Sasine stood up and peered over at the chronometer. Alpha shift would begin in just a couple of minutes, she saw, and even though the preparations for leaving the outpost for another crew had already been made, she still had some small but important tasks to perform today. Chief among them, she wanted to address her crew, some of whom would not be serving under her at her next posting. She would also oversee their transport up to Enterprise, aboard which they would make the trip back to Space Station KR-3 before being reassigned. Once the small group of engineering specialists from Agamemnon had completed their work—the new weapons had been classified at such a high level that even Sasine had not been permitted to observe their installation—the outpost’s new crew would begin beaming down, also from Agamemnon.
At the moment, she was not sure where her next assignment would take her—she’d been told of several possible postings—but what pleased her most about the transfer was the travel time aboard Enterprise. While John would be standing his normal watch, that would still allow them to spend the evening and night together. And whether at a lush, beautiful resort or aboard a functional and relatively sterile starship, any time that she could spend with John was time she would treasure. They believed in the same things, laughed at the same things, viewed the universe in the same ways; they belonged together. They meshed. Even last night, in a cramped cabin beneath the pockmarked surface of a dead asteroid, poised on the edge of the Neutral Zone, they had managed to smile and laugh and love.
Sasine looked down at John, then went into the bathroom and extinguished the lighting panel. In the darkness once more, she carefully padded over to the door to her quarters. She felt for the panel set into the bulkhead beside it and worked its controls. The door slid open, and light spilled in from the corridor. She took one last look across the room toward the bed. Over the half-wall, she could just make out John’s sleeping figure. “I love you,” she whispered, and then turned and left.
By the time she had reached the operations center, she had already begun to count the time until they would be together again.
Minus Nine: Algeron
Ambassador Gell Kamemor watched the Klingon bring his fist down on the conference table, the stars visible through the viewing port beyond him. “No!” he bellowed at her, then bolted to his feet with such force that his chair flew backward and toppled to the floor with a clatter. “No!” he roared again, then flung himself forward and hammered the center of the long, elliptical tabletop once more, this time with both fists. The fleshy parts of his hands pounded down atop the image of the stylized bird of prey, a planet in each talon, that symbolized the Romulan Star Empire. “Qo’noS will never permit outsiders to inspect our weapons facilities.” Spittle shot from his mouth, Kamemor observed with distaste, one tiny bead hanging up in the young Klingon’s dark beard.
Kamemor waited to react. She knew without looking that the eyes of all the delegates—of everybody present—had turned toward her. Thirteen people occupied the room right now: Ambassador Kage and his two aides, one of whom had been the one to rage at her; Federation Ambassador Paulo Endara and his staff of four; her own Romulan delegation of three; and two of the six waitstaff. Of those half-dozen service personnel, Kamemor had yet to ascertain who belonged to the Romulan Intelligence Service, though she had no doubt that the treaty negotiations were being closely monitored by the secretive organization.
A tense silence descended. The versicolor glow of the Algeron Effect, just a few hundred thousand kilometers from the space station, angled through the viewing port and stippled the far wall. Kamemor remained quiet, though not completely still. She tilted her head upward slightly and regarded the Klingon agitator with measured disinterest; she neither challenged him nor withdrew from his ire. Although he did not frighten her, the tall, broad-shouldered Klingon seemed dangerous—not on the basis of his imposing form, but because of the surety with which he acted and spoke. That likely indicated either the bravado of youth or the vicarious strength of powerful friends, and Kamemor suspected the latter. She knew that Chancellor Azetbur, leader of the Klingon High Council for nearly two decades now, had faced increasing opposition at home of late, and Kamemor fully expected that opposition to be represented here. As much as Azetbur had designed and driven the rebuilding of her civilization’s infrastructure after the accidental destruction of their primary energy-production facility, she’d done so both by promoting peace and by accepting charity from the Federation, and neither policy had been particularly palatable to the Klingon military.
As Kamemor peered across the table, she took note of the young Klingon’s immaculate raiments: a silver, metallic vest worn over a black shirt; black pants with high, matching boots; a dark, heavy cloak; and a scarlet version of the tripartite emblem of the Klingon Empire worn on the front of his left shoulder. The attire resembled a military uniform too much, she thought, to have been selected arbitrarily. No, the aide clearly functioned as a puppet of the Klingon Defense Force, and he obviously felt no reluctance about demonstrating his loyalties.
“Perhaps we should recess for an hour or two,” Ambassador Endara suggested from one end of the table. The young Klingon said nothing, instead holding Kamemor’s gaze. Just before she looked away, she saw hatred flash across his already angry eyes. The observation served only to frustrate her. While she did not hold with the arrogant and too-common view of her people that Romulans were innately superior to all other races, she could see how the behavior of Klingons such as this one could foment such an opinion.
Kamemor looked down the beautiful table—its rich blond top had been carved whole from the trunk of an urukan tree, she had been told—and over to where the Federation ambassador sat flanked by his aides. Endara, an older human with short black hair and a bronze complexion, had demonstrated as much confidence during these negotiations as the young Klingon, but confidence born of an entirely different source: the Federation ambassador possessed a lifetime of diplomatic experience. Still, as the weeks here at the Algeron station had run into months, and as the months now raced toward becoming years, Kamemor had seen her own dissatisfactions with the proceedings reflected in Endara.
