by David Mack
Creelok made a point of avoiding eye contact with Sadira as he asked with growing impatience, “How much longer, Ranimir?”
The engineer frowned at the alien device his team had grafted to the engine room’s main console. “Hard to say, Commander. This device is unlike anything else I’ve ever seen. Before we hooked it up, I didn’t think it would be compatible with our power supply—but it seems to have adapted itself to our network in less than a day.”
His report visibly alarmed the centurion. “It adapted itself? How?”
“I wish I knew, Centurion.” Ranimir pointed at a row of primary system readouts. “Its energy consumption has doubled since we brought it online, and it’s still increasing.”
Creelok’s steep, angular eyebrows knit with concern. “At what point does it pose a threat to the safety of the ship and crew?”
“I won’t know that until I see it.” Ranimir tapped a red button on the console. “I set up a kill switch to cut its power. As a precaution.”
“Sensible,” the commander said.
Sadira moved closer to join the discussion. “Will it work while we’re cloaked?”
“Since no one will tell me what it does,” Ranimir said, “or how much power it needs when activated, there’s no way I can answer that.”
“I am not interested in your excuses. The device needs to work while our cloak is active.”
Ranimir traded worried looks with Creelok and Mirat. “I can’t promise that.”
“I did not ask for your promise, only your compliance.” It was clear to Sadira that none of the Velibor’s crew liked taking orders from her. She wondered if it might simplify matters for her to affect the mannerisms she had cultivated for her Lisa Bates persona—an identity she had spent years honing in a model human settlement on Romulus.
Adopting a more dulcet tone of voice, Sadira added, “Ranimir, I know that I’m asking a lot of you, and of the ship, but my orders come from the highest levels of the Tal Shiar. So let’s start over: If we assume the Transfer Key will increase its power consumption once activated, what can we do to prevent it from interfering with the ship’s operations?”
Her sop to diplomacy eased Ranimir’s anxiety, if only to a small degree. “I’ve isolated the Key’s power supply to reactor one, and the cloak is running off reactor two. As long as we don’t try to fire any other weapons or raise shields while operating the Key, I might be able to make this work.”
She softened her aspect with a smile. “Excellent news, Ranimir.”
The commander and the centurion remained dubious. Both men were gray and wise, veterans of a generation of space service. They would not be easily swayed by soft words and empty pleasantries. Creelok slid his narrowed gaze in Sadira’s direction. “I don’t care who gave the order. I don’t like having this alien technology wedded to my ship’s controls.”
Mirat nodded in agreement. “I concur. This sort of test should be done under controlled conditions, in Romulan space. Not on a ship deployed in hostile territory.”
“Your concerns are noted.” To Ranimir, Sadira added, “Keep working. I want the Key operational by the time we reach the Ophiucus Sector.”
Satisfied she had made herself clear, she walked away. Only after Sadira exited the engine room and started up the corridor to the lift that would return her to her quarters did she hear the echo of another set of footfalls at her back. She turned to face Creelok. He dropped his voice to a confidential register that did nothing to mask its obvious venom.
“You might want to consider passing your requests through the chain of command.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I was commanding starships before you were born. I don’t care who you work for—I won’t have some arrogant girl-child snap orders at me in front of my crew.”
She taunted him with a smirk. “I think you will.”
“Respect has to be earned, Major Sadira. You’d do well to remember that.”
“And the Tal Shiar can have you killed and your ship placed under my command any time I deem fit. You’d do well to remember that.” She drew her dagger and in a flash pressed its blade to Creelok’s throat. “And just so there’s no misunderstanding, Commander—I don’t make requests, I give orders. And I expect them to be followed.” She sheathed her blade as the doors of the lift opened beside her. “Have the Key online before we reach the target—and when you get back to the command deck, increase speed to warp seven.” She backed inside the lift and added as the doors slid closed, “I have a schedule to keep.”
