And it had been. “The Vulcans established a colony here, well over a century ago,” Picard explained. “They sought to terraform—or Vulcaniform, if you will—with the machinery you see here.” The captain pointed to the large cylindrical tower looming over the center of the island. “There are also four large buildings situated at the corners of the landmass, treating water for the citizens’ consumption. The atmosphere did become breathable—”
“That’s open to debate,” Riker said, flashing a weary but wry smile.
“—but the Vulcans still weren’t able to effectively mine the seas with the technology of the day,” Picard continued. “So they abandoned the site.”
“And then came the squatters,” Riker said. “I read the briefing.”
“It’s something to see it in person, though.” Picard seemed to marvel at the mass of buildings clustered around, despite their condition. “A factory first, then a city, enlarged purely through the use of local materials. A city torn in half, almost from the start.”
Riker glanced at the diminutive sentries posted along the street. None of the Ekorr stood any higher than his shoulders. They were survivors from some civilization the Federation had yet to encounter. Discovering Garadius IV ninety years earlier, they had found it to their tastes and settled on Sanctum Isle. Having no noses must’ve helped, Riker thought.
But another spacefaring culture had staked a claim at the same time. Picard scaled stone steps to a long colonnade, splitting the city—and the island itself—in two. At the far side of the clearing stood several massive green figures, some behind cover. All of them appeared to be armed.
“Lurians, aren’t they?” Riker asked, squinting to see. At this distance, it was hard to see much more than the fact that they were twice the size of the Ekorr, but he was familiar with the species. The things were all chin, with tiny ears situated high on their heads.
“I met one at a bar while on assignment somewhere,” Picard said. “Morn was his name. Told me some of the most interesting stories.”
“But the Lurians are a peaceful race.”
“Our friends across the way are not. Outcasts, I suppose; for whatever reason, they settled here, taking the name Baladonians. They don’t like to share, or so I’m told.”
Riker shook his head. He felt as if he was witnessing the prelude to an ancient Napoleonic battle. The Ekorr stood watch along one side of what the guard had called Prophets Plaza, weapons raised and facing off a somewhat smaller number of Baladonians lined up on the other side. A hundred meters separated the parties—and Riker could see bodies strewn across the space between them. A stone barricade, pounded half to bits, was erected partway across; Riker could just make out an Ekorr there, waving in their direction.
Picard looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “Shall we?” Turning, the balding captain stepped gamely into the no-man’s-land. Riker looked at Deanna once before both followed.
“Seventeen failed peace expeditions,” Riker whispered. “How is that possible?”
“I’m sensing nothing but suspicion and bad feeling here,” Troi said. If the fetid air wasn’t giving the empath a headache, the local emotions were. “It’s unmistakable.”
“Well then, we’ll know when we’ve succeeded,” Picard said. “We’re here on a mercy mission, so we might as well stage a conference.”
Riker nodded and glanced up ahead, where the big cylindrical tower left by the Vulcans stood. Fifty meters high, the air scrubber blasted jets of cleaner air at the surrounding landscape; the dense smog above kept it circulating close to the ground. Both the air- and water-filtration systems, using old Vulcan technology, needed repair calls every few years. This visit, like those in the past, had been motivated by just such a request. It gave the Federation its chance for arbitration.
“Can you tell, Number One? Mister La Forge’s crews have started their work up there. We’re breathing easier already.”
“I’m not sure I can say that with dozens of disruptors pointed in my direction,” Riker said, continuing to walk. “Both these groups are warp-capable. Why do they stay when there isn’t room for both groups to—”
“More genius analysis from the genius Federation geniuses!” A helmetless Ekorr stomped toward them from the barricade. He had a lonely swig of brown hair pasted to his head in a spiral—and a voice more annoying, if that was possible, than that of the guard who greeted them. “Of course we’re staying! You want us to abandon the holiest of Ekorr holy places to the enemy? And you would say that here? Here? Do you know where you’re standing, Federation-man?”
