Legate Zarin did not believe in an afterlife. He firmly believed that when you died, assuming your body was still intact at the time of death, the body decayed and that was all there was to it. Unlike these Klingon savages they were supposed to be “negotiating” with, who were fairly obsessed with some mythical other-dimensional afterlife where they would beat each other over the head for all eternity, Zarin knew better. To him, life was the most important thing.
However, he knew that many other cultures believed in an afterlife where those who had lived unworthy lives had to suffer some kind of eternal torment in punishment. And right at this moment, he knew that, if such a place did exist, Zarin would be spending eternity being trapped in a room with Gul Monor. He could imagine no greater agony.
“The worst are these Foreheads. Expecting us to negotiate with them like they were civilized people. They’re as bad as the Bajorans, really.”
Zarin blinked. Monor actually said something intelligent and worth replying to. Swallowing the kanar he had been sipping, Zarin said, “Well, they have more territory.”
“Luck, most likely. I’ve heard that they didn’t even develop warp drive, but stole it from some race called the Hur’q.”
“Never heard of them,” Zarin said honestly.
“Well, as I said, that’s just what I heard. Then again, these Foreheads are all talk and no action, as far as I’m concerned. They were more than happy to claim Raknal V after we did all the work finding it and locating their damn ship. Have you noticed that whenever they’re faced with the prospect of a real challenge—a real war, a real crisis—they back off with their tails between their legs? I mean, all right, I suppose I can see why they begged the Federation for help after Praxis, though I can’t see why they couldn’t just support themselves and fix their own problems, but then there was the way they backed off after Organia.”
Zarin frowned. “I seem to recall that that treaty was enforced by the Organians.”
“If you believe that sort of thing, I suppose.” Monor’s disdainful tone indicated he did not. Zarin covered his reaction by sipping more kanar. The Federation had made the records on the Organian situation available during the initial negotiations leading to the Vulcan summit that ended so badly last year. Zarin had familiarized himself with them, and knew that neither the Federation nor the Klingons had much choice with regard to not going to war sixty years ago. “Frankly,” Monor continued, “I don’t believe in any of that sort of nonsense. Beings of energy pretending to be sapient so they can play games with us—utter foolishness, if you ask me. Just another excuse for the Foreheads not to fight. Like I said, all talk and no action. Mark my words, Legate, they’ll spend the entire negotiating time posturing and yelling and spitting. Especially spitting. Never seen a race that enjoyed spitting as much as they do. Except maybe Lissepians. Still, all they ever seem to do is spit.”
Zarin looked around the lounge, hoping for some excuse to get away from Monor. Unfortunately, the only other Cardassians were members of his staff, and the only high-ranking Federation officers present with whom it might have behooved him to be sociable were Commander Garrett and the just-arrived Captain Haden. However, they were talking with Dax, the Federation mediator, and Zarin wanted as little to do with him as possible away from the negotiating table. The ambassador was a flamboyant, annoying little tralk—more like a Ferengi than anything, and Zarin hated Ferengi.
On the other hand, even being in Dax’s presence couldn’t have been any worse than listening to Monor ramble.
“I don’t see why we need to negotiate in any case. The Foreheads aren’t going to do anything sensible anyhow. We should just go to war. Can’t imagine what Central Command is thinking going through this nonsense.”
That, at least, Zarin could speak to. “Central Command didn’t have a choice. Both the Detapa Council and the Obsidian Order opposed going to war.”
Monor sputtered at that, and Zarin felt a slight dab of spittle on his cheek. For someone who objects to Klingon spit, he is certainly free with his own expectoration, he thought angrily as he brushed a napkin over his cheek ridge.
“That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard,” Monor said. “Since when do we need anyone’s permission?”
In this, at least, Zarin appreciated Monor’s annoyance, since it was akin to the outrage he himself had expressed at Legate Kell when the latter gave Zarin this assignment. “Permission, we do not need. However, the Council does have oversight over our budget.”
