by Dayton Ward
Soon, he promised himself.
“I talked to Tonzak,” Neera said, her tone turning more serious. “He said Reyes appeared to be resisting the escape attempt. He had a chance to get away, but didn’t take it.”
Frowning, Ganz regarded his confidante, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “The instant he steps foot on that station, he goes back to prison. Seems like an easy choice to me.”
“Maybe,” Neera said. “Then again, maybe not.”
“What are you thinking?” Ganz asked. He had been hoping for Reyes to somehow reveal his true motives for requesting asylum aboard the Omari-Ekon. So far, the former Starfleet officer had managed to avoid making such an egregious error.
“He may be a spy, after all,” Neera said.
“If he is,” Ganz countered, then he has to be the most useless spy in the history of espionage. We’ve had him under almost constant surveillance. He can’t get to any controlled areas of the ship, and his computer access is curtailed even further than for regular guests. If he’s spying, then he has to be working largely on his own, without a handler to guide his movements. The only contact he’s had with anyone from the station is that reporter, Pennington, and the doctor.” While there existed the possibility, however remote, of Reyes having found some other, covert means of communicating with someone on the station, Ganz could not bring himself to believe it.
Neera nodded. “And if he’s been under cover all this time, it doesn’t make sense that they’d risk compromising him with such a sloppy rescue attempt.” Tapping one fingernail along the edge of her glass, she shook her head. “Something’s out of place here.”
“So,” Ganz said, not understanding why this had to be so complicated, “let’s get rid of him, before he does manage to do some real damage.”
Neera’s expression turned to one of disapproval. “You do that, then you’d better be ready to warp out of here, because the second Nogura finds out Reyes is dead, he’ll send every armed security guard he can find swarming onto this ship, and he’ll worry about any political fallout tomorrow.”
Although his current, strained relationship with Starbase 47 chafed him, there was no way Ganz could afford to leave the safety net afforded by being docked with the station. “And if Reyes stays alive?”
“Then Starfleet likely will be happy to keep things quiet, at least for now. The attempt to retrieve Reyes was illegal, and they won’t want to admit to it. I don’t think you want to admit that those two Starfleet officers were killed aboard my ship, and Starfleet won’t press that issue, either, if for no other reason than to keep us from taking action against Reyes.
Considering what he had just heard, Ganz could only shake his head in admiration. “There’s a reason I don’t like playing chess with you.”
“Just one of my many talents,” Neera replied.
Everything she had just outlined, reduced to its essentials, equated to one thing so far as Ganz was concerned. “So, we wait, to see what Reyes does?”
Neera nodded. “Yes.”
“I have to say, I don’t like it. Reyes is no idiot. He’s liable to figure out we’re on to him at some point. Besides, with the luck he’s had avoiding trouble, I’m beginning to think he’s blessed with divine assistance.”
Moving herself off the desk, Neera turned so that she was close enough to stroke Ganz’s cheek. “Luck always runs out. Reyes’s day is coming, but for now, we keep him alive.” When her fingers reached his chin, she guided his face so that his eyes locked with hers. “Understood?”
“Yes,” Ganz replied, and Neera bent forward to kiss the top of his bald head.
“Excellent,” she said before turning and moving around the desk on her way to the bedroom. Looking back over her shoulder at him, she smiled. “Coming?”
“I’ll be right there,” Ganz replied. He waited until Neera disappeared through the doorway into his private bedchamber before reaching out to the computer interface and tapping its control pad.
Despite the confidence with which she had just outlined the situation, Ganz could not shake the nagging feeling that this entire affair was becoming too convoluted. To him, it seemed only a matter of time before something he could not control upset the entire fragile balance currently holding Starfleet—and Nogura—at the proverbial arm’s length. Even with as keen an insight as she possessed, how could Neera not see that?
The time for action, Ganz decided, was now.
He opened a communications frequency and waited until the face of his head of security, Tonzak, filled the computer screen. The muscled Orion’s large head sat atop a squat neck, and his broad torso, bare save for the pair of bandoliers he liked to wear across his chest, featured several scars and piercings, all bearing mute testimony to the demanding life he had lived as an underling within the syndicate.
