Articles of the Federation

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  As Esperanza—and everyone else—got up from their chairs, they watched the doors slide open again, to reveal eight figures. One was human—that was the slim figure of Colton Morrow—and the others were most definitely not. They ambulated in a manner similar to some Earth primates: propelling themselves with their outsized arms as well as their legs. They never stood entirely upright, but rather at a forty-five-degree angle to the ground. Their bodies were covered with dark skin that ranged from an oak brown to obsidian, and absolutely no hair. Their clothes were bright and colorful, with sparkling beads on the shoulders, which differed from how they’d been dressed when Esperanza had spoken with them over subspace. But then, I’m not dressed the same as I was for conversation. We all have our notions of formal wear. Just wish mine allowed me to breathe properly.

  Most everyone in the room applauded as the doors slid open. Although they were capable of moving quite fast, the Trinni/ek delegation moved slowly—one might say languidly—toward the table. As they got closer, Esperanza saw that Colton looked concerned.

  As soon as they arrived, the leader of the delegation, Speaker Ytri/ol, went straight to his seat. “This chair is uncomfortable,” he said in a voice that sounded strained.

  Okay, this is bad, Esperanza thought. Over subspace, Ytri/ol had had a powerful, commanding voice. His eyes had been wide, his tone enthusiastic. Now he was squinting—and so were the rest of the delegates.

  The president didn’t miss a beat, despite the breach of protocol. She sat down so she and the speaker were on an equal plane. “Honored Speaker, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face. I’m President Nan Bacco. Welcome to Earth.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ytri/ol said dismissively. “Why are there so many people here?”

  “It’s a state dinner,” the president said slowly, “which in our culture generally means a big crowd. I’m sorry, Honored Speaker, but I was told you approved the—”

  “Yes, I did, but I didn’t realize it would be so tightly concentrated.” He sat up straighter, though he was still hunched over. It put him at eye level with the president. “You are trying to intimidate us!”

  “That is not our intention at all, Honored Speaker. We’re simply all glad to have you with us. We’re hoping for a prosperous relationship with the Trinn—”

  “Lies!” That was another of the delegates. “You are trying to exploit us!”

  Oh, this is getting very out of hand, Esperanza thought.

  Colton stepped in. “Nothing could be further from the truth. As I told you on the Venture during the reception—”

  Another delegate rose from the table. “That was where it happened! You poisoned us!”

  Esperanza noticed the guards starting to move slowly toward the table, as well as the fact that there was unrest at the other tables.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Colton laughed, but it was a shrill one. “We have been nothing but friendly.”

  The guards weren’t the only ones advancing; the stewards were bringing the appetizer, which was supposed to come while everyone got settled. Trinni/ek tradition held that one always drank frimk/ek at the start of any meal, before any other business was conducted—including a toast. The president was going to give the address after the frimk/ek was through.

  The delegate who accused them of lying turned to Ytri/ol. “Honored Speaker, we cannot countenance this—this—”

  He doesn’t look very good, Esperanza thought just as the delegate collapsed onto the floor.

  Even as the guards now ran to the table, the standing delegate said, “We must quit this place at once, Honored Speaker, before they violate us further!”

  “Do not touch him!” another delegate screamed at the guard who wanted to check on the delegate who’d collapsed.

  Ever the voice of calm reason in a crisis, the president said, “Please, Honored Speaker, let our medical people take a look at—”

  Now Ytri/ol rose from his chair. “No! I will not allow my people to be dissected by your physicians! We are not laboratory samples!”

  “Honored Speaker, we have no intention of—”

  “Take her!” Ytri/ol barked at the other standing delegate while pointing at the one who’d collapsed. “We will return to our ship immediately! If anyone stands in our way, they will learn what it means to cross the Trinni/ek.”

  “If that’s what you want,” the president, now also standing, said, “then the guards will escort you to the transporter bay, and you can be on your way. But I beg you to reconsider. After all our planning, we can’t let this opportunity for both our worlds—”

  “Be silent, woman, or we will beat you to death where you stand! Trinni/ek! Depart!”

