Star Trek: Vanguard: What Judgments Come

by Dayton Ward

  Returning his attention to the computer display screen, he saw that one man, the apparent leader, stood before the group in front of the now-barricaded steps and gates leading from the street to the consulate’s front veranda. With his left arm held close to his chest in a makeshift sling, the man brandished a section of pipe in his free hand and seemed to be shouting toward the consulate. There was no way to hear him through the window thanks to the building’s soundproofing, so Jetanien moved to his desk and activated his computer interface terminal. With a few touches of the unit’s keypad, the Chelon activated the feed from the array of audiovisual pickups positioned around the building. The viewer finally settled on an image of the group standing near the consul-ate’s main gate, and ambient sounds from outside began to filter through the computer’s intercom, followed by the voice of the man at the head of the group.

  “Open the gates and let us in!”

  Jetanien listened to the reply from one of the consulate’s security officers, imploring the man and his comrades to disperse, and he felt a pang of guilt. Should they not open the doors and give these people at least something resembling safety? Though he had been given the answer by his security chief, it was a response that had done nothing to assuage the remorse that gnawed at him. Constable Schiappacasse had informed him that the shelter the consulate afforded was not what these people sought. Instead, it was the transport shuttle sitting on the building’s roof, and the promise of escape the vessel offered. After the events of the past two days, there were precious few such ships remaining, and not nearly enough room for the number of people wanting to leave. While a significant percentage of the colony population appeared content to stay on Nimbus III, most of those people had fled the city, waiting for help to arrive and for the situation to be brought under control. That still left a sizable number of disgruntled citizens looking for any means of fleeing the planet.

  Overcome with his own regret, Jetanien reached for the control to activate the intercom system and open a channel to the conduit nearest the group’s location. “Sir, please lead your people back to your homes. Assistance is on the way and will be here soon, I promise you.”

  “To hell with that,” the man shouted, his voice sounding distant and hollow as transmitted through the speaker. “We’re not staying out here. Let us in, or we’ll find our own way in!”

  Jetanien looked at Moreno. “I trust the building’s entrances remain secure?”

  “For the moment,” his assistant replied. “The front gate’s taken a pretty good beating but seems to be holding. The other doors were easier to fortify, but as Constable Schiappacasse has told us, this building wasn’t equipped to withstand a siege, sir.”

  “Let’s hope we can avoid that, shall we?” Jetanien said before returning his attention to the viewer and reopening the intercom circuit. “Sir, we are not equipped to assist you. Please take your injured comrades to the medical clinic, and return to your homes to wait for the arrival of Federation assistance.”

  “We’re not leaving!” the man on the screen shouted, holding up for emphasis the length of pipe he carried. “We want your shuttle!”

  Sighing, Jetanien shook his head. “It seems Schiappacasse was correct.” During the previous day, rioters had succeeded in overrunning the spaceport and commandeering several civilian transport vessels and freighters as well as a handful of shuttles belonging to the Federation, Klingon, and Romulan consulates. At last count, more than three hundred colonists had left the planet, and the spaceport facility had been ransacked, according to reports provided by Schiappacasse. The security force was overextended, trying to maintain some semblance of control over other official facilities such as the constabulary, medical clinic, and the consulates themselves. Thanks to Schiappacasse’s foresight, before the events of the prior day, each of the diplomatic cadres had secured one of their personnel shuttles atop their respective buildings, in the event the situation became so untenable that a hasty escape was required. The problem with this tactic was that each of the vessels was plainly visible from the street, and bound to attract the attention of anyone seeking any means of leaving the planet. Jetanien knew that even the small crowd now clamoring for entry into the consulate would be underserved and outraged. The small Class-F shuttlecraft was barely large enough to accommodate Jetanien and his staff, and even then not for a journey of any great length.

  Sensing his words were being wasted, Jetanien nevertheless leaned once more toward the intercom. “Sir, we can discuss evacuation and relocation options as soon as Federation transports are—”

  “You’ve been warned!” the man shouted, cutting him off. “Whatever happens now is on your hands!” Turning away from the video pickup, he and several of his companions moved to the far side of the street, huddling in a small circle.

  “Sergio,” Jetanien said, gesturing toward the image on the viewer, “what do you make of this?”

  Moreno leaned closer, studying the video feed. “I’m not sure, but it can’t be good. Given the surprises we’ve already seen, I think we should alert the constable.”

  “Agreed,” Jetanien said. “See to that, please.” As the assistant left the room to carry out his instructions, he was forced to step aside as the hunched, feeble form of Senator D’tran appeared in the doorway. The Romulan maneuvered to allow Moreno egress from the room before stepping inside.

  “So,” he said, “I see you’re aware of the situation outside?”

  Jetanien nodded. “Yes. It doesn’t look good, my friend.” Rising to his feet, he crossed the room and reached to open the standard-issue Starfleet equipment locker which—for the time being, at least—served as an armoire for his wardrobe.

  “Have you heard from my consulate?” D’tran asked as he shuffled to the lone chair positioned before Jetanien’s desk and lowered himself into it.