Monor shook his head. “Pathetic. Isn’t that just like a civilian to let something as crude as money be used as a weapon against us? We’re no better than those damn Ferengi. As for the Order—well, the less said about them, the better.”
Zarin shrugged. “They just want an opportunity to study the Klingons and the Federation. You know how they are.”
“Vultures, all of them.” Monor scowled. “You didn’t let one of those voles into your party, did you?”
“Allow, no, but I would be stunned if one of my staff wasn’t reporting to the Order.” In fact, Zarin had given a great deal of thought to which of the six aides he had brought along served another master. The only one he’d eliminated was the young intern. Fresh out of Bamarren, Talen Kallar barely knew which buttons to push on his padd, and what he lacked in brains he made up for in lack of brains. The boy was an idiot, through and through. No, he thought, I’m betting it’s Doval’s new assistant, what’s her name? Just joined the staff, young, bright, eager-to-please—exactly the sort the Order loves to cultivate. Olett, that’s her name. Yes, I definitely need to keep an eye on her. At present, she was talking with Doval and Kallar, and the rest of Zarin’s staff. Doval was speaking, and the wide-eyed Kallar seemed to be hanging on Doval’s every word, and not noticing that his glass of hevrit juice was dangerously close to pouring out onto the precious Starfleet carpet.
“Let me tell you, Legate, the day we let those Obsidian Order vermin have free rein over our lives was the day that Cardassia started going into the waste extractor. Why, I remember a time…”
Zarin refilled his kanar glass, and wondered if he could drink enough to make Monor’s stories palatable.
Ian Troi’s neck still itched the next morning when he got up to report for his shift on the bridge. He found himself grateful that Starfleet had recently changed its uniform design to eliminate the turtleneck under the red uniform jacket.
Pausing only to grab a mug of tea from the mess hall on the way to the bridge—he had given himself some extra time to sleep off the evening’s festivities—he entered the turbolift along with three other members of alpha shift.
As he settled in next to Lieutenant Michael Zipser, the alpha communications officer, the latter looked up and down Troi’s frame. “Oh, good, I was worried.”
Troi closed his eyes. Zipser had made this joke every day for the last five days. Bowing to the inevitable, he said, “Worried about what, Mike?”
“Well, after getting married on Betazed, I wasn’t sure you’d remember to put your uniform on.”
Groans were heard throughout the turbolift. The bridge engineering officer, Lieutenant Susan Phillips, said, “Y’know, Zip, that joke wasn’t funny the first three hundred times, either.”
Wincing, Zipser said, “Hey, c’mon, don’t call me ‘Zip.’”
Phillips grinned. “Lay off Ian with the nudity jokes, and we might take to considerin’ it—Zip.”
Zipser turned to Troi. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Troi just grinned. “What, you don’t think telling the same dumb joke five days in a row qualifies?”
Whatever Zipser was going to say in his defense was lost by the turbolift doors opening to the bridge. Troi veered right to the science station between the bridge’s two lifts, while Zipser turned left and sat down at the communications station to the left of the captain’s chair. One of the other officers gave Zipser a consoling pat on the shoulder as he stepped down into the command well, which Zipser shrugged
off, while Phillips passed behind Troi.
As she did so, Troi said, “Thanks, Sue.”
“Don’t mention it,” Phillips said in her mild drawl. “I’m thinkin’ Zip’s still smartin’ from Velazquez breakin’ up with him.”
Troi blinked. “When did that happen?”
“While you were off gettin’ hitched. She’s too good for him, anyhow.”
Shaking his head as Phillips moved on to environmental control, Troi did a quick run-through of the current sensor readings, thinking, I can’t believe I still haven’t caught up on all the gossip yet. Maybe I’ll give Mike some encouragement later. Grinning, he amended, After calling him ‘Zip’ a few times, anyhow.
The other turbolift opened to the rest of alpha shift entering, including Commander Garrett. She stepped down into the command well and took the center seat. “All stations, report.”
Navigation reported first. “Holding position at one hundred million kilometers from the Betreka Nebula.”
