“Zalda’s got the unlucky position of being right near the Klingon border and the Romulan border. It’s one of the reasons why they were fast-tracked into Federation membership a hundred years ago—they kept having wrecked ships from both sides crash-land on their planet. So Zalda in general’s always kept an eye on both empires, for their own self-interest. And I know that Molmaan has serious opinions on the subject.”
Esperanza smiled. If there was one thing Nan Bacco respected and admired—and liked to make use of—it was people with serious opinons. Then again, Zaldans were never shy with their opinions, serious or otherwise. They had a cultural bias against politeness, which generally meant that Zaldans produced very entertaining politicians. Molmaan fit that mold. It’s gonna be an interesting meeting when we all get together….
Then the president looked down at the desk. “Coffee, black, unsweetened.” A steaming mug materialized on the center of the desk. As she picked it up by the handle, she said, “Bring Ross in, too.”
“I’ve already talked to Ross—he’s bringing Akaar over from San Francisco.”
“Who?”
“Fleet Admiral Leonard Akaar. He was on site for the arrangement with the Klingons, and he just reported back after the Titan’s little trip outside the galaxy.”
“All right, good.”
Esperanza braced herself before saying, “Also—”
“There’s more?” The president sounded pained.
“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, ma’am.”
“Remember what I said before about wiseasses?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Esperanza waited until the president took another sip of her coffee. “I’m not sure about this one. Z4 got a call from Ambassador Emra.”
The president frowned. “Which one’s Emra?”
“The ambassador from Tzenketh.”
At that, President Bacco almost sputtered her coffee. “From Tzenketh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We have an ambassador from Tzenketh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She set her mug down. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Esperanza, but don’t the Tzenkethi hate the Federation and everything it stands for? Didn’t they react to our attempts to open trade agreements with them by starting a war? And hasn’t every peace overture with them been treated with contempt and loathing on their part toward us?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And yet they sent an ambassador.” The president rose, still holding her coffee mug, and started to pace behind the desk, staring out at the view of Paris. “The things people do baffle the hell out of me sometimes. All right, what did this Emra tell Ziff?”
Esperanza smirked. “You know he hates being called that, right?”
“Wouldn’t call him that otherwise,” the president said with a like smirk.
Getting back on track, Esperanza said, “Well, Emra and Ziff—” She shook her head. “He and Z4 have a history from an abortive attempt at opening up trade between Tzenketh and Nasat.”
The president swallowed her coffee before saying derisively, “I’m sure that went resoundingly well.”
“The thing is—he says that he needs to talk with you. Not with the council, but with you.”
“What about?”
“All the ambassador would say is that it has to do with the Tzelnira.”
That got the president’s attention. She whirled around and looked right at Esperanza. “The Tzelnira?”
This surprised Esperanza. She knew that Alberto had been a relief worker during the war before he married Annabella, but simple recognition didn’t explain the president’s reaction. “Yeah—why?”
“This morning, during the security briefing, Holly mentioned some chatter about one of the Tzelnira’s children being sick.”
Esperanza frowned. “You think this is related?”
The president shrugged. “Who the hell knows?” She stared out the window again. “Why not just go to the council? He can request an audience when we’re in session, same as any diplomat.”
“Z4 asked that. He said he has enemies on the first floor.”
“Oh, please.” The president turned back around. “I have enemies on the first floor. What, does he think having that in common will unite us in a bond?” She moved back to her chair. “Still, set up an appointment for you to meet with him tomorrow and let me know.”
Nodding, Esperanza said, “Fine. And if he insists on seeing you?”
The president smiled. “Remind him of the fact that I wasn’t even aware of his existence until today, which should give him a fairly good idea of what level he’s at on the food chain around here. He wants to see me, and he wants to go around the council, he’s gotta do better than cryptic messages to my senior staff.”
Esperanza stood up. “Will do, ma’am.”
“Anything else?”