Riker bit his lip and looked around. “According to the original schematics, this clearing was designed to be the main landing zone for the Vulcan transports, years ago—”
“He calls Prophets Plaza, our venerable and holy promenade of enlightenment, a ‘landing zone’! Brilliant! Why don’t you take your ‘expert’ expertise and peddle it where things are peddled?”
Riker was taken aback—but Picard spoke quickly, presenting his hand. “Peacebroker Zorrayn, I presume.”
The Ekorr didn’t accept the hand. “Wait!” he declared in a tone a Ferengi would find grating. “I demand to see your documents! You could be enemy agents of the enemy!”
“Not a problem.” Picard fished for the padd in the pocket of his uniform.
“Time-wasting wasters of time!”
Puzzled, Riker examined his combadge. “Is there something wrong with the Universal Communicator? You seem to be saying things twice.”
Zorrayn snapped the padd from Picard’s hand. “If your holy place was infested with oafish and dunderheaded oafs, you’d repeat yourself too!” He glanced for half a second at the padd. “This information is worthless. So you must be from the Federation!”
He flung the data device in the air. Startled, Riker reached out to grab it. Passing it back to Picard, he saw the captain’s expression.
I know that look, Riker thought. It’s “Here we go.”
* * *
And there they went—speaking next to Overlord Jakoh, across the battle zone. Lime-faced and muscular like his companions, Jakoh was far hairier than the bald Lurian whom Picard described meeting years earlier. And the overlord claimed a royal bloodline, as grandson of the great Baladon, who had led his Lurian followers to Garadius years before.
The Baladonians also referred to the landmass as Sanctum Isle, but as Riker immediately found, that was the sole point of agreement between the two warring parties. The massive Jakoh made plain within the first minute how hard it would be to reach common ground: “I’m not sure who these Ekorr are that you’re talking about.”
“Excuse me?” Picard said.
“These Eee-korr.” He sounded the word out with his impossibly deep voice. “You know, I don’t think I’ve heard that before.”
Riker smiled. “Is this some kind of joke? The people across the tarmac there. The folks who’ve been bringing down half the city with you.”
Jakoh, seeming genuinely puzzled, looked to his lumbering rifle-toting aides. “Are you getting any of this? Anybody?”
The other Baladonians, still keeping their sights set on the Ekorr barricades, shrugged.
“Got me,” said one.
“Ekorr. That’s a new one,” said another.
Picard stopped himself from wincing. “Come now, you must be—”
“Ooooh,” Jakoh said, the word rumbling deep in his diaphragm. “Wait a minute. There were those—what were they, the vermin my grandfather found when he got here. Some little rodents he stamped out. Ekorr, yeah.” He looked directly at Picard and Riker. “They’ve been gone for a long time.”
Troi goggled. “They’re standing just across the way!”
“You’re aiming at them!” Riker added.
“Sorry, I can’t help you.”
Picard flashed a curt smile and put up his index finger.
“Excuse us.”
The three Starfleet officers stepped away, while the Baladonians continued to chatter back and forth, debating. “Wasn’t rodents, Overlord. Weren’t they some kind of bugs?”
Picard leaned in to speak with Troi. “This is all for humor, right? There’s no real cognitive dissonance going on. They can see the Ekorr, right?”
“I’m certain of it,” the counselor said. “You’re hearing wishful thinking, amplified by their own prejudices. They do consider the Ekorr to be less than nothing, pests they’d like to rid themselves of. So in a sense, while they are lying, they believe what they’re saying to you.”
“Marvelous,” the captain said. He looked at Riker and winked. “Welcome to the art of diplomacy, Number One. I think this will take some time . . .”
Three
* * *
Deanna, watch out!”
Disruptor blasts filled the air over Prophets Plaza again. Riker grabbed Troi’s shoulder and shoved her forward, out of the crossfire. The two collapsed to the shattered concrete just in front of the Baladonians’ makeshift barrier.
“Hold fire!” Jakoh said.
