by John M. Ford
The screen went white.
“Him I understand,” Maktai said.
Marcus van Diemen appeared on the screen, frozen-framed, standing in front of San Francisco by night. A voice said, “For the benefit of our viewers who did not see the original broadcast, we present again Admiral van Diemen’s last message…once again, Starfleet Chief of Staff Marcus van Diemen is dead at 67. More details as they become available.”
Krenn turned off the sound, but not the monitor. He picked up the hotel communicator, watching the screen. On the bed, Maktai was dismantling the transporter referent.
“Good afternoon,” Krenn said. “I would like to arrange a meeting with the Deputy Conference Chairman, Admiral Douglas Shepherd…. Yes, I am certain he is very busy. Tell him this is Captain Krenn sutai-Rustazh of the Klingon Empire.
“Thank you. Tell him also that one other Human must be present at this meeting. His name is…” Krenn reached into his tunic, produced a small plastic card. “…Carter Winston, delegate to Babel from the planet Deneva.
“Yes, I shall be pleased to have the Ambassador there, but it is not required. Mr. Winston’s presence is required.
“It is indeed related to that. I suggest a place more secure than my suite. I suggest the most secure place Admiral Shepherd can arrange.
“Thank you.”
Krenn broke the link. He flexed the card with Winston’s name between his fingers, cracked it across, and dropped the pieces into a metal wastebasket. They glowed orange as they fell, and were burning whitely before they touched the bottom.
On one wall of the conference chamber, a display panel showed colored wave patterns, continuous proof that the room’s electronic defenses were functional. Overhead, a circular ventilator moved cold, damp air with a continuous rush.
Krenn supposed all Security meeting rooms looked alike: all blank and bare, as if any hint of warmth or comfort were an entrance for the enemy. This room even had access by transporter only, like Meth’s window on the Council: but there were three discs on the stage, and of course it was the screeching Federation device. Krenn listened to the irritating sound of the ventilator and wondered if, should the power fail, they would all suffocate, sealed inside the Starfleet Tower. He had no disruptor to burn an exit.
Krenn sat at one long side of the long black table. The Red File rested near his left elbow. At the narrow end to Krenn’s right was Douglas Tancred Shepherd, for the last forty minutes the Acting Chief of Staff for Starfleet. At the other end Dr. Tagore sat, a little back from the table, fingers interlaced in his lap.
The door hissed open, and another Human came in: he wore a narrow-waisted suit of purple velvet, with a white silk scarf at his throat. There was a silver ring on his left hand, of simple and elegant design, mounting a red-gold stone. His hair was a medium brown, long, caught at the back of his neck with a plain silver band. His face would have been smooth, except for the lines of worry in it.
“I understand that the situation is difficult, Admiral Shepherd,” he said, firmly, not angrily. “But I don’t appreciate being rousted from a business lunch in a public place by rude men in cheap suits. We don’t do that on Deneva, and I certainly didn’t expect it on Earth. I’m going to—” He turned, saw Krenn. “—Oh, my stars.”
“We apologize for any embarrassment that may have been caused, Mr. Winston,” Admiral Shepherd said, “but I doubt that troops in uniform would have been any less so, and the matter is very important.
“This is Captain Krenn, of the Klingon cruiser Mirror. And Dr. Emanuel Tagore, our Ambassador to the Klingon Empire.”
“Carter Winston,” the young Human said. “Resources Corporation of Deneva…” He looked at Shepherd, then Dr. Tagore. “I don’t, ah, have a translator with me…”
Krenn said, “I understand you, Mr. Winston.”
Shepherd said, “Please sit down, sir.”
Winston sat.
Krenn said, “Admiral, what is the latest word on the death of Admiral van Diemen?”
Shepherd said, “We’re still investigating—”
Dr. Tagore said gently, “I think, Doug, that if Starfleet knows anything, it had best be said.”
Shepherd tensed. Measuring the words, he said “At 1552 hours Universal Time today…1052 locally…an electrical fault in the guideway control system stopped Admiral van Diemen’s train, just south of Macon, Georgia. Colonel Duquesne, the Security officer in charge, sealed the cars at once.