  With that, the speaker led the delegates—one being carried over the shoulder of another—out of the room. Esperanza activated her comm unit and called Sxottlan. “Escort them to the transporter, but stay at a discreet distance—don’t talk to them, don’t touch them, and tell Kirti to do whatever they say.”

  “Understood.”

  Moments later, they were gone, and the outraged buzz in the room started to build.

  “I gotta say,” the president said quietly to the remaining people at the table, “that wasn’t really how I wanted my first state dinner to go, exactly.”

  Fred looked pained. “I spent days on that damn toast.”

  Patting him on the shoulder, Ashanté said, “Have another drink, sweetie.”

  A steward walked up to Esperanza. “Uh, ma’am, what’re we supposed to do with the food?”

  Esperanza rubbed her eyes for a moment. “Take the frimk/ek back—it’s their tradition, not ours. Just bring out the main course as soon as it’s ready. We came here to eat, we may as well eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hang on,” Colton said. “We can’t just dump the frimk/ek. It’s a sacred tradition of theirs.”

  Before Esperanza could say anything, President Bacco said tersely, “Right now, Mr. Ambassador, I could give a good goddamn about the Trinni/ek’s sacred traditions.” She finally sat back down and looked at Esperanza. “We’ll have this dinner, and then we’re having a meeting in the château—I want to know what the hell just happened.”

  “Absolutely, Madam President.” Esperanza then looked at Colton.

  He still looked pained—and scared.

  Chapter Fifteen

  WHAT OZLA GRANIV looked forward to most was eating good food.

  She had been on Tezwa for four months now. Tezwans tended to make their food spicy to the point of being volcanic. At first it had been something of a relief when she’d started traveling to the areas that were being rebuilt in the wake of either the retaliatory Klingon strike or the terrorist attacks made by Kinchawn after his ouster. Food was hard to come by in those areas—as were water, proper shelter, and plumbing—so the people there were subsisting on Starfleet combat rations. Though initially a palliative to the gut-boiling Tezwan cuisine, after six days of the rations, Ozla had soon come to the same conclusion the Tezwans had when they’d first started eating them: They were appallingly bland.

  Not that there weren’t plenty of other reasons why departing Tezwa would be an enjoyable experience. On her first day, she’d visited the site of the makeshift hospital where a Starfleet runabout, the Tsavo, had been destroyed by one of Kinchawn’s loyalist soldiers. Besides murdering Starfleet personnel, both security and medical, the attack had also killed dozens of civilians, including children. Some of the civilians had been injured while being evacuated; others had just been unfortunate enough to be nearby.

  One of those had been Vara Tal, reporter for Seeker. Based on the padd that was somehow recovered from her remains, she’d been interviewing medics, having already spoken to several Tezwan, Starfleet, and Federation civilian physicians. Her last interview had been with Dr. Dennis Chimelis of the U.S.S. Musashi, who was also killed in the runabout explosion.

  In the months since the crisis, new hospitals had been built to replace the ones that had b
een set up in buildings not originally intended for medical use. All that remained on the site now was a grave marker, which the locals called a memory stone, for the dozens who died in the explosion.

  Ozla’s mistake had been thinking that the overwhelming sadness she felt upon visiting the site of Vara’s grave would be the worst it would get on Tezwa.

  Over the last four months, she’d spoken to Tezwans of all stripes, including civilians and soldiers, rich and poor, well-fed and starving. She’d spoken to Starfleet personnel and the Federation ambassador, a harried but determined Bajoran woman named Lagan Serra.

  She had come here hoping to continue Vara’s work. Now, she was coming away with something far worse.

  Tezwa was a defeated planet.