It would help if they told that to the other side, Riker thought, as more rifle shots struck the ground nearby. He scrambled to his feet. Troi reached safety behind the Baladonian barricade seconds before he did.
“So much for the ‘promenade of enlightenment,’ ” she muttered.
Riker glared at Jakoh, who was congratulating his gunners. “Dammit, Jakoh! If the Ekorr don’t exist, what are you shooting at?”
“Everyone needs to practice sometime,” the Baladonian said, smiling toothily.
“Right.” Riker withdrew, sullen.
Picard, he saw, was already here—and no happier for his correct prediction. It had taken time—hours of the would-be diplomats crossing back and forth between the rival camps. So far, their efforts had produced absolutely nothing—apart from a few scorch marks on Riker’s trousers. “We’d better start beaming back and forth, Captain. These truces are as flimsy as a Ferengi contract!”
“I’m just trying to get representatives to the same physical place,” Picard said. “Only a hundred meters between them, but it might as well be light-years!” He appealed for Jakoh’s attention and handed him a padd. “Overlord, the Ekorr have provided me with what they say are terms for an in-person meeting. If you would just have a look . . .”
Jakoh glanced at the document and snarled. “Meaningless markings!”
Picard nodded patiently. “I am sure there are at least some points here on which you can come to an understanding.”
“No, I mean the markings are meaningless. It’s written in Ekorr!”
Riker snorted. “I thought you’d never heard of the Ekorr.”
Picard turned to Riker and glowered. Riker raised his hands. Okay, I’ll shut up.
Picard looked again at the document. “You don’t have any way of translating this?”
“Why would we need such a thing?” Jakoh boomed. “I told you, the Ekorr don’t—”
“Of course,” Picard said. He touched his combadge. “Enterprise, patch me to the Ekorr camp.” A beep sounded. “Zorrayn, if you’re on this channel—can you provide a copy in the Baladonians’ written language?”
Zorrayn’s whine came through loud and clear. “The Baladonians? Of course. Everyone knows how to speak their language.”
“Very well, then—”
“N-n-naaaagghh!”
Picard scowled as he listened to the obnoxious sound coming from his combadge. “Excuse me?”
“N-n-naaaagghh! N-n-naaaagghh! The Baladonians sound just like eltorfs, braying beasts of burden from our ancestral homeland. So this is the only way to communicate with such beings! N-n-naaaagghh!” Several other Ekorr voices joined the cacophony.
Jakoh snarled. “What are these sounds?” He loomed over Picard. “What is the meaning of this?”
“N-n-naaaagghh! N-n-naaaagghh! N-n-naaaagghh!”
“Come now,” Picard said, struggling to be heard over the noise from his own communicator. “This is childishness!”
“Childish?” Zorrayn said over the channel. “I’ll have you know these sounds are coming from our Board of Elders! Wait, I’ll bring the communicator closer to them so you can hear better.”
Hearing the braying start again, Picard tapped the combadge off in aggravation. He looked up at Jakoh and shrugged. The overlord stalked off.
“It’s the diplomatic Kobayashi Maru,” Riker said.
“We’re not beaten yet,” the captain replied. Suddenly, he brightened. “Ah, there’s a happy sight!”
Lieutenant Commander La Forge approached from the east, silver tool case in hand. Adjusting his visor, the engineer pointed to a spot back in the haze. “Water-treatment facility four is in working order again.”
“It’s good to see you,” Riker said.
“It’s good to be seen.”
Riker chuckled. Only on a mission as bad as this one would La Forge’s recent experiences be anything to smile about. Enterprise’s visit to Garadius IV had been delayed by its attempt to render assistance to a damaged Romulan vessel. The Romulans were trying to use a molecular phase inverter to create an interphase cloak. If successful, they would have been able not only to hide their starships from Federation eyes, but also hide them within other matter, such as stars, asteroids—or even other starships.