“Perhaps a recess would be in order,” Kamemor agreed.
“No,” came another voice, and Kamemor turned back to look directly across from her, to where Ambassador Kage sat beside his volatile aide. Unlike the young upstart, the seasoned Kage dressed the part of an ambassador for his people, wearing long, heavy robes embellished respectfully with the glittering icons of dozens of worlds. “It is not even midmorning,” the grizzled ambassador said, his manner and tone unusually quiet for a Klingon. “I do not think a recess will be necessary.” He leaned forward in his chair, reached out, and rested a hand atop his aide’s closed fist. “Will it, Ditagh?” he asked softly.
The gentle nature of the physical contact and of the appeal surprised Kamemor. Even after all this time tussling over so many issues with him, she had not yet become accustomed to the demeanor of the Klingon ambassador. Not nearly as impressive physically as his fiery aide, Kage could still command a room. But as firm and demanding as he had been during these negotiations, he nevertheless had conducted himself with tact and sensitivity. One of Azetbur’s disciples, to be sure, Kamemor thought, not for the first time. It also seemed clear to her that Kage faced challenges not only with Romulus and the Federation, but within his own faction.
The Klingon aide did not look down at Kage, but pulled back from the table, managing to extract his hand from beneath the ambassador’s without growling. Behind him, as one of the Romulan waitstaff left the room, another set down the ewer she carried and quickly righted the fallen chair. The aide grabbed it away, and the server shrank back as though she had been struck.
“Thank you, Ranek,” Kage offered. The woman looked at the ambassador and nodded politely, then retrieved the ewer and hastened for the door. Kamemor felt her eyebrow rise involuntarily, and she consciously brought it back down. The server who had picked up the chair was a ne
w addition to the waitstaff, having arrived at the station only within the last few days. Kamemor had not yet learned the woman’s name, and it said something about Kage that he had.
The Klingon aide set his chair back at the table with a thump, then dropped into it. “Now then,” Kage said, returning his attention to Kamemor, “I believe that you were speaking about limitations on the types of weapons allowed under a new treaty, Ambassador.”
“I was,” Kamemor concurred. She glanced at her two subconsuls, who sat to her left, then folded her hands in front of her and recalled the point she had earlier been advancing. “I believe that it would be in the best interests of all concerned if we can devise a means of preventing the creation of metaweapons. After all, where there are no such weapons, there are no possibilities of triggering their use. Of course, for an agreement of this type to succeed, it would require trilateral monitoring.” This time, Kage’s aide grunted, but he stayed in his chair, eyes cast downward, hands in his lap.
“Yes,” Kage said. “I understand your viewpoint. But how, precisely, would you define a ‘metaweapon’?”
Again, Kamemor felt her eyebrow climb. She had not anticipated the question. “I don’t have a ready answer to that,” she told Kage, “but I’m certain that we could construct a definition satisfactory to all.”
“Perhaps,” Kage said noncommittally. “But it is an important question, one that begs an answer prior to any discussion of this issue.”
Irritation welled within Kamemor, and behind that, anger. With no substantial progress in these talks recently, she had thought that they could be advanced by the settling of even a single minor point. She had raised the matter of metaweapons—at the suggestion of one of her subconsuls—because she had believed it one on which all parties could easily agree.
Diplomacy is a charge for the forbearing, Kamemor reminded herself. Still, she remained angry, and so she stood up, using the movement to cover her emotions. “I’ll try to respond to that, Ambassador,” she told Kage, then walked along the table, past her subconsuls, and over to the viewing ports. She peered out at a line of objects shining against the darkness of space like gems against a jeweler’s cloth. She raised her hand and lightly touched her fingertips to the port. A dull melancholy washed over her, drowning her choler in a tide of memories. Even all these years later, she could not escape the anguish she had felt—that all Romulans had felt—when the tragedy had occurred.
“A planet once orbited out there,” she said. “A planet that—” She stopped. She had been about to describe the scope of the disaster by referring to the size of the colony’s population. But not only was it not her place to reveal such information to outworlders, she also did not wish to speak of the horrific details. “A planet that no longer exists,” she went on, “because of an isolytic subspace weapon.” The planet—Algeron III—had not even been fired upon, but when a nearby enemy ship, fighting a losing battle against a bird-of-prey, had unleashed the weapon, a rent had formed in the fabric of subspace. The tear had been drawn to the power sources on Algeron III and had sliced through the planet with devastating result. The home to so many Romulans had been reduced to ruin so quickly that there had been no possibility of defending against it. At the same time, the force of the destruction had sealed the fissure, and had also crystallized many of the resultant planetary fragments, which now orbited the system’s star and refracted its light into the colors of the spectrum. The effect was magnificent to behold, but it also marked the graves of millions.
Kamemor turned to face Kage, her hand still on the port. “This is your answer,” she said. “This is what we must prevent.”