“Jorel made the announcement at the briefing about Delta and Carrea. I’m counting the microseconds before their ambassadors and Eleana are crawling up my ass.”
“Thank you for that lovely image. Ashanté and Z4 have their recommendations?”
Esperanza nodded. “Almost. They’ll be waiting for you on the al-Rashid.”
“Okay, then.”
“Thank you, Madam President.”
Chapter Six
JAS ABRIK STARED AT the framed painting in the center of the wall opposite where he sat at the round table that took up most of the space. The painting—Claude Monet’s Bridge over a Pool of Water Lilies—was a treasure from Earth’s pre-unification period. According to one of Abrik’s aides, the style of painting was known as impressionism, so called because it conveyed the impression of something without rendering it slavishly. One could see the brush-strokes easily—in fact, they drew attention to themselves. And yet, combine them, and it looked just like a footbridge over a lily-laden stream. There was no mistaking it for anything else.
Also seated at the table were Admirals Ross and Akaar, Captain Hostetler Richman, and Secretary Shostakova. Akaar sat ramrod straight in a chair that barely fit his massive form, huge arms folded over barrel chest. Abrik knew that the Capellan was some kind of royalty in exile or other, and he certainly had the attitude for it; Abrik had always found the admiral to be a pompous ass.
Ross was engaged in a whispered conversation with Hostetler Richman. Probably comparing intelligence notes. Ross did a great deal of work with Starfleet Intelligence as a junior officer, and in fact had been Hostetler Richman’s mentor.
What the hell is taking so long? Abrik thought as he gazed at the wall chronometer. Piñiero and the councillors should have been here by now. At this rate, we may as well wait until Bacco’s back on-planet.
Originally, the Monet Room was one of a dozen secure meeting rooms on one of the basement levels of the Palais. During the Dominion War, many offices and operations were moved to the belowground spaces, making it necessary to convert several of the other meeting rooms to office space. This particular room had become Zife’s “war room,” where much of the top-level strategizing had been done. After the war’s end, the Monet Room remained where the Federation government’s security operations were conducted—or, at least, discussed.
“I have a question.”
Abrik looked over at Shostakova, who was sitting quietly three chairs down from him. He pointed at his own chest. “Me?”
“Yes. Your spots—do they go all the way down?”
Abrik couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.
At the secretary of defense’s nonplussed expression, he quickly said, “I’m sorry, Madam Secretary, but I haven’t been asked that question since I was an ensign. Yes, they go all the way down.”
She nodded. “Interesting. I wonder why that is.”
Frowning, Abrik said, “Excuse me?”
“I simply wonder what quirk of evolution led to—”
Before Shostakova could continue her musings, the door opened to reveal Piñiero, along with Councillors T’Latrek, Mazibuk
o, and Molmaan. They went for four of the empty seats, Piñiero looking like a coiled spring, two of the councillors looking somewhat more calm, and the third looking angry. From T’Latrek, a Vulcan who had a reputation for grace under pressure, the calm was to be expected. Abrik didn’t know Matthew Mazibuko all that well, so for all he knew, he had a reputation similar to T’Latrek’s. As for Molmaan, the look of anger was to be expected from a member of a species who, as a rule, didn’t hide their feelings.
“Sorry,” Piñiero said, “but the president only just took off from Luna—the function ran late.”
“Someone could’ve told us that half an hour ago,” Abrik muttered.
As she sat in her chair, Piñiero smiled sweetly. “A half hour ago, we didn’t know it was running late, and we were concerned that we’d lost contact with the president. It was just solar flares, though, and she’s on her way back.” She touched the intercom in front of her. “Zachary, we’re here—put the president and the ambassador through.”