  Kinchawn had seized power and brought the wrath of the Klingon Empire down on the Tezwans’ heads. Then, when he’d been removed from power, he’d brought some wrath of his own. It had taken the Tezwans centuries to build up to being a minor spacefaring power. It had taken less than two months to reduce them to pre-spaceflight levels. Tezwa would be reliant on Federation assistance for at least the next two decades. Their infrastructure was decimated, their economy had collapsed, their government services were a shambles. Their most arable farming land had been blasted to mulch by the Klingons, and it would be at least another year before the planet’s farming industry could even begin to perform its appointed task of feeding Tezwa.

  Where once even the poorest Tezwans could at least be assured of a little shelter and enough food to survive, now over half the Tezwan population was homeless or living in temporary shelters that housed hundreds in a space that was a quarter the size of the Federation president’s château.

  There were many times in the past four months that Ozla had wanted to follow Baleeza Gral into retirement. But she’d persevered.

  Just about the only good thing was the fact that Federation atmospheric scrubbers had been working overtime to eliminate the ash and smoke that had lingered in the air for some time after the attacks. When Ozla first arrived, she’d spent a quarter of each day having awful coughing fits, but now the air was as clean and as clear as it was on any Federation world.

  Today was her last interview. Tawna Zelemka’s name had come up during several discussions; she was doing a great deal for the orphans of the city of Alkam-Zar.

  Ozla hitched a ride on a Starfleet shuttle that was bringing supplies to Alkam-Zar’s food distribution center. The pilot was a gregarious young Benzite who seemed eager to talk to Ozla about what she’d experienced on Tezwa, but Ozla couldn’t bring herself to record what she said. She’d had three dozen interviews with Starfleet personnel, and they’d all said the same thing—variations on “It’s terrible, but we’re doing what we can to help these people” and “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  Tawna’s home was a good-sized dwelling that had apparently survived the orbital assault, which put it in exclusive company. Alkam-Zar had been one of the cities hit hardest when the Klingons had responded less than favorably to being attacked by nadion-pulse cannons. Thankfully, those cannons were destroyed, Ozla thought with a shudder. Apparently the weapons had been stolen from Starfleet, where they had been developed as a possible weapon to use against the Borg but abandoned; somehow the Orion Syndicate had gotten their hands on six of them and sold them to Tezwa. Ozla had taken notes on that, but the particulars of that part of the Tezwan tragedy had been covered during the crisis itself, including one rather nasty piece by Vara in Seeker taking Starfleet to task for not securing their failed weapons prototypes.

  Ozla rang the doorbell, and shortly the door slid open to reveal a very small Tezwan. “Who’re you?” the girl asked.

  Putting on her best smile—which took some doing—Ozla said, “My name’s Ozla Graniv. I’m here to see Ms. Zelemka.”

  From deep inside the house, a voice cried, “Be right there! Gyani, show Ms. Graniv in, please!”

  “Okay, Tawna.” The girl—Gyani—then turned back to Ozla. “You can come in now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ozla entered the front door to find herself in a hallway. There were doorways in front of her and on either side. The sparse furniture was soft and worn, and she saw very little that was breakable in any of the three visible rooms. The reason for that was evident in the other thing she saw in all the rooms—many small Tezwans, running about with the boundless energy possessed only by the very young.

  A tall, elegant Tezwan woman emerged from the entry-way in front of her, which appeared to lead to the kitchen. “Ms. Graniv, I’m Tawna Zelemka. A pleasure.”

  “The pleasure’s mine, and please call me Ozla. I’m glad you could see me.”

  “I’m Tawna, and please, come have something to eat. Though I’m afraid I only have Starfleet rations.”

  Ozla’s stomach rumbled, but she nonetheless said, “Uh, thanks, I already ate.” After this interview, she was going straight back to her hotel in Keelee-Kee, which was the only place on this misbegotten planet that had a proper replicator, donated by Starfleet as a gift to offworld visitors.

  Leading Ozla to a small table in the kitchen, she said to the two children who were fighting over a toy, “Lenandro, Brelkel, stop it! You can share the toy, or I’ll take it away from both of you.”