Instead, the experiment went awry, temporarily knocking Geordi La Forge and Ensign Ro Laren out of phase with the rest of the cosmos. For hours, they had walked the halls of Enterprise, seeing and hearing its occupants while unable to be seen or heard themselves. They could also walk through walls, an act that left chroniton residue in normal space; that phenomenon eventually became the mechanism by which Data recognized their presence and engineered their return to reality.
Riker hadn’t said anything at the time, but the whole episode had unnerved him. As an ensign on the Pegasus a decade earlier, he’d been there when Captain Erik Pressman tested a similar system in violation of the Treaty of Algeron, which forbade cloaking tech on Starfleet vessels. Dire consequences had followed, and Riker had been lucky to escape with his life—and his career. It was one of the rare things he had never shared with Captain Picard. He didn’t feel he could.
La Forge’s experience, meanwhile, sounded horrific to Riker even as it fascinated him. What must it have been like to exist as, for all purposes, a ghost? “Have you figured out yet why you were able to breathe?” he asked.
“I’ve got some ideas,” La Forge said. “I’m also trying to figure out how gravity acted on us. You’d think with our bodies unable to interact with normal matter, we’d have fallen through the floor—or tumbled backward through space, with Enterprise leaving us behind.”
“So you could keep that poor Romulan company?” Riker shook his head. It was almost a joke, but thinking about the phased Romulan who’d been kicked out into space by Ro Laren chilled him. What had he endured?
“It’s one for the books, all right,” Riker said. “Maybe you’ll write one.”
“I’m half ready to forget it. I was afraid I would starve to death watching the rest of you eat food I couldn’t touch!” He looked to the captain. “Data’s and Barclay’s teams should be finished with their treatment plants shortly. The machinery’s seen a lot of use.”
Staring at the distant Ekorr line, Picard nodded. He took Riker aside. “Will, we’re going to have to divide and conquer here. I will speak with the Baladonians—as will Data, when he arrives. Go back across—beam, this time—and see if you and Troi can get the Ekorr to make even the most basic concessions to civilized diplomatic discourse.”
“Reminds me of elementary school. I just want them to quit with the farm-animal noises.”
“Well, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” Picard said, continuing to
stare off at the Ekorr. “Let’s take what we can get now and try to work our way up to that.”
* * *
Five days had passed on Garadius IV. Riker knew, because he had checked the time once every five minutes that he’d been awake.
The final water-treatment plant had proved difficult to service, giving the Enterprise negotiators additional time to work with both parties—but Riker felt that a decade wouldn’t be enough. In the last seventy-two hours, Picard and Riker had tried everything they could think of.
Their best hope, inviting both Zorrayn and Jakoh aboard Enterprise for a one-on-one meeting, was a total flop. Jakoh had provided a list of dietetic demands in quantities so massive that it soon became clear he was trying to wheedle leftovers for his entire command team. Zorrayn, for his part, had such exacting requirements for the negotiation room that they doubted the holodeck would be large enough.
“Garadius is our holy place,” Zorrayn had said, “and the Altar of Bothmune the symbol of all our hopes and aspirations. No true Ekorr could be far from it for long. I demand that it be represented in the negotiation room. Life size, and with real matter—none of your fake holographic fakery!”
The Altar of Bothmune, Riker knew, was a slab of metal almost the size of a shuttlecraft—and, in reality, nothing more than a massive anvil, part of an enormous industrial press that the Vulcans had left behind in their fabrication center. The Ekorr probably knew that too, but didn’t care: They had somehow moved the thing to the Lyceum Garadius, the former Vulcan meditation sanctuary, where it had become the center of the Ekorr religion.
Negotiations had thus stayed on the surface, with Picard and Riker deciding to switch parties at the end of each day. It was frustrating. The Baladonians had proved lacking in imagination—they constantly cast everything into martial terms and managed to miss the point of anything else.
“So,” Jakoh had asked, “in this ‘peace’ you’re describing, we would still be able to kill Ekorr, right?”
Star Trek: Titan: Absent Enemies Page 2