* * *
To most people, Sarek’s stern Vulcan mien was unreadable, but he could always count on his intuitive human wife, Amanda Grayson, to see through his façade. She entered the diplomatic reception and proceeded directly to his side, like a memory unbidden but still pleasant to recall.
Her gaze was keen, her voice discreet. “You look disappointed.”
“I would say dissatisfied.” He gestured toward the various buffet tables, which were set in two corners at opposite ends of the hotel ballroom. “I asked that the buffet tables be spread about the room, with mixed cuisines on each.” With subtle looks, he directed her attention to the cluster of Federation diplomats gathered on one side of the ornate gilded room, then toward the Klingon diplomatic contingent huddled on the opposite side of the huge space. “Instead, the catering staff put all the Klingon delicacies in one corner, and all the Terran and Vulcan dishes in another. It is not conducive to the casual intermingling of strangers.”
“You’re telling me. It’s the political equivalent of a junior high school dance.” She looped her arm under and around Sarek’s. “I guess it’s up to us to break the ice, then.”
She was, as usual, correct. As the ranking member of the Federation diplomatic team, Ambassador Sarek was expected to set the tone and serve as an example to his subordinates. He doubted his colleagues would mimic his effort unless expressly ordered to do so, but for now he concurred with his wife: decorum required he greet his opposite number.
“Very well,” he said.
He crossed the room with Amanda on his arm. Their every step made her silvery dress shimmer as its rippling fabric reflected the warm glow of the chandeliers. In contrast, his attire, though equally formal, was quite simple: a tailored black cassock and a gray mantle, both as fashionable in their cut as they were flattering to his trim physique. His only accessory of note was the ornament of jeweled gold he wore around his neck, an ancient family heirloom that had been passed from sire to scion for over ten generations. In spite of its objective worth—or lack thereof, in an age when science could manufacture gold and gems at will—to Sarek its value lay in its historical significance. To him it was a symbol of continuity. Of longevity. Of life.
All the same, he was not surprised that no one else in the room paid the least attention to the decoration on his chest; all eyes were on Amanda and that mesmerizing dress of hers. If not for his lifetime of cultivated mental discipline, Sarek might have enjoyed a moment of pride when he noticed that even the Klingons had taken note of his wife’s elegance.
The cluster of foreign dignitaries parted as he and Amanda neared. From their midst emerged their leader, Councillor Gorkon, and his chief attaché, Councillor Prang. Gorkon was the taller of the pair, aristocratic in his bearing, deliberate and arch in his mannerisms. In every way, he was a son of privilege; he had been born to power and wielded it with almost criminal indifference. Prang was another story. His wild eyes, broad shoulders, barrel chest, and muscled limbs betrayed his service as a celebrated warrior of the Klingon Defense Forces—one who had blundered into politics by way of an advantageous marriage that had elevated him from the ranks of the common folk to a seat on the Empire’s vaunted High Council.
Sarek honored Gorkon with a long nod. “Welcome, Councillor.”
“Thank you, Mister Ambassador.”
Ama
nda chimed in, “Did your new wife accompany you?”
Before Gorkon could answer, Prang replied with naked contempt, “We Klingons do not bring our mates on official business. It—”
Gorkon interrupted Prang with a dramatic clearing of his throat. Then he plastered a false but polite smile onto his face and said to Amanda, “As it happens, Illizar and I are not yet married. The wedding was briefly postponed.”
“My apologies, Councillor,” Amanda said. “I was not aware.”
He dismissed the awkwardness with a small wave. “It’s of no consequence. The wedding is set for next month, on Qo’noS.” Returning his focus to Sarek, he asked, “And how is your health, Mister Ambassador? I understand you had surgery not long ago, on the Enterprise?”
“Yes, to correct a cardiac ailment. I am fully recovered.”
Sarek noted the Klingons’ intelligence-gathering capabilities had remained robust, even in the aftermath of the armistice forced on them and the Federation by the Organians—a fragile peace that both sides were here on Centaurus to fortify by negotiating a mutually binding treaty.
