreciated the dramatic timing of the presentation. As he watched the display, the picture on it changed to a closer view of the ship. It featured a roughly triangular forward hull, with two separate, parallel beams protruding aft, from which flanged wings supported warp nacelles. There could be no mistaking the origin of the grayish vessel.
“This is the Federation vessel Mjolnir,” said Velenez. “Two hundred days ago, Mjolnir and other Starfleet ships began ferrying Federation citizens from their colony world of Entelior Four to Laskitor.” The image changed again, to an aerial view of numerous artificial structures. “All indications are that the Federation is bent on colonizing Laskitor.”
Again, the jingling sound of Tzenkethi voices rose in the Gallery. Korzenten heard one minister exclaim, “Imperialists!” The autarch agreed completely.
On the display, a map of the stars appeared. A shading of green clearly identified the territory of the Tzenkethi Coalition, while blue distinguished Federation space. Between the two, three pinpoints of light stood out. As Korzenten watched, names materialized one by one beside each.
“This is Laskitor,” said Velenez. “And this is Ergol, and this is Corat. Since first transporting colonists to Laskitor, the Federation has also claimed worlds in these systems.” Velenez waited for a few moments before saying anything more, presumably to allow the enormity of what had taken place to impress itself upon the ministers. “Right now, we don’t know which worlds they will take next.”
As the display blinked off and the lighting returned to a normal level, the excited voices of the ministers became a tumult. Korzenten looked up to see many of the Tzelnira gesturing demonstratively as they spoke with each other, responding to what they had just seen. The autarch waited. Slowly, voices quieted, until one of the ministers triggered his request signal; others followed. Set into the desk of each Tzelnira, the light shined indigo when activated, indicating that its owner sought permission to address the autarch and the Gallery.
When all of the ministers had stopped speaking, Korzenten selected one from among their number. He reached forward to a panel set into the wall enclosing his dais. Touching a control, he disengaged the request signal for all but one of the Tzelnira, simultaneously activating the minister’s audio input. “Minister Vonar,” Korzenten said.
The chosen Tzelnira, with yellow skin and green eyes, unwrapped his legs from around his midsection, set them on the floor, and stood up. Vonar Tzel Tov-A hailed from a planet on the opposite side of the Coalition from the Federation. While hardly an apologist for the UFP, he could typically be counted upon to eschew a call to arms. Korzenten had recognized him first in order to dispense with such talk. The autarch might not have needed the backing of the Tzelnira, but gaining their support certainly simplified his efforts in accomplishing a particular goal.
“My Rej,” Vonar said, his voice transmitted throughout the Gallery by the audio system, “was not the world of Entelior Four one of those savagely attacked by the Borg during their invasion of Federation space?”
“It was,” Korzenten said, pleased with the minister’s predictability.
“And what of the other worlds from which the populations were displaced to Ergol and Corat?” Vonar asked. “Were these also devastated by the Borg?”
“They were,” said Korzenten.
“Does it not stand to reason, then, that the Federation is merely and reasonably finding whatever means they can to rescue their citizens in the wake of the invasion?” Vonar said. “Have we detected any advanced weaponry being installed on these planets?”
“The settlements have been equipped with standard defenses,” Korzenten said. Then, measuring his words, he added, “At least, as far as we’ve been able to determine.”
“Then it seems unnecessary,” Vonar said, “to infer from the available information that they have chosen these worlds in order that they might more readily attack us.”
“It was not suggested that the Federation intends to attack,” Korzenten said. He operated his controls to switch off Vonar’s request signal and audio input, then watched as numerous other Tzelnira vied for a chance to speak. The autarch decided on one from the world on which they stood, Ab-Tzenketh, the capital of the Coalition, located directly in its heart. “Minister Aztral.”
The pink-skinned, blue-eyed Aztral Tzel Tov-B leaped to her feet, which she had already planted on the floor beside her chair. Among the Tzelnira, she had a well-deserved reputation for favoring military solutions over diplomacy. “My Rej,” she said, “Minister Vonar speaks of what we can infer from ‘available information.’ I will point out that such information includes the facts that the United Federation of Planets has consistently been at odds politically with the Tzenkethi Coalition, and that they have pressured us into several costly military engagements. They have also pursued an expansionist policy without surcease, even now, at a time when they have been dramatically weakened by the Borg.”
“All of what you say is true,” Korzenten acknowledged. “So what would you have the Coalition do?” In sessions of the Tzelnira, the autarch disliked asking questions to which he did not already know the answer. Aztral did not disappoint him.
“Attack,” she said. “While they are still in the process of restoring their forces.”
“Starfleet may not be at its fullest strength,” Korzenten said, “but they do have starships equipped with quantum slipstream drive.” The autarch also knew that the Typhon Pact, and therefore the Coalition, might soon have the slipstream drive for themselves. A Breen operative had stolen the plans for the advanced propulsion system from Starfleet not long ago, and Breen engineers presently worked to construct a functioning prototype of the hyper-warp engine. But Korzenten did not yet wish to reveal that information, both because a Pact version of the drive had yet to be made a reality, and because it would not serve his purposes in eliciting the full support of the Tzelnira.
“They have slipstream,” Aztral said, “and we have the Typhon Pact. Surely an equalizer.”
“Nothing is sure in war,” Korzenten said. He deactivated Aztral’s request signal and audio input, her use to him in the current session at an end. “And if we launch a war, would we not want our forces and those of our allies to be more than equal to those of our enemy and their allies?” The autarch selected another Tzelnira to speak. “Minister Zeleer.”
“My Rej,” Zeleer Tzel Tov-A said, rising to his feet. Green skin, and eyes of a lighter green. “While not espousing war, I do think it seems unwise to allow the Federation a beachhead on the threshold of our territory.”
“Would you have us attack the populations on Laskitor, Ergol, and Corat?” Korzenten asked, permitting a note of disgust to tinge his voice. “These are innocent refugees resettling from decimated worlds.”
“My Rej,” Zeleer said haltingly, likely indicating that he intended to disagree with the autarch. “I would suggest that no Federation citizen is innocent. It is they who choose their leaders, and it is their leaders who provoked the Borg, who brought destruction down upon themselves.”
“That is true,” Korzenten agreed, “but it is not specifically the refugees on these three worlds that threaten the Coalition.”
“Then we must take the fight to those who do threaten us,” Zeleer insisted.
That quickly, Korzenten had maneuvered the Tzelnira to his point of view. It did not matter that he did not require their approval, but it simplified his life when he received it. He would allow their dialogue with him to continue, let more of the ministers voice their opinions, but he felt confident that he would generate a consensus among them to do as Zeleer had proposed: take the fight to the recovering Starfleet. The autarch did not want war with the Federation, not yet, but they needed to be reminded that they could not encroach on Coalition territory with impunity.
Harrowing Starfleet and the Federation satisfied Korzenten in the same way that manipulating the Tzelnira did: both made for interesting sport.
August 2382
7
“I do not have to kill you to change the shape of your life.”
The words terrorized, even though they came delivered without inflection, without nuance, cold syllables electronically pronounced and secondarily translated into Federation Standard so that Sarina Douglas could understand her Breen inquisitor. A chill seized Sarina, clad only in her undergarments, even as a hot spotlight blinded her to her surroundings. Metal restraints bound her limbs to the hard chair in which she sat, her feet feeling frozen atop the unyielding concrete surface beneath them.
Star Trek: Typhon Pact 06: Plagues of Night Page 8