“Ambassador, I am terribly sorry for your loss, for the Romulan people’s loss,” Kage said with apparent sincerity. “But I must point out that my people did not—”
“No, they didn’t,” Kamemor snapped, cutting him off. Then she paused, slowed her breathing, dropped her hand from the port. She concentrated on regaining her composure. “Nor am I suggesting that any sane Klingon, any sane individual or group, would commit such a monstrous act.” Her words began to come quicker, reflecting the passion of her resolve. “But there are insane Klingons, insane humans, insane Romulans. If we could be assured that no such weapons would ever be used, because none were ever made, would we all not breathe easier?”
“Ambassador Kamemor,” Kage said, “I do understand your view. And my colleague misspoke a few moments ago when he implied that a Romulan presence at a Klingon weapons facility would be unacceptable. Under appropriate circumstances, Chancellor Azetbur would welcome Romulan representatives—and Federation representatives as well.” Next to Kage, the young aide lifted his hands up onto the table, tensing them into fists, and Kamemor thought that he might actually strike the ambassador; instead, he simply looked away. “The difficulty I see,” Kage continued, “is that there are powers beyond our three. The Gorn are certainly capable of developing metaweapons, as are the Tholians, and even the Tzenkethi. By agreeing never to do so ourselves, we would therefore be allowing these powers to create such weapons and attack us without fear of commensurate retaliation.”
“Pardon me, Ambassador Kage,” Endara said, “but that’s hardly the case. The might of the Klingon Defense Force could be brought to bear. Or the might of Starfleet or the Romulan Imperial Fleet. We could even consider a mutual defense pact.”
“But of course, metaweapons could potentially cripple the fleets,” Kage argued. “Do not misunderstand me. The Klingon Empire opposes any employment of these weapons, and even the construction of them. But we do not want to sign a treaty that we might one day have to break in order to survive.”
“At the risk of introducing another intractable issue into these proceedings,” Kamemor said, “I submit that this is worth exploring.”
“I agree,” Endara said. “Standing Federation policy dictates that we would favor the inclusion, in any treaty, of a covenant to ban the production of these weapons.”
“PetaQ,” Kage’s aid muttered. Kamemor recognized the Klingon invective.
“Ditagh,” Kage chided, almost inaudibly.
“No,” the aide responded loudly. He stood back up again, though not as quickly this time, and his chair remained upright. “This petaQ—” He pointed a thick finger toward Endara. “—hurls lies at us and I’m not supposed to speak of it?”
“Ditagh,” Kage repeated, more firmly. “These are diplomatic proceedings. You will therefore conduct yourself diplomatically.”
“Wait,” Kamemor said, stepping away from the outer bulkhead and into the center of the room. “What lies?” She had seen no reason to respect the peevish Klingon aide, but none of his churlishness, his inexperience, or his status as somebody’s pawn precluded his statement from being true. Kamemor had worked for months to fashion an agreement for a meaningful and prolonged peace among the three powers, but if she was being lied to, she wanted to know it.
“Federation representatives sit here spouting peace—” He waved a hand dismissively in the direction of Endara and his staff. “—while at the same time they’re trying to develop a weapon to wipe out the Klingon Empire.”
Endara stared at the aide with what Kamemor could only interpret as a complete lack of comprehension. “Ambassador Kage,” Endara said at last, expressly addressing the statesman rather than his subordinate. “The Federation has been a friend to the Klingon Empire for years—for decades. What’s just been suggested is not only patently false, but absurd in the extreme.”
“How would you know?” the Klingon aide barked, finally turning toward Endara. “Does Starfleet keep you informed of its—”
“Ditagh,” Kage interjected. He rose slowly from his chair as his aide spun in his direction. The ambassador fell well short of the young Klingon’s height and build, but Kamemor still thought the older man seemed the more formidable of the two. “Sit down,” Kage ordered. The aide hesitated only briefly, and then he returned to his seat, evidently realizing that, no matter who pulled his s
trings, he was on his own right now, in this room.
“My apologies,” Kage said, looking around to include both Kamemor and Endara. “Ditagh does not speak for our people. He is my aide, and obviously…enthusiastic. But I am the official Klingon representative at these meetings.”
Kamemor bowed her head, acknowledging Kage’s declaration. “Perhaps, though, it would be best to recess until after the midday meal,” she said.
Kage opened his mouth as if to protest, then looked down at his aide and seemed to change his mind. “A fine idea, Ambassador.”
Kamemor looked to Endara for his approval. “I have no objection,” he said, then rose, his staff collecting the reference materials they’d brought to the meeting and spread out on the table. At the same time, the young Klingon got up and hurried out of the room, and the second Klingon aide, silent throughout the meeting, followed. Kage took the time to excuse himself, then exited too. A few moments later, Endara and his staff also departed, leaving Kamemor in the room with her two subconsuls.
“What is the question I have in my mind right now?” she asked without preamble, walking over to face her assistants across the table.
“Why are the Klingons really against a prohibition on the production of metaweapons?” said N’Mest, a woman who’d worked with Kamemor for six years, and who could often anticipate Kamemor’s reactions to diplomatic parleys. But not this time.
Serpents Among the Ruins Page 6