  The Chelon replied, “No, not since S’anra’s last report.” D’tran’s assistant had made contact with Sergio Moreno earlier the previous evening, ensuring him that the situation at the Romulan Consulate was similar, with the staff watching from the relative safety of the building as the rioting had unfolded in the streets around them. Further attempts at communication had gone unanswered, and Jetanien had begun to fear the worst.

  “It’s likely that their security was breached,” D’tran said, as though reading his friend’s thoughts. “The Klingon insurgents would have made my consulate a target. After all, they consider us even greater enemies than they do the Federation.” He sighed, reaching up to rub the bridge of his thin, angular nose. “Young S’anra is lost. All of them are, and I am to blame.”

  “Please don’t say that,” Jetanien said as he selected a simple garment that would be comfortable while providing ease of movement. “There were many contributing factors to what we now face, and none of them are your doing.”

  Leaning back in his chair, D’tran said, “I’m afraid that’s not completely accurate, my friend. My staff and I were under orders from my praetor to gather intelligence data not only on you but also Lugok and his staff by any means available. Though I did not agree with this action, there were those on my staff who acted of their own accord, working to breach your security systems as well as the Klingon Consulate in the hope of gleaning some sort of useful information.”

  Jetanien turned from his wardrobe to regard his friend, who seemed to have aged years just in the past few days, no doubt owing to lack of rest and the stresses of the current situation. “They were successful?”

  “In part,” D’tran replied. “S’anra came to me when she discovered the effort, and together we have been acting to keep their transgressions in check. While pretending to support their activities and receive regular status reports from them, S’anra saw to it that none of the data they collected—either from your or Lugok’s staff—was transmitted to Romulus.”

  “Was Lugok aware of this?” Jetanien asked.

  Nodding, D’tran replied, “I told him myself. We agreed to keep the incident between us,
so as not to cause you concern or prompt you to lose faith in our efforts.” He then offered a small, wistful smile. “Lugok and I were using this as an opportunity to strengthen the bonds of trust between us.” He shook his head, and a tired chuckle escaped his lips. “Imagine, a Romulan and a Klingon working together to spare a Federation diplomat’s feelings. What would our forebears have thought about that?”

  “If they had imagined it themselves,” Jetanien replied, “then countless lives might have been saved, and we would not need to be here today.” Stepping closer to the aged Romulan, he placed one of his large manus on the senator’s shoulders. “Of course that did not happen, and one of the few fortunate effects of that shortsightedness is that you and I were able to become friends.”

  “Thank you, Jetanien.” D’tran reached out to place one weathered hand atop the Chelon’s. “For longer than you have been alive, I have wanted nothing but to find some way for our peoples to live together; not necessarily in peace, but at least not at war. I have seen much that has given me cause for despair, tempered only by a few incidents that have brought hope. None of those measure up to the vision you hold for us, my friend.”

  Pulling back his manus, Jetanien drew himself up, feeling a sense of pride in the face of D’tran’s words. “Not just my vision. If not for you and even Lugok, none of this would have been possible.” He paused, sighing. “Though this can hardly be called our shining moment, I firmly believe it does not have to be our defining moment. We will get through this, and we will do so together.” Would the Federation see things his way? Would any support his government might choose to show so far as this “great experiment” was concerned be reciprocated by its Klingon and Romulan counterparts? There would be no way to know that—at least, not until well after the crisis currently affecting Nimbus III was resolved.

  A harsh buzz erupted from Jetanien’s desktop computer terminal as its screen began to blink bright crimson. He and D’tran exchanged confused looks before a new voice burst from the intercom.

  “Attention, all personnel!” shouted the voice of Constable Schiappacasse. “The consulate is under direct attack. Move away from all doors and windows. Move away—”

  Everything in the room rattled around the two diplomats, and Jetanien even felt the floor shaking beneath his feet as something seemed to punch the entire building. The impact was followed by a new set of alarms ringing in the hallway outside the room. Even over the new commotion Jetanien was able to hear the shouts of nearby consulate staffers and security officers, the overall tone of which was one of confusion and fear.

  “What was that?” he asked, moving toward the window.

  “Jetanien!” D’tran snapped, and the Chelon stopped in mid-stride, realizing what he was doing. “That was an explosion. Get back!”

  Aghast, Jetanien felt his pulse racing as he absorbed the significance of his friend’s words. Rioters had for several days already been using explosive compounds and devices improvised from various materials. Their employment to this point had been isolated incidents, targeting buildings or vehicles that at the time of attack were not occupied. The makeshift contraptions had been utilized as statements of protest, not weapons, at least until now. This was different, and like the projectile rifles possessed by at least some of the remaining insurgents, the explosives signified a definite shift in motivation with respect to how far the protesters were willing to go.

  “We have to stop this,” he said, reaching to his desk in an effort to support himself as he felt his legs shake. “People will be hurt or killed, D’tran. We can’t allow that to happen. Not now.”

  D’tran’s expression was one of resignation. “We may not have a choice, my friend.”

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway beyond his quarters and then his door slid open. Jetanien flinched as a figure brandishing a weapon ran into the room. To the Chelon’s great relief, it was Constable Schiappacasse, phaser held up and ready to fire. When she saw Jetanien she lowered her weapon, though her eyes remained wide with excitement.