Thinking it best to shift the focus off of himself, Sarek turned toward the table of Klingon culinary delicacies. “I hope that our chef was able to prepare these dishes to your liking.”
“Yes,” Gorkon said. “The pipius claws are quite succulent. And I commend your kitchen for knowing not to chill the gagh—the worms are so much feistier at room temperature.” He cast a look across the ballroom and furrowed his ridged brow. “If I might be permitted one gentle criticism? I might have suggested interspersing the food tables.” A toothy grin. “To encourage more casual interaction between our respective contingents.”
A sage but humble nod. “A sensible notion, Councillor. I shall take it under advisement for future events.” Out of the corner of his eye, Sarek noticed Amanda doing her best not to betray her amusement at the irony of Gorkon’s critique.
The small talk rankled Prang. “Who cares about food and trifles? We came to let the Federation sue for peace. Tell me, Ambassador: What are you prepared to give up in exchange for the Empire letting your people live?”
It was instructive to Sarek that Gorkon suppressed any trace of a reaction to Prang’s rhetorical challenge. Like a true statesman, Gorkon appeared content to observe how Sarek chose to respond to the younger Klingon’s blustering. Sarek stalled by folding his hands in front of his waist while considering his next words. “The questions you ask are most direct, Councillor Prang. If only the answers to them could be as simple. However, I think you know as well as anyone does how complex and delicate a negotiation it is that lies ahead of us.”
Prang sneered. “You talk a lot, but say little.”
A demure shrug. “I strive for precision.”
“An admirable trait,” Gorkon said, putting an end to Prang’s verbal bullying. “And a necessary one, at a time when so much is at stake.”
“Indeed.” As was customary in matters diplomatic, both Sarek and Gorkon had indulged in the art of understatement. What both men understood—and were too wise to voice aloud—was that neither side would profit if these negotiations ended in failure. It had been less than nine months since Starfleet and the Klingon Defense Forces had made the mistake of squaring off against each other on the planet Organia, whose native inhabitants—a race of beings who had long since evolved into forms of pure energy, gaining in the process nigh-godlike abilities—had reacted by threatening to neutralize the military capabilities of both interstellar states unless they agreed to an immediate cessation of hostilities followed by a formal peace. At that point, both powers had been forced to set aside old grudges in the name of self-preservation.
Gorkon, speaking under his breath, issued curt orders to Prang and the rest of the Klingon contingent, who promptly dispersed and fanned out into the room to initiate the awkward process of pretending to enjoy mingling with their Federation hosts. As a swell of Terran classical music filtered down from unseen speakers somewhere overhead, he listened, then cracked a smile. “Debussy. Wonderful! Mister Ambassador, may I have permission to ask your wife to dance?”
“My permission is irrelevant. My wife makes her own decisions, and I respect them.”
“A wise policy.” Adopting a courtly air, Gorkon honored Amanda with a graceful bow. “Madam, may I ask the honor of sharing this dance with you?”
“You certainly may.” Amanda took Gorkon’s hand. She shot a look of coy amusement at Sarek as the lanky Klingon escorted her onto the dance floor and led her in a classic waltz.
The gathered dignitaries observed the moment with varying degrees of surprise as Gorkon and Amanda whirled around the ballroom with balletic flair. Some of the Federation VIPs regarded the scene as an oddity, but the scowls and raised eyebrows among the Klingons suggested they viewed it as more of a perversion.
Either way, Sarek hoped it was a good omen for the rest of the conference. Because as peculiar a notion as friendship between the Federation and the Klingon Empire might seem to some, he knew for a fact that it was both powers’ only remaining hope for survival.
* * *
The night had been too long and too full of drink for Gorkon to endure one of Prang’s signature rants, but the hot-tempered, callow young councillor had never been one to know the joy of an unexpressed thought. As they and their delegation plodded back into their ridiculously luxurious suite of rooms in a commandeered residence hall on the campus of New Athens University, Prang slurred, “Could you have made a bigger fool of yourself, Gorkon?”