“Yes?” Tonzak asked, staring out from the screen with a furrowed brow.
“Come and see me after your shift tonight,” Ganz replied, keeping his voice low. “I have a special job for you.” Even allowing for the occasional setback, the young Orion had proven valuable on more than one occasion. He, along with one or two others in Ganz’s organization, were more than capable of utilizing the proper amounts of discretion and initiative which would be required to kill Diego Reyes.
Neera will be upset, Ganz mused, but for now he elected to set aside such concerns. Besides, if he ended up resolving the Reyes matter in such a way that it moved any unwanted scrutiny away from her superiors, they in turn might feel grateful to him to such an extent that Neera was no longer an issue, either. Perhaps they would see fit to grant him a measure of autonomy, something offered with great infrequency to other male Orions at his station within the syndicate hierarchy. Rather than having to stand idle as Neera took the larger share of credit for his work, he might begin to enjoy rewards more commensurate with the risk and responsibility he undertook.
That notion, Ganz decided, held definite appeal, though all of that could come later.
For now? It was time to put an end to the irritant known as Diego Reyes.
18
Storming through the large double doors to the building that now served as the chancery for the Federation’s ambassadorial delegation, Jetanien locked eyes with his assistant, Sergio Moreno, who rose from behind his reception desk near the rear of the lobby. “How long have they been here?” The query was loud enough to echo off the prefabricated stone walls that were a common facet of nearly every structure in Paradise City.
“They just arrived, Ambassador,” Moreno said as Jetanien strode past. “I was unaware you had scheduled a meeting for this morning.”
“That is because I did not,” Jetanien replied, moving for the stairwell that would take him to his office. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to make the transit from where he had been walking near the retail district, during his morning stroll through the streets of Paradise City. The daily ritual was one he had observed since first occupying the chancery despite the constabulary’s reports and warnings about the increased yet still isolated incidents of disturbances scattered across the colony. That was when he had received the alert message on the private channel reserved for communications between him, Lugok, and D’tran. The summons had come from the Romulan senator, asking that the trio meet at Jetanien’s offices as soon as possible. As he reached the stairs, he called out over his shoulder to Moreno, “Be ready in case I call you up to assist.”
“Of course, sir,” the assistant replied. “Is everything all right, Ambassador?”
“We’ll see about that soon enough, won’t we?” Jetanien replied, his words echoing off the stairwell as he ascended to the third floor of the chancery, which served as both work space and living quarters for him and his staff. His mind racing through the numerous possible reasons his colleagues would need to meet so urgently, he climbed the last few stairs and crossed the landing toward his office. When the door slid aside, he saw D’tran and Lugok standing together before his desk, their backs to him.
> “Gentlemen, I got back as soon as I could,” Jetanien said, noting that he sounded more than a bit out of breath. “What brings you to my humble abode, and how may I be of assistance?”
The Klingon and Romulan diplomats turned to face Jetanien, and he noticed their hands were filled—with bottles of drink.
“You can assist by getting yourself a glass,” Lugok replied, laughing as he brandished a square-bodied silver bottle by its neck with such enthusiasm that some of its contents spewed from its open top and fell to the floor.
Jetanien eyed his counterparts with no small amount of confusion. “It seems a bit early for bloodwine, Ambassador.”
His comment evoked a deep laugh from the Klingon. “Not today, my friend,” he replied before bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a lengthy pull from the vessel.
Offering his own satisfied if comparatively restrained smile, D’tran held up his own bottle, which was clear and perhaps three-quarters filled with a bright blue liquid. “I suppose it’s possible that our perception of time is no longer synchronous with yours. We have just concluded a lengthy subspace communication with members of the Klingon High Council and the Romulan Senate.”
Clicking his beak, Jetanein replied, “Your appreciation for Romulan ale seems rather out of sorts this morning, as well.”