  “Ambassador,” she said, then upon seeing D’tran, added, “Senator. Time to go, gentlemen.” From somewhere behind her, shouts and the occasional burst of phaser fire echoed in the passageway.

  “Where are we going?” Jetanien asked even as the constable gestured for him to join her at the door.

  Schiappacasse pointed upward. “Roof. We’re bugging out and moving to a secure location to wait for reinforcements to arrive.”

  There was more movement in the passageway, and Jetanien looked past Schiappacasse to see Sergio Moreno step into view. “They’re through the outside gate, sir. They’ll be inside any minute!”

  “That’s our cue, people,” Schiappacasse snapped, her attention divided between the room and the hallway. “We’re outnumbered at least three to one if they get in here.”

  With the constable leading the way, Jetanien, D’tran, and Moreno followed her from the room and down the corridor the Chelon knew would lead them to the building’s center staircase and access to the roof. They had progressed less than ten meters from Jetanien’s quarters when a flash from ahead of them illuminated the passageway just as another, louder explosion rocked the building. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, and Jetanien was certain he heard what had to be the sounds of debris falling somewhere ahead of them

  “They’re inside,” Schiappacasse hissed, increasing the pace of her advance as she closed the distance toward the foyer leading to the staircase. “Come on! Move!”

  The quartet reached the stairway landing, itself a balcony overlooking the open space that was the center of the entire building. Jetanien peered over the railing to see smoke and dust billowing up from below. Where the set of massive double doors forming the front entrance should have been was now a ragged, gaping hole. Figures obscured by the smoke were darting about, and Jetanien heard the thump of running footsteps on the stairs.

  “All units, report in!” Schiappacasse called into her communicator as she moved to take up a defensive position near the stairs. Jetanien, hearing the muffled sounds of a voice replying to the constable through the communicator’s speaker, began moving toward her, but he was stopped when she gestured upward with the muzzle of her phaser. “Get to the roof!”

  Reaching back to take D’tran by the arm, Jetanien led the way to the stairs even as the footsteps from below continued to grow louder. The Chelon was startled by the howl of phaser energy in the narrow passageway, which was followed by the sound of something falling back down the stairs. Then a resounding snap echoed in the corridor and Jetanien heard Schiappacasse cry out in pain. He turned in time to see the security officer thrown backward and off her feet, her phaser sailing from her hand to disappear over the railing as she crashed to the floor. Jetanien stepped toward her, realizing as he drew closer that her face now was a mask of blood and shattered bone.

  “No!” he shouted. Then, realizing his cry likely would draw attention, he turned and lumbered toward the stairs, where Moreno was assisting D’tran. Heavy footfalls clamored up the stairwell behind them just as the trio reached the security door leading to the rooftop. Moreno keyed a code into the pad set into the bulkhead and the hatch slid aside. He hustled D’tran through with a small yet firm shove from Jetanien. The Chelon stepped through the doorway and hit the keypad on the other side, and the last thing he saw as the door closed was the lifeless body of Carla Schiappacasse. The chaos of the moment would prevent him from offering her a proper acknowledgment of her sacrifice, and he vowed to rectify that at the earliest opportunity. For now, however, the only thing he had to give seemed woefully inadequate.

  Thank you, Constable.

  Turning from the door, Jetanien realized for the first time that they were not alone on the roof. Several members of his staff—two female humans, a male Rigellian, and two female representativesof his own race—stood near the shuttlecraft. Two others, both male humans, were absent.

  “Where are Thies and Adinolfi?” Jetanien asked.

  One
of the human females, a short woman of medium build with close-cut brown hair named Tara Varney, was visibly upset as she shook her head. “We don’t know. They were on the ground floor when the bomb went off.” She said nothing else, leaving Jetanien to contemplate the dreadful possibility behind her words. Turning to look beyond the parapet surrounding the building’s roof, he gazed upon Paradise City, evidence of the night’s violence staining the brightening sky with a dozen columns of dark smoke. One such plume rose from the vicinity of the Romulan Consulate. Random shouts echoed above the ambient noise from the streets below, punctuating the single thought that now taunted Jetanien.

  The Planet of Galactic Peace was a failure.

  Beside him, visibly stressed from his exertions, D’tran said, “We can do nothing for them, my friend. Your responsibility now is to these people.”

  “You’re right,” Jetanien said, his voice low and tight. To the group, he added, “Get aboard the shuttle.” Then something thumped against the other side of the door leading to the roof, and Jetanien realized the hatch would not withstand a prolonged assault. Whatever resistance it might provide would without doubt be nullified if the rioters had brought with them another explosive.

  Standing near the shuttle’s hatch, Moreno flipped open a communicator. “Code One alert to anyone receiving this message! We’re being attacked at the Federation Consulate! Help us!”

  “Get aboard the shuttle!” Jetanien repeated, all but shouting the command. “There’s no one in range to hear you, anyway.” How long until the first Starfleet support vessel was due to arrive? Hours, at last report. Even if they arrived ahead of schedule, it likely would be too late unless he and his charges acted to save themselves.