The wall opposite the Monet painting had a large viewscreen, which lit up with a split-screen image, Bacco on the left, Ambassador Alexander Rozhenko on the right. Rozhenko was the son of two previous Federation ambassadors to the Klingon Empire. One-quarter human and three-quarters Klingon, Rozhenko’s parents were Worf, son of Mogh, and K’Ehleyr. Abrik wasn’t entirely sanguine about his qualifications to replace his father, who had served with distinction for four years before declining to continue in the post, citing a desire to return to Starfleet. That was, to Abrik’s mind, Starfleet’s gain, but the Diplomatic Corps’ loss. Worf was one of the few people who could navigate the treacherous waters of the Klingon-Federation alliance; K’Ehleyr, who served for only two years before she was brutally murdered during the transfer of power from Chancellor K’mpec to Chancellor Gowron over a decade earlier, was another of those few. They had to hope like hell that Rozhenko had inherited at least some of his parents’ skills.
“Do we have anything new?” Bacco asked, not wasting any time.
“A bit, ma’am,” Hostetler Richman said. “Outpost 13 detected disruptor fire of both Klingon and Romulan design in the T’Met system, as well as at least three Klingon Karas-class strike ships and one Romulan D’Deridex-class warbird.”
“So the Romulan military’s getting into it with the Klingons. Who fired first?”
Hostetler Richman hesitated. Abrik did not. “We don’t know, Madam President.”
“Why the hell not?”
Abrik managed to restrain himself from saying, Because sensors aren’t magical detectors that read everything at all ranges, and if you had any hard experience of anything outside Cestus III, you’d know that. “The outpost’s sensors have gaps, and one of those gaps is when the exchange of fire started. When the gap ends, both sides are going at it.”
Hostetler Richman added, “Thirteen is the closest outpost to T’Met, but that doesn’t mean it’s exactly close, ma’am. There are limits to what we can detect.”
Piñiero asked Rozhenko, “Mr. Ambassador, what’s the High Council saying?”
“Nothing yet—they’re waiting for a report from Captain J’kral—he’s the one who led the strike ships—but General Khegh is pretty sure that the Romulans fired first.”
“Right.” Abrik snorted. “It’s not like they’d say anything else.”
T’Latrek was sitting serenely with her hands together, her index fingers steepled. “The Romulans would not fire first unless they were provoked.”
Shostakova leaned forward. “Some in the Romulan military would view the Klingons’ very presence as a provocation.”
Bacco said, “Didn’t that ship pretty much sail when this whole shebang started? They agreed to this arrangement.”
“They agreed reluctantly,” Hostetler Richman said. “And some fleet commanders might not have liked the arrangement all that much.”
Akaar’s voice was surprisingly subdued. “I believe the problem may be more fundamental than that. Since Shinzon’s coup, the Romulan military is in disarray. Where once they were united under the political guidance of the praetor and the senate and the spiritual leadership of the emperor, they now have neither. Emperor Shiarkiek was assassinated during the Dominion War and never replaced, which created a crisis within the Romulan hierarchy that was made all the worse by the Watraii affair. Shinzon had some of the Romulan military on his side—and plenty of it against him. With their fleet already sundered, they have splintered even further with this new arrangement. There are at least five different factions vying for power—six if you count the Remans. Any action taken by a Romulan ship cannot be taken as sanctioned by the Romulan government as a whole because right now the Romulan government’s authority is limited.”
Bacco let out a breath. “This is just going to get worse when those Remans hit Outpost 22, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” Piñiero said.
“Definitely.” Councillor Molmaan spoke with more finality than the chief of staff. “President Bacco, I think that we should send ships into Romulan space. It’s the only way to guarantee peace in the region.”
“I must disagree with the councillor from Zaldan,” Mazibuko said in a quiet voice. “Adding more armed ships to the equation is unlikely to guarantee anything resembling peace.”
Molmaan glowered at Mazibuko. “I’d expect you to say that. But the only thing that will keep Klingon and Romulan passions in check is the presence of the Federation. Otherwise I guarantee there will be a war.”
“War’s never a guarantee, Councillor,” Bacco said, “and it’s a last resort, not a first one.”
“For us, maybe. Not for the Klingons, nor the Romulans.”