“Six minutes twenty seconds after the stop, Colonel Duquesne checked on Admiral van Diemen, who was in a sleeping compartment. When the Admiral did not respond, the Colonel had the compartment door forced.
“The Admiral was on the bed inside, wearing his dress uniform, with a holstered, fully charged pistol. He appeared to be asleep, and the first assumption was of a stroke or heart attack.
“However…the military physician who examined the body a few minutes later discovered that cause of death was a clean cervical fracture.”
“What?” Winston said.
Dr. Tagore said, “The Admiral died in bed of a broken neck.”
Shepherd said, “In the physician’s opinion, death had occurred within the last twenty minutes, which is to say, no more than ten minutes before the train was stopped, or immediately afterward.”
Winston said, “Couldn’t they have frozen him—or something?”
“The spinal cord was entirely severed. As by a knife, the doctor’s report says, though the skin was unbroken. Even if the Admiral had not suffered irreversible brain damage from loss of oxygen, there would be little hope of restoring function to his body below the neck.” Shepherd paused. “Marc van Diemen wouldn’t want that.”
“So he was murdered,” Winston said.
Admiral Shepherd said, “I’ve seen men die of broken necks, and they…twitch when they die. Not for long, but…Marc’s body was as composed as if he was sleeping. Which means someone composed it.”
“And your suspects?” Dr. Tagore said.
“There were eight soldiers, including Colonel Duquesne, three train crew, and two members of the Chief’s personal staff. The blow was very precise, but superhuman strength wasn’t necessary, only knowing how, and anyone could know how. All of Duquesne’s troops admit they do know. The compartment was latched, but a screwdriver could open it, and all the train crew knew how to do that. As for alibis, a train is a very small place, distances are short. It would have taken perhaps a minute, perhaps thirty seconds or less. And in the confusion of the sudden stop…well.
“We have thirteen suspects, and unless one of them confesses, we are not likely to have a prosecution. And a confession is unlikely.” Shepherd looked at Krenn. “As the means we may use to extract confessions are strictly limited.”
“Our facilities are at your disposal, of course,” Krenn said, in klingonaase.
Winston looked at Krenn, said to Shepherd, “You haven’t mentioned a motive. But I don’t suppose I need to ask that, do I? He was on his way to Babel.”
“Via the eye of the needle, it would seem,” Dr. Tagore said very quietly.
Winston said, his voice rising, “Why are you sitting on this? Don’t you realize what’ll happen when the truth comes out? The Dissolution forces will be discredited completely—anyone who voted to dissolve would be linked to the murderers.”
Dr. Tagore said, “I think you underestimate the flexibility of the members. The greater the excess of an act, the more easily it is disassociated from oneself.”
Winston looked rueful. “Yes…I suppose you’re right.” He gave a short, unhappy laugh. “What am I saying? I’ve dealt with the Pentalians, not to mention Rent-a-Rigellian. I know you’re right.”
“Please do not congratulate me,” Dr. Tagore said.
Krenn said, “Are you then in favor of Federation unity, Mr. Winston?”
Winston looked up. He seemed to have forgotten Krenn’s presence until now. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t be in business if it weren’t for my Federation contr
acts. If it weren’t for Starfleet, I wouldn’t be here; my parents were nearly killed by…well, pirates.”
“And peace concerns you.”
“No businessman in his right mind wants a war. Trade patterns go to perdition, goods get seized, currencies devalue…” Winston laughed again, somewhat less bitterly. “Even my friends in the arms trade prefer a wide-open market.”
“Yet Dissolution seems quite popular.”
“I didn’t say we were all in our right minds.”
Krenn reached into the Red File pouch, brought out a tape cassette. “Is there a means to play this?”
Shepherd took the tape, went to the light panel on the wall. He touched a button, and a panel slid open to expose a playback unit. He put in the cartridge.
A section of the gray wall brightened, showed visual noise. The swirling dots resolved into small squares, then into a picture: here and there, squares still dropped out black, but the Human on the screen was clearly Marcus van Diemen.