Even as the helm officer continued with his report, Troi noticed something odd on long-range from the direction of the nebula. He did a more active scan of the region to be sure, and called up yesterday’s scan results, as well as the last Federation survey of the nebula six months ago.
After Zipser told Garrett that there was no unauthorized comm traffic to report, Troi said, “All clear for the most part, Commander, but I’m picking up something odd in the nebula.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Not yet, sir, but I’d like your permission to investigate more thoroughly.”
Garrett frowned. “Just do a more active sensor sweep first and report back. I don’t want to do anything to make our guests frantic.”
“Understood.”
Tactical then reassured Garrett that both the Wo’bortas and the Sontok were holding station, and that they remained at yellow alert. Troi, meanwhile, continued his scan.
As alpha shift settled into its routine, Zipser suddenly sat upright. “Oy.”
“What is it, Mike?” Troi asked.
“Another call from Betazed. This is, what, the four hundred and third this week?”
Troi was starting to think there was more to Zipser’s ribbing than simple jealousy over Troi’s greater success with the opposite sex. “Lwaxana is a very—talkative woman.”
“Talkative. Right. Half her little ‘notes’ to you crashed the comm buffer. This one isn’t so bad, though. Let me—oh.” Zipser’s face fell.
“What is it?” Troi asked.
“Oh, Mr. Zipser?” Garrett said before Zipser could answer the question. “I’m expecting a communication from my husband on Betazed today. Please keep an ear out.”
“Uh, actually,” Zipser said, “it just came in a minute ago, Commander. I would’ve mentioned it sooner, but I assumed it was for Lieutenant Troi.”
Garrett smiled. “I think you’ll find, Mr. Troi, that the frequency of the comm traffic will die down as time goes by.”
“You’ve never met my wife, have you, Commander?” Troi asked.
With a chuckle, Garrett rose from the command chair. “Pipe it into the captain’s ready room. Commander Li, you have the bridge.”
As the tactical officer moved to the command chair, Troi turned back to his sensors. Yeah, this is definitely odd.
By the time Garrett emerged from the ready room, Captain Haden had reported to the bridge and relieved Lt. Commander Wai-Lin Li, and Troi was starting to think that something was rotten in the Betreka Nebula. When Garrett came over asking for a report, he said, “I’m picking up an increase in charged particles. Normally, that wouldn’t be unusual—that sort of thing will fluctuate in a nebula—but it’s not very even, and the higher percentages are concentrated in a ridiculously small area. None of it’s outside the normal range of activity, but I’d like to send a probe in just to be sure.”
Garrett said nothing, but stared at the readings for a few moments, bent over the back of Troi’s chair. He looked up at her face, which was completely unreadable, but he had the feeling that it wasn’t the sensor readings she was thinking about. “You’re right, that doesn’t look good.” She stood upright and looked down at the command chair. “Captain, request permission to have Lieutenant Troi send a class-one probe into the nebula.”
Haden turned and fixed Garrett with that intimidating gaze of his. “What for?”
“Some odd readings that may be nothing.”
“I’m amazed you’re getting anything at all. It’s not like sensors are any kind of reliable in that soup.”
Troi chose that moment to speak up. “The probe’s readings will be more reliable, sir, and give us a better idea if we’re chasing sensor shadows or not.”
“Besides,” Garrett added, pointing at the viewscreen, presently showing the Klingon and Cardassian ships, “all things considered…”
“All things considered, Number One, I don’t want to piss off our friends out there any more than they’re already pissed.” He let out a long breath. “All right, fine. Li, prepare a probe. Zipser, inform the Wo’bortas and the Sontok that we’re taking advantage of this opportunity to do a scientific survey of the Betreka Nebula. If they bitch and moan, tell them we’ll share any scientific data we obtain as a show of good faith.”
“Thank you, sir,” Garrett said. “We may want to inform Ambassador Dax as well, in case either of the delegations decides to get their nose out of joint.”
“I’d say their noses started out in that position the minute the Sontok found Raknal V, Number One.” Haden shook his head, then looked at Zipser. “Do it.”