“An infrequent indulgence,” D’tran said, bowing his head in mock salute. “I’m obliging my fellow negotiator only to satisfy his desire for ceremony. After all, this is an occasion well worth recognizing and celebrating.”
Realizing now what had so excited his two companions, Jetanien allowed himself a small chuckle. “I take it you have reached some sort of accord?”
“Rather more than that, I should think,” D’tran replied, reaching for the glass he had left atop Jetanien’s desk and refreshing it from the bottle of ale in his withered hand.
Lugok added, “Indeed. The Klingon and Romulan empires have finally agreed to an actual, mutually beneficial alliance—one created out of joint need and cooperation, rather than duplicity and one-upmanship.”
“So, tell me,” Jetanien said, “what was the big breakthrough?”
D’tran settled himself in one of the armchairs positioned before Jetanien’s desk. “Each side was finally able to help the other understand the benefits of working together from their own point of view.” He sipped from his glass before adding, “I like to think the success is owed more to the process itself, rather than any one particular point.”
“And I can’t even take full credit for it,” Lugok added.
“I see,” Jetanien replied, then paused, shaking his head. “Actually, that is a lie. I haven’t the first clue what you mean, D’tran. Is this your way of telling me that you bamboozled them into accepting an agreement with a flurry of obtuse rhetoric?”
This evoked a laugh from Lugok, just as the Klingon was tipping his bloodwine bottle to his lips, and he nearly choked on his drink. “That is precisely what happened,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I spoke with the High Council and explained that what the Romulans sought from us was relatively minor. However, I said that I had already told D’tran that their requests would be difficult to obtain, and that the Romulans needed to make substantial concessions to ensure an agreement. So, my people thought the Romulans were foolishly offering a lot for an accord that could have come at much less than they agreed to concede.”
“And I convinced the Senate of the same,” D’tran added. “So long as each side was able to believe it had received the better benefit, everyone seems happy.”
Now Jetanien laughed, appreciating his comrades’ shrewd if unorthodox tactics. “Given how previous attempts at consensus always seemed to be fueled by one side working to deceive or defraud the other, it’s amusing to think that a reverse of such thinking is actually what brings about agreement.” He shook his head. “Gentlemen, it’s quite possible that interstellar diplomacy is well and truly doomed.” In truth, the news was welcome, no matter how the arrangement itself had been reached, and could not have come at a better time—after what could only be described as “escalating tensions” between Klingon and Romulan forces near the outer boundary of the Taurus Reach in recent weeks. Lugok and D’tran, along with Jetanien, had also been involved in negotiations dedicated to defusing that situation. That those earlier efforts might now have yielded additional, tangential results would be well worth celebrating. “Dare I ask what each side conceded to the other?”
“Technology rights,” D’tran replied. “The Klingons once again have asked for further insights into our cloaking systems, for which they offer heartfelt assurances that it will not be turned against us as an instrument of aggression.”
Lugok said, “Whereas the Romulans have requested safe passage using agreed-upon lanes of travel through Klingon space so that they might have greater access to areas of space beyond their own borders and which in turn are in proximity to imperial territory.” He turned to regard Jetanien before adding, “Including the Gonmog Sector.”
“The Gonmog Sector?” the Chelon asked, schooling his reaction so as not to appear too concerned about this new development. “Really?”
Grinning, the Klingon ambassador nodded. “Come, Jetanien, don’t be so coy. You know full well my people are aware of the ancient technology to be found there. After all, your Starfleet has done an exceptionally horrid job keeping that secret.”
Despite a fervent desire to dispel his companion’s claims, Jetanien knew Lugok was correct. Though intelligence reports showed that Klingon operatives working in the Taurus Reach were aware of the Shedai and the technology they commanded, there was almost no evidence suggesting the Empire held any real knowledge regarding the Taurus Meta-Genome itself or the potential it contained. It was a slim distinction, but an important one. At present, the only access to Shedai artifacts was through the use of specialized equipment developed by Doctor Carol Marcus, Lieutenant Ming Xiong, and their team of research scientists aboard Starbase 47. So far as had been determined, the Klingons possessed nothing approaching that level of sophistication.