“What’s wrong with the picture?” Winston said.
Shepherd said, “It’s a descramble…an unauthorized descramble.” He looked at Krenn, who looked back with a slight smile.
“Standard procedure, as before,” van Diemen was saying to the unseen recipient of the message, “no names, numbers, coordinates. Burn any recordings or notes.” He touched keys on the desk before him, and a transparent starmap appeared in front of him. Stretching from one corner to the other was a wide amber band.
Krenn said, “That is the zone of space which the Federation calls the Klingon Neutral Zone.”
Shepherd said, “That could be tested.”
“A hunter squadron and two scouts to these points,” van Diemen said, indicating them with a fingertip. “Engage, exchange fire, and break off. If you’re pursued, signal code TRIPWIRE for support in strength.”
Krenn said, “Is there such a code, Admiral?”
“That would be…classified,” Shepherd said, staring at the screen.
Van Diemen said, “Your desirable losses are one-third of the hunters and moderate damage to one scout. Loss of one scout is acceptable. However, if a TRIPWIRE directive appears certain to result, any loss may be—”
Shepherd snatched the cartridge from the machine. “This is a fake,” he said. A burr had come into his voice. “Sweet Mary O’Meara, it’s got to be a phony.”
Krenn took a document from the file pouch. “This is a voiceprint and image-source analysis. I do not understand all the technical aspects, but my Communications officer tells me that your signal-intelligence staff will be able to reach the same conclusions.” He touched the File. “There are more intercepts, all of the same general meaning.”
“If these are real,” Shepherd said, “if…”
Krenn said, “Speaking as a Naval officer, I would think the best way to test their validity would be to examine the pattern of skirmishes across the…Neutral Zone.”
Shepherd’s voice was thick with confusion and anger. “You’re sayin’ he was tryin’ to draw you…the Klingons…into a war. Sendin’ crews out deliberately t’be killed. You tell me why the Chief would do that, Captain. An’ it better be a damned good reason.”
Winston said quietly, “Every delegate to Babel knows why, Admiral. We’d never dare dissolve the Federation if we thought some alien menace was waiting to gobble us up piecemeal. I admit, and I’m not proud of it, one of the reasons I was for unity was that I was…afraid of the Klingons.”
“In this,” Krenn said, “there is no need for apology.”
Shepherd said, tightly controlling himself, “Are you telling us, Captain, that the Klingon Empire has no desire for war? That every shoot-out on the frontier has been provoked by Starfleet? For that matter, are you telling us that the Klingons even minded having an excuse to attack across the Zone?”
Krenn smiled, showing teeth. Winston paled slightly; Shepherd stood impassive; Dr. Tagore’s face was calm. Krenn wished that Emanuel were not here; the Ambassador was the only one here who might see through Krenn’s performance.
Krenn said, “I am telling you one thing only. I intend to release this file to the Babel conference. Being no diplomat, I cannot calculate its effects. But I would expect them to be strong. And the killing of the Conference Chairman may seem then to be no more terrible a crime than…” Krenn paused, as if searching for the phrase. “…the shooting of a mad dog.”
Shepherd flushed red, and he was shaking. The plastic cassette creaked in his grip. “I don’t care what you’ve found out wi’ your dirty window-peeping, Captain. You say another such thing about Admiral van Diemen an’ we’ll have it out, right here between us.”
Krenn said nothing. But he saw the tilt of Dr. Tagore’s head, and thought, Emanuel knows, of course. He understands that the Klingon who comes as a friend will always be thought a liar.
Carter Winston pulled gently at his hair, said, “All right, Captain Krenn…what’s the asking price for these documents?”
Shepherd said, “You’ve no authorization—”
“Of course, trade with the Klingon Empire is illegal,” Winston said coolly, “even though it happens on a regular basis. But under the Uniform Law of Space Salvage, any item recovered by a ship Captain from a wreck abandoned by its owner becomes ship’s property. This is certainly a wreck we’re looking at: does Starfleet want to claim it?