Li launched the probe. Haden asked how long the scan would take. “At least a few hours,” Troi said.
“Fine.” Haden got up and headed to his right. “I’ll be in my ready room. Zipser, have Lieutenant Vaughn meet me there. You’ve got the bridge, Number One.”
I wonder why he wants to talk to Vaughn, Troi thought as he followed the probe on sensors. The telemetry was coming through clearly for the time being, but that would change once it got to the nebula. Hope this doesn’t scotch our dinner plans. Vaughn had agreed to share the evening meal with Troi, duties permitting. Troi had enjoyed chatting with the older man quite a bit—even though, looking back on it, Vaughn hadn’t revealed anything personal about himself, nor talked much about his career, while Troi had done a great deal of both. Well, fine, he thought. After all that time on Betazed, it’ll be nice to talk to someone I have to actually talk to.
“Ch’gran is not just an archaeological curiosity,” General Worf said, pounding his fist on the table. Clad in a red Defense Force uniform and a floor-length beige cassock that had fewer medals than Dax would have thought from someone as old as the general, the white-haired Klingon sat at one end of the Carthage briefing room table, staring angrily at Legate Zarin. “It is a holy relic of the Klingon Empire. You cannot simply trample on our sacred ground and not expect a response.”
Zarin, whose hair was equally white but considerably shorter, looked like he’d just eaten a lemon, his face was so sour. “If we had any indication that it was sacred ground, our response might be somewhat different, General, but I’m afraid that rules of salvage seemed more applicable than any attempt to placate the arcane sensibilities of alien species.”
“The legate has a point, General,” Dax said quickly before this escalated yet again. He was starting to get a headache. Usually, this kind of negotiating session invigorated him, but this was simply wearing him down. Worf and Zarin were going around in the same circle, and doing it so often, they were digging a rut into the ground. “The Sontok’s response to the remains was completely acceptable under salvage laws.”
“And whose laws would those be, Ambassador?” Worf asked. “The Betreka Sector is unclaimed space. It is covered by no treaty that exists between Cardassia and the Empire.”
“There are no treaties between Cardassia and your ridiculous little empire, fool,” Zarin said.
Worf looked at Zarin and smiled. �
��That is precisely my point, Legate. Only a petaQ would hide behind protestations of ‘proper’ behavior when the parameters for such behavior do not even exist.”
First rule of mediation, Dax thought, when the parties start calling each other names, it’s time for a recess. “We’ve been at this for hours, gentlemen.” And I use that word loosely. “Why don’t we take a short break and reconvene at fifteen hundred hours?”
Zarin stood up quickly. His aides did likewise half a second later. One of them, the youngest, stumbled as he got out of his chair. “To that, I have no objection, Ambassador Dax.” With a look at Worf he added, “The air in here has gotten foul.”
As Zarin and his staff exited through the far door, Dax thought, Please don’t let the Klingons do anything stupid. Hoping to head off any attempts to reclaim honor at the pass, Dax started, “General, I urge you, don’t—”
But Worf had already risen from his chair and gone out the near door, his own aides trailing behind him.
Dax closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he contacted the bridge, and instructed the communications officer to put a private communication through to Ambassador Sarek on Vulcan.
It took about twenty minutes—during which time Dax had ordered a grakizh salad from the food dispenser—for the call to go through. When it did, just as Dax popped the last of the yellow leaves from the salad into his mouth, the old-fashioned triangular viewscreen in the center of the briefing room table lit up with the somber image of Sarek of Vulcan, the garden of his house at ShiKahr visible through the picture window behind him. Dax hadn’t been to the house since shortly before his mentor’s marriage a year ago to a human woman—his third, and second to a human—and he noted that the plants seemed livelier and larger than they had in the past. Perchance his new wife has a green thumb. Dax hadn’t yet met Perrin, but as long as she made Sarek as happy as the late Amanda Grayson—whose company Dax had always enjoyed in his younger days as Sarek’s aide—then he knew he would like her.
The Art of the Impossible Page 8