So far, Jetanien reminded himself.
“For one capable of so few expressions, yours is a face that is easy to read,” D’tran said, picking up on the unspoken conversation around which Jetanien and Lugok were dancing. “If our three governments can demonstrate an ability to cooperate here, within the confines of our little experiment, then surely such mutual respect can be extended beyond this worthless dustball of a planet. Wouldn’t you say, Jetanien?”
Nodding, the Chelon replied, “Of course.”
“Don’t fret, Jetanien,” Lugok said, holding up his bottle of bloodwine. “We look upon this as an opportunity to build trust between our peoples. After all, the trust we foster with this agreement can’t help but influence goodwill toward the next one.”
“Just as our efforts here perhaps played a role in reaching compromise with the accord you forged today,” Jetanien replied. “So, no one ended up with—as my human friends are prone to say—the short end of the stick?”
“Only the Federation,” was all Lugok managed to say before erupting with booming laughter. “That is what’s most glorious of all.”
Perhaps sensing Jetanien’s wariness, D’tran said, “Our Kling-on friend overstates the ramifications of what was accomplished here today. While it’s true to say that at least some of the agreement’s appeal lies in how it might serve to frustrate or concern certain Federation officials. That is not to say we remain closed to talks with you and your leaders, my friend.”
Jetanien certainly had considered what a Klingon-Romulan alliance might mean for the Federation on any number of fronts. He had given the matter serious thought upon learning of the original pact the two powers had fostered nearly a year earlier, which had resulted in the Romulans’ sharing some of their cloaking technology in exchange for a small fleet of Klingon battle cruisers. What had begun as a seemingly legitimate exchange of information and ideas had soured when it was learned
the Klingon officer responsible for brokering the deal had engaged in duplicity and deception to tip the agreement in his favor. The ruse had even involved a spy embedded within the ranks of support staff attached to the Romulan Senate itself. Though the covert agent had been discovered and eliminated, the arrangement itself had fallen apart, leaving both sides to eye one another with renewed suspicion and resentment. At first, that accord’s failure seemed be fortunate happenstance so far as the Federation was concerned. If the efforts of Lugok and D’tran were to be believed, however, then it seemed obvious to Jetanien that—eventually—the Klingons and Romulans might well achieve some form of permanent, formidable partnership.
And what then? It was a question for which Jetanien possessed no answer.
“Your unease is evident,” D’tran said. “Remember that this treaty between the Klingon and Romulan empires has been a long time coming, and has suffered from the machinations of a shortsighted few.” He gestured with both hands, indicating not only Jetanien’s office but also—presumably—the rest of Paradise City. “Surely you, more so than anyone, can see that what we’ve managed to achieve here is too great for us to stand by and let it be squandered, much less take active steps to sabotage our own efforts.”
Lugok nodded. “He speaks the truth. I for one did not spend all those months sitting on this cursed ball of dirt just to throw away all of that time, energy, and work.”
“Of course not,” Jetanien said. On the other hand, he knew from experience that Lugok was more than capable of engaging in deception, as he had done early on during his assignment as part of the Klingon diplomatic delegation to Starbase 47. One of his numerous duties had been overseeing the activities of Anna Sandesjo, a covert Klingon agent surgically altered to pass as a human female. For a time, she had been a member of Jetanien’s staff, at least until he and the station’s intelligence officer, T’Prynn, had uncovered her real identity. Sandesjo had later been killed in a mishap involving an explosion aboard a cargo ship docked at the station, and Jetanien had never been convinced that her death was anything other than murder, perhaps at the hands of an agent dispatched by Lugok. Jetanien, naturally, had never shared his knowledge or feelings of the situation with the Kling-on, but he knew it could be argued that Lugok merely was doing the bidding of a superior, at least then. But now? Jetanien had spent a great deal of time with the Klingon as they waited for D’tran to arrive on Nimbus III, after which the trio set to the task of laying the groundwork for what had become the joint colony. Was it possible that Lugok could still be working to deceive him?