“And Federation law is quite clear that the right of individuals to hold, transfer, sell, use, destroy, or otherwise manipulate nonliving personal property may not be infringed. I told you, Admiral, I’ve been to Rigel and come back with most of my shirt.” He looked at Krenn. “Besides which, there must be a reason I was…invited here. Tell me, Captain, do you know our word, ‘blackmail’?”
“I know it.”
“Good. That saves all the threats and counterthreats. What do you want for the original file, and destruction of all copies?”
Krenn said, “Dilithium.”
There was a silence. Winston pulled off his ring, set it on the table in front of Krenn, with the red-gold stone showing. “There’s a piece,” he said. “Five carats, worth about eighty thousand credits. Or how much did you have in mind? I warn you, it’s a horror to cut; tougher than diamond. You need high-output lasers.”
“Or antimatter,” Krenn said.
Winston said, “That sounds very dangerous.”
Krenn said, “Over two years ago, a geophysicist at the Lalande 8 mining complex discovered that dilithium crystals could focus and channel the energy from antimatter annihilation reactions. The difference in output, his preliminary report said, was similar to the difference between white light and a laser.”
“I think I read about that,” Winston said. “In some mining journal or another. Pretty dull stuff.”
“Yet the Federation immediately began an engineering development project, which was highly classified. A few months ago, this project issued a report, also very secret.
“Mr. Winston, Resources Corporation of Deneva owns Lalande 8. You were the contractor for the dilithium development project, and you have access to the report. I want a copy.”
Winston put his ring on again, examined the stone. “Yes, I guess that explains my invitation well enough. My compliments on your research, Captain.”
Dr. Tagore said, “Not being an engineer, would someone explain this invention in political terms?”
Admiral Shepherd said, “It means a new generation of warp drives. Warp 6, at least…maybe Warp 8 or 9.” He looked very black. “And the same sort of advance in weapons systems. Is that political enough, Professor?”
“Yes, Admiral. Those terms I understand.”
Shepherd said, “Then you understand why we can’t possibly do it.”
Winston said, “It’ll take the rest of today to get hold of one, Captain. Is that acceptable?”
The Admiral said, “What in God’s name are you saying?”
“I’m closing a deal, Admiral. That’s what I’m here for.”
“The Dilithium Report is still under Starfleet classification—and if you think you can space-lawyer your way around that, you’re wrong. As a Federation citizen—”
“Admiral,” Winston said calmly, “there are over five hundred Babel delegates out there, and every one of them is scared of the Klingons, even the ones that weren’t scared a couple of days ago. I don’t suppose the Vulcans are, but they’ve only got one vote.
“I assure you, if those tapes are released, in forty-eight hours there won’t be any Federation citizens, or any Federation, or any Starfleet: just five hundred tiny little Empires. And the Klingons, and the Romulans. And if you think this deal is rotten, just wait and see what happens then.”
Shepherd sat down. “I know now,” he said, exhausted. “I know why Marc wanted the war.”
Dr. Tagore said, “But you don’t want it, Doug.”
Shepherd looked down the length of the table. “Not you too, Emanuel…you of all people haven’t started believing in the balance of terror.”
“You know what I believe in, Douglas.”
Shepherd nodded. “You’re right. I don’t want a war.” He stood again. “Gentlemen…let’s all go back to our hotels and betray our trusts.”
Krenn almost laughed. But the Humans would not understand. Not even Dr. Tagore, this time.
Admiral Shepherd’s hand paused on the way to the door control. “I suppose I understand, now, where the Chief’s train detoured to…who he was meeting. Who else would demand a meeting at the last minute and get it?”
“The File contains evidence,” Krenn said, “not all of it recent.”
“If you were watching…are you selling us that too? Will that file tell us who killed him?”
Krenn smiled. “Sorry. You didn’t pay to see those cards.”
Nine: Reflections
It was morning over Federa-Terra and Atlanta when Kelly beamed up. Krenn pointed at a cloth bag she was carrying: it had a pattern of flowers embroidered on the side. “What’s that?”