Not nearly as inebriated as his detractor, Gorkon turned and confronted Prang. “Were your slander not perfumed with the reek of bloodwine, I would cut your throat.”
A sullen glare, then a cocksure smile. “Did you enjoy dancing with Sarek’s wife?” He snorted and stumbled sideways. “Did she smell like flowers?”
“She was a superb dance partner. As for your second, less delicate query . . . let’s just say that’s a fine example of what makes you unsuitable for this kind of work.”
“If anyone doesn’t belong here—” Prang jabbed his index finger against Gorkon’s chest. “It’s you. You talk like they do. You dance to their music. What next, Gorkon? Eat their cooked food? Drink that swill they call coffee? Serve them the Empire on a platter?”
Their contretemps had become a spectacle. The rest of the delegation had surrounded them, and it was evident more than half were sympathetic to Prang and his sloppy rage. Gorkon knew if they turned against him, the entire mission could be compromised.
Gorkon sucker punched Prang in the gut. The younger man doubled over. Gorkon kneed him in the face, then cracked an armored elbow into Prang’s back. As the junior councillor fell facedown on the floor, Gorkon punched him in one kidney, then kneeled on the fallen man’s back.
“Listen to me, you stupid whelp. This isn’t some back-alley knife fight. There are no points here for bravado.” He grabbed a fistful of Prang’s hair and hoisted the man’s head at a sharp angle from the floor. “You scoff at the Organians’ warning, but I saw it happen with my own eyes. An entire fleet paralyzed in deep space. They could end us, you fool.”
Gorkon stood, pointed at a man near the suite’s double doors to the corridor. “Close those.” Once the entrance was shut and privacy restored, he continued, raising his voice to speak to the other ten members of the diplomatic team. “We did not come here to pick a fight. We are here to negotiate the terms of a peace that we and our people can accept.”
Pivoting slowly, he sought out familiar faces, then aimed his accusatory finger at each of them in turn. “Durok. You work for Imperial Intelligence. They told you to bug the suites and offices of the Federation delegates. Orqom. You’re no mere translator. You were sent by the High Command to insinuate surveillance software into the Federation comm relay here in New Athens. Marbas. The Order of the Bat’leth wants you to arrange a visit to a Starfl
eet vessel so you can steal its command codes. I order every one of you to abort your secondary missions now, upon pain of death at my hand.”
He punctuated his spiel with a swift kick into Prang’s ribs. “And you, Prang. You’re the worst of all. You sent yourself, because you and your allies on the High Council mean to sabotage these talks before they get started. Please convey to Councillor Duras my heartfelt regrets for the failure of this pathetic gambit he concocted.”
Prang spat a mouthful of magenta-tinted bloody sputum on the floor, then glowered up at Gorkon. “You’re the fool, Gorkon. You think I don’t know the chancellor’s orders? He wants concessions from the Federation—more than we could ever have taken by war.”
“We all want things we cannot have. Chancellor Sturka is no exception.” He walked away from Prang and growled to the others, “This is over. Go to bed.”
Withdrawing from the field of rhetorical battle was the only prudent choice, Gorkon knew. Prang had scored a more palpable hit than he’d realized. It was true the chancellor had ordered Gorkon to make outrageous demands in exchange for a peace treaty with the Federation. What was too dangerous for Gorkon to admit to his underlings was that the chancellor expected to get all that he wanted and more, and Gorkon was at a loss for how to placate him with the far less substantial gains these negotiations were certain to yield.
In a game of political poker with existential stakes, I have been sent to the table with a losing hand, Gorkon lamented as he retired to his private chambers. Worse, I’ve been ordered to bluff the infamous Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan. The weathered Klingon frowned and shook his head. If only I were still a starship commander. The answer was always simpler then: kill everyone and let the politicians cope with the fallout. He chortled softly at the ironic nature of his dilemma. Which makes this, as the songs of old liked to say, poetic justice.