“I disagree,” T’Latrek said. “Where Klingons seek battle for its own sake, Romulans do not—they only seek battles they can win.”
Abrik was about to point out that they were getting off-topic when Bacco did it for him. “Much as I’d love to dive into these philosophical waters, let’s save it for when people aren’t shooting at each other. Mr. Ambassador, I need to know what the High Council’s response to this is, and I need it yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bacco then looked around the rest of the Monet Room. “As for the rest of you, keep on this. Admiral Ross, I want whatever ships you can divert to the Romulan border to head there now. Make it clear that we’re keeping an eye on things.”
Ross nodded. “The Intrepid’s already on the way. I can also send the Bellerophon, the T’Kumbra, the Malinche, and the Prometheus.”
“The Prometheus is the one that can split in three, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Prometheus-class is our best quick-response combat vessel.”
Abrik said, “We should put ships near the Klingon border, as well.”
“What for?” Piñiero asked.
“To make it clear that we’re keeping an eye on them, too.”
Shostakova shook her head. “They are our allies.”
“For now.”
“They will view this as hostile,” T’Latrek said calmly.
Again, Abrik snorted. “They view everything as hostile!”
“And they’ve been itchy since Tezwa,” Bacco said.
Rozhenko spoke up. “I’m with Secretary Shostakova. Putting ships on the Romulan border is a show of support for the empire. Putting ships on the Klingon border’ll just isolate us from both of them.”
“If they fired first, we don’t support them.” Abrik was wondering why someone with only two months of diplomatic experience was doing anything in this conversation other than take instructions from the president.
“We’ll stay off the border for now,” Bacco said, “but meanwhile, I want K’mtok’s ass in a chair in my office first thing in the morning.”
“He’ll be there, ma’am,” Piñiero said. “We can slot him in at 0900.”
“Make it later—I want you there, too.”
“No need, ma’am. I can be there at 0900. Emra canceled. Said it was nothing, just a
mistake on his part.”
“Uh-huh.” Bacco sounded dubious. “Maybe you should have Z4—” Then she waved her hand in front of her face. “Oh, forget it—the whole damn thing was his idea in the first place. He wants to cancel, that’s one less thing I have to think about.”
Piñiero smiled. “Down to only six billion, ma’am?”
Several of those around the table chuckled. Abrik was not one of them.
Neither was Shostakova. “The difficulty here is that we do not know if this is an isolated incident. Until we know who was commanding that warbird—”
“Everything that happens in Romulan space right now is almost by definition an isolated incident, Madam Secretary.” Akaar made the pronouncement in his usual pompous tone.
“Hang on a second,” Bacco said, “we’ve got the Federation’s leading expert on Romulans right there in Romulan space. Esperanza, tell Ambassador T’Kala to get Spock for us.”
Piñiero shifted in her seat. Abrik wondered what that meant. Piñiero was fairly comfortable with the president, so for her to react like that was telling.
Abrik wasn’t the only one to notice; Bacco picked up on it right away. “What is it, Esperanza?”
“They found T’Kala in her apartments, dead. Suicide.”
Now why don’t I like the sound of that? Abrik thought glumly.
“We sure it was a suicide?” Bacco asked.
Hostetler Richman nodded. “We’re sure, ma’am. T’Kala did it in full view of the security cameras at the embassy. Used her honor blade and everything.”
“In that case,” Akaar said, “it was an honorable suicide. To be expected given that the government that assigned T’Kala no longer truly exists.”
Sighing, Bacco said, “I’ll bet anything that the first question Jorel gets tomorrow is if she killed herself in embarrassment over what happened with the travel office. Look, I don’t care how we get Spock here, but get him here. Right now we’re talking through our hats. I want someone who actually knows what he’s talking about, which pretty much rules out everybody in this meeting.” Several people chuckled at that also. Abrik was assuredly not one of them. “All right, I’ll be back in the Palais in two hours. I don’t care if you know anything or not, I want a report every two hours from each of you.”
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