“You mean help youchart a path to peace,” Sturka said. “I have no need of such an agenda.”
Ezthene interjected, “With all respect, Chancellor, you most certainly do. As do the other powers in this quadrant.”
Sturka narrowed his eyes at the Tholian. “Really?” Stalking toward Ezthene, he continued in a low voice. “And why should an empire built on the fortunes of war want to sue for peace? Or care for the needs of its future jeghpu’wI’?”
“Because your empire has already overextended itself,” Ezthene said. “Why risk a full-scale war with the Federation and the Assembly at the same time? You have neither the ships nor the soldiers to prevail in such a conflict. And diverting more resources to expand your fleet will only starve your people.”
Pointing angrily, Sturka said, “You have no idea what the Empire can do when it’s called to war!”
“On the contrary,” Ezthene said. “I am well aware of your empire’s martial prowess and its history of aggressive expansion. But I also know that which you refuse to see.”
The chancellor asked with hostility masquerading as curiosity, “And that would be … ?”
“You risk the wrath of a sleeping giant.”
Dismissing the warning with a wave of his hand, Sturka turned his back on Ezthene as he replied, “We don’t fear the Shedai.”
Ezthene said, “Chancellor, the giant of which I speak is the Federation.”
Enraged, Sturka spun and threw a baleful stare at Ezthene. Then he turned his withering gaze on Reyes. “You’ve been quiet, human. What’s youropinion?”
Reyes crossed his arms. “Ezthene has a point. Your fleet has the edge in ships and troops, but we’re ahead of you in technology. Slavery gives you an economic advantage, but your ban on foreign trade helps us make deals with worlds on your border. When you want to expand, you have to spend blood and treasure; all the Federation has to do is show up and say ‘hi.’ A few more decades of this and we won’t have to fight you; we’ll be able to just sit back and starve you out.”
Sturka sneered. “The same old propaganda. ‘Research and trade.’ That’s the cowards’ answer to everything, isn’t it? Talk every problem to death instead of taking action. Apologies and excuses. That’s the human way.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Reyes said. “I admit: these days, it’s usually true. But if you think my people aren’t capable of bloodlust, or of collective genocidal psychosis, then you don’t know our history. The human race has come a long way in the last few hundred years, Chancellor, but deep down we’re still savages. If you push us hard enough, we will push back.”
The chancellor grinned. “I’m counting on it.” He walked back to Gorkon and all but pressed his face to that of his longtime adviser. “This is a waste of time, Gorkon. What in the name of Kahless were you thinking? The Federation and the Assembly both send formal ambassadors to Qo’noS—so why am I speaking to these petaQpu’?”
“Professional diplomats are little more than parrots for the policies of their leaders,” Gorkon said. “Ezthene and Reyes are iconoclasts. They can help us find a new perspective on the future, perhaps a more viable one.”
“The only new perspective I want these two to find is one looking up from a grave on Rura Penthe,” Sturka said. “There is a reason why the political process adheres to certain rules, Gorkon. A reason why some parties are allowed to speak under the color of authority and others are not.” He stepped away from Gorkon, lifted his wrist comm to his face and spoke into it. Lowering his arm, he added, “Our friendship has been long and my debts to you are many, Gorkon, so I will forgive this grievous error in your judgment. But do not conduct any further talks with these yIntaghpu’—and don’t eversummon me again.”
A transporter beam enfolded Sturka. He vanished in a spinning flurry of light and sound that faded within seconds to empty air and silence.
Gorkon grimaced and bowed his head. In a weary voice he said to Reyes, “I presume you have some scathing remark with which to deepen my moment of disgrace.”
Reyes offered the man a sympathetic half smile. “Your boss is kind of a dick.”
The Klingon chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “He certainly is.”
“So, Gorkon,” said Ezthene. “What is to become of me and Diego now that we’ve failed to sway your chancellor? Will you condemn us to your aliens’ graveyard as Sturka decreed?”
The councillor walked to a window and clasped his hands behind his back as he gazed out at the rugged mountains. “No,” he said. “You’ve both earned better fates than that. Imperial Intelligence will be most upset with me, and Captain Kutal will likely be quite irate, but I plan to let you go.”
“A noble gesture,” Ezthene said.
Looking over his shoulder, Gorkon replied, “Call it an apology. I honestly thought Sturka would be receptive to a message of change. Now I see that real political progress in the Empire will require nothing less than new leadership.”
“Well,” Reyes said, “for what it’s worth, Gorkon, you’d have my vote.”
“Touching,” Gorkon said with a bitter smile, “but the Empire is not a democracy.”
Reyes rolled his eyes. “No kidding.” Tilting his head toward Ezthene, he asked Gorkon, “What now? It’s not like Ezthene or I can just go home again. He’s an outcast, and I’m supposed to be dead or in jail. If I go back to Starfleet now, they’ll put me on trial for consorting with the enemy.”
Ezthene asked, “Might I make a suggestion?”
Gorkon and Reyes traded looks that seemed to say “Why not?”
The Klingon nodded at Ezthene. “By all means.”
“Diego cannot go to Vanguard, but I can,” Ezthene said. “If you wish, Diego, I could deliver messages to your friends and family on your behalf.”
Nodding, Reyes said, “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
“And what of you?” Gorkon asked Reyes. “Where will you go?”
Reyes cracked a devious smile. “Actually … I have an idea.”
52
September 14, 2267
A ferric odor of fresh paint lingered in the air as Quinn started removing the adhesive strips from the stencil plate on his new ship’s hull. He smiled at his handiwork. Much better.
Bridy Mac descended the folding staircase from the ship’s center cabin. “Time to go,” she said. “I just filed our report with SI and authenticated our new orders.”
Picking at a corner of an uncooperative length of tape, Quinn asked, “Where to this time?”
“Another rock with no name,” Bridy said.
“Naturally.”
It was pretty much what Quinn had expected. With the Klingon occupation of Golmira routed, his old ship’s antimatter pods retrieved from the ocean with some help from Starfleet, the planet’s natives united in a request for Federation-protectorate status, and the Endeavouren route to Vanguard with the recovered artifact, Quinn and Bridy’s work here was done. Their best bet of moving on without Klingon interference was to leave while the Akhieland the Defiantwere still in orbit, acting as a deterrent.
He pointed to a spray can of clear-polymer hull sealant on the ground and asked Bridy, “Can you hand me that?”
“Sure,” she said, passing it to Quinn. Watching him work, Bridy wore a look of mild amusement. “Is this what you’ve been doing all day? Painting the ship?”
“No way I’m flyin’ through the galaxy in a ship called Icarion,” Quinn said. “That ain’t no name for a ship. Sounds too much like carrion, for one thing.”
Circling behind him to check out his work, she asked, “So what’s our new ride called? Rocinante II?”
“Never,” he said, discarding the wad of tape. “For me there’ll only ever be one Rocinante.” He removed the stencil with care to reveal his new ship’s new name: Dulcinea.