  “But Tawna, she said I could play with it!”

  “I did not!”

  Tawna stared down at them both. “What’s the rule?”

  Lenandro and Brelkel each exchanged a guilty glance. Together they said, “Everything is everyone’s.”

  “That’s right. So share it, or I’ll take it away and give it to someone who understands the value of sharing. Now I need to talk to my friend here, so go upstairs and play, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Sure.”

  The two kids ran out of the kitchen, Brelkel gripping the toy, Lenandro hot on her heels.

  Opening a cabinet, Tawna took out a ration pack and tore it open. The smell made Ozla wince, even though the rations didn’t really smell like much of anything. Maybe that’s the problem—food is supposed to have an odor, but this just smells like pure nothingness.

  “I’ve been trying to get some real food here, but it’s tough. Luckily, these kids have duranium stomachs. They can eat wheat paste and they’ll be happy, so the rations are doing the trick for now.”

  Ozla refrained from pointing out that wheat paste would be an improvement on the rations. Instead, she threw Tawna’s phrase back at her. “ ‘Everything is everyone’s’?”

  Tawna smiled as she chewed her food. “Over the past six months, I’ve taken in three dozen orphans. So many children in such an enclosed space, it’s easy for resentments over possessions to build up. So I try to foster a sharing environment and make it clear that everything in this house belongs to everyone in this house.”

  Ozla nodded. “Mind if I record this?”

  “Not at all.”

  Setting her padd to record, Ozla asked, “I guess the best question is why?”

  Tawna chuckled. “Not how?”

  “Well, how is obvious. You have this house.”

  “After a fashion.” Tawna hesitated. “The house was a gift. I don’t feel like it really belongs to me. And then, after the attacks and Kinchawn’s trial, I started noticing the number of children who’d been left without parents. Nobody seemed to be in any hurry to take them in—and, to be fair, most didn’t really have the capacity to do so. So I opened this house’s doors.”

  “Who was it a gift from?”

  Again, the hesitation. Ozla had been a reporter for all her adult life, so she knew that the real story wasn’t in Tawna’s kindness to the orphan community of Alkam-Zar. That was a story, of course, and she would report it, but the story was how she’d gotten this house. Every instinct she’d honed told her that the house had been a gift from some kind of illicit source. Of course, it could have been something simple, like an affair with a rich man, but Ozla had a feeling it might have been more than that
.

  “I’d really rather not—” Another hesitation, and then she said, “Oh, what does it matter? He’s dead, anyhow, so what harm can it do?”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “For the last few years, I was having an affair.”

  Okay, so maybe that’s all it is. Trying not to sound deflated, Ozla remarked, “I didn’t realize you were married.”

  “Well, I guess it’s not fair to say that I was having the affair—he was. He was a military man and served as one of General Minza’s adjutants.” Yet another hesitation. “Major Olorun Meboras. That was his name. He has—he had a wife and three children, but he said he didn’t love the wife and only stayed married for the sake of the children. He gave me the house a few months ago, and then the thing with the Klingons started, and Kinchawn was ousted, and then—” Tears started to roll down Tawna’s feathered cheek. “Then he was killed during the trials. Executed.” Wiping the tear away, she continued, “He was a good man, just doing his duty.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ozla tried to sound sincere, but she couldn’t bring herself to mean the words. She’d seen the damage done by Kinchawn’s people—which was considerably more specific, and with much greater long-term damage, than the more random Klingon orbital assaults—and couldn’t find it in her heart to be sorry that one of the people responsible for the devastation that she’d seen was dead.

  I can’t believe I just thought that. I have got to get off this planet. Just have to finish this one interview.

  She then asked how Tawna’s little halfway house got started.

  “I worked at the hospital here as a clerk, but it was bombed out by the Klingons. When the new one was built, they didn’t have any work for me. All I had was this house. One day, I was walking through the city, and I saw so many children. Something had to be done, and I had the space, thanks to Olorun, so here we are.”