“I’ve heard a great many outrageous lies in recent days, Duras.” Sturka’s guttural croak of a voice was thick with disdain. “Most of them, I think, from you.” He got up from his throne and gathered his long cloak of silvery fur lined with black silk. “Gorkon is correct: This is a matter best remanded to Imperial Intelligence for investigation.” He turned his back on Duras and walked away, heading toward his private portal.
Standing beside the throne, looking down at Duras with smug self-assurance, was Gorkon. “Take heart, Duras. If you’re guilty of no wrong, you have nothing to fear.”
Standing alone in the midst of his rivals, Duras realized Gorkon was the only person in the room who would meet his stare. In that moment, he intuited who it was who had bested him. He snarled at the chancellor’s йminence grise. “This isn’t over, Gorkon.”
Gorkon taunted him with his maddening, wry smile. “Nothing ever is.”
Duras turned and marched out of the chamber, vowing revenge every step of the way.
Jetanien greeted Lugok by holding out a large stein as the portly Klingon waddled into his office. “A drink to celebrate our fruitful collaboration,” said the Chelon ambassador emeritus.
Lugok accepted it but held it at arm’s length. “This isn’t a mug of that rotten fruit you like to swill, is it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, old friend. Only the most ungracious host serves his guest an unpotable beverage. You hold in your hand some of the finest warnog ever smuggled off Qo’noS. I believe it’s of a variety known as QIp’chech bel’uH.”
The Klingon took a deep whiff of the liquor’s bouquet and reacted with delight. “Now that’s more like it.” He quaffed a cheek-bulging mouthful and gasped in appreciation.
“Typically, one waits for the toast before indulging in one’s drink,” Jetanien said. The mild reproof earned Jetanien a low growl of irritation from his guest. Lifting his own glass, Jetanien continued. “To the truth: may it always come back to haunt our enemies.”
“And leave us in peace,” Lugok added. “Can I drink now?”
“Go ahead.” Jetanien sipped from his bowl of N’va’a.
Lugok emptied his stein and set down the empty vessel. “Gorkon and I are in your debt for feeding that story to the human reporter. I’m told that Duras is politically toxic now, and it might be a generation or more before his House regains its former stature.”
“That is good news,” Jetanien said. “I hope it gives us enough time to steer our two nations toward peace—and keep the Romulans on their side of the Neutral Zone.” He waved a clawed manus toward the bottle of warnog atop the liquor cabinet beside his desk. “Another?”
“Yes!” Lugok handed Jetanien his stein. He waited while Jetanien refilled it and smiled as he handed it back. “A very generous pour, my friend. You’d make a good bartender.”
“Hardly,” Jetanien said. “I have no patience for other people’s problems.”
“I see. You like the idea of serving the people, but you don’t actually like people.”
“In essence, yes.” Jetanien savored another long sip of his fermented fruit cocktail while Lugok filled the room with the joyous noise of a deep belly-laugh.
The Klingon slapped Jetanien’s shoulder. “You slay me, Jetanien, really.” After recovering some of his composure, he added, “This business with your friend Pennington has given me a new appreciation for a peculiar human phrase.”
“Which one?”
“I believe the saying is, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ That certainly proved true in Duras’s case.” He took another gulp of warnog and smiled. “But I’d still rather go to war with a bat’leth than a quill.”
Jetanien lifted his bowl in affirmation. “Very sensible, old friend. Very sensible, indeed.”
22
The longer he spoke to his supervising officer at Starfleet Command, the more seriously Nogura considered the possibility of early retirement. “All I’m saying,” he argued, “is that we should consider giving Doctor Marcus the benefit of the doubt. She has a distinguished record as a research scientist, and she’s responsible for many of our biggest discoveries about the Shedai.”
Admiral Harvey Severson, a rail-thin, pale-complexioned man of Swedish ancestry, looked back at Nogura over the real-time subspace channel, his affect one of long sufferance that was reaching its limit. “I don’t mean to denigrate your faith in her, Chiro, but this isn’t a time for sentimental decision-making.”
“I think my concerns are eminently practical.”
“Other members of the admiralty don’t agree,” Severson said.
“Tell me which ones, and I’ll talk to them myself. I’m not saying we should close down the Vanguard project. I’m simply suggesting we heed Doctor Marcus’s advice to take a step back and make sure we aren’t being careless in our approach.”
A worried look crossed Severson’s face. “I hope you haven’t encouraged her dissent.”
Nogura was almost offended by the question. “Not at all. I’ve been careful to make clear that I represent the express wishes of Starfleet. But in case you’ve forgotten—”
“Marcus is a civilian—we know.” The senior admiral took an accusatory tack. “Most of your researchers are civilians, which is one reason we’re concerned. If she gets them riled up with her political agitation—”
“Most of them are too engrossed in their work to pay her any mind.”
“What about the ones who aren’t?” He lifted a hand to stave off Nogura’s reply. “The point of this is that we can’t afford any more delays on the Vanguard project.”
Moments such as this made Nogura feel as if talking to Starfleet Command was about as productive as shouting at the back wall of his office. “I think the point ought to be that Doctor Marcus might be right. We might have pushed this project too far, too fast.”
Severson seemed genuinely surprised. “Forgive me, but weren’t you the one in command of Vanguard when a Shedai ripped through it like a battle-ax through a piсata?”
“I vaguely recall a Shedai attack on the station, yes.”
“Spare me the sarcasm, Chiro. You of all people ought to recognize the urgency of the Shedai threat. Do I really need to spell this out for you?”
Eager to hear his superior’s latest litany of condescension, Nogura reclined his chair and folded his hands across his lap. “Enlighten me.”
“The Federation is hemmed in on all sides,” Severson said, lowering his voice as he leaned closer to the screen. “The general public knows we’re butting heads with the Klingons and the Romulans, and a small percentage know about the Tholians, the Patriarchy, and the Gorn. But there are plenty of others the public doesn’t even know about yet.”
The implication of Severson’s words snared Nogura’s attention. “Such as . . . ?”
“Our long-range scouts have reported hostile encounters with several new species. Two in particular, the Breen and the Cardassians, might be real trouble in the next few decades. A few others, like the Tzenkethi and the Talarians, don’t seem likely to warm up to us, either.
“Now, add all that to the ongoing threat posed by the current Romulan-Klingon alliance and the fact that the Tholian ambassador just walked away from diplomatic talks in Paris. Regardless of what direction the Federation tries to expand, it’s slamming up against foreign powers that don’t want us there, and a few that actively want us dead.