“We have come a long way since that fateful first meeting, Jetanien,” D’tran said, “and had the spacecraft which initially carried me here only been capable of a faster speed, perhaps Ambassador Lugok might have joined us by now.”
Jetanien laughed again. “I’m going to regret mentioning that, aren’t I?”
“I will not speak of it again,” D’tran countered, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “That said, I may not be as concerned with my own punctuality from this point forward.”
“And here I’ve come to count on Lugok’s pettiness as a means of enjoying time with you in private counsel,” Jetanien said. “I hope my remarks will not cost me that, either.”
D’tran shook his head. “Please ascribe my comments to the protests of an empty stomach. I took the liberty of passing by the food vendors on my way here, and their offerings do look promising. I trust you will be able to find something that suits your particular palate.”
“If I’ve found one common denominator among humanoid species,” Jetanien said, “it’s a shared amusement surrounding my choices of food and drink. If memory serves, the bond you forged with Lugok started when you chose to sit together upwind of me during our shared meals.”
“You may be right,” D’tran replied, nodding in agreement. “Perhaps your decision to join him in eating a few Klingon dishes to my disdain warmed his warrior heart to you as well.”
“In uncounted ways has food forged alliances that intoxicants keep lubricated,” Jetanien said. He had heard that quote somewhere, long ago, but he had forgotten the source. That did not stop him from enjoying and employing it whenever the opportunity presented itself.
“Up to the point that they do not,” D’tran replied. “Shall I assume such drink will be offered during the festival as well?”
“It will,” Jetanien said, “with instructions already given to vendors that guests are not to be overserved. I had considered barring some of the more potent Romulan beverages, but that seemed to run counter to the event’s multicultural spirit. I have to assume our residents will use proper discretion.”
Offering a small, derisive laugh, D’tran shook his head. “You may be too generous in your assumptions, my friend. Will the constabulary be a visible presence at the festival?”
“And on the surrounding streets as well.”
Jetanien’s response seemed to do little to assuage the elderly Romulan’s doubts. Representatives of each official state occupied positions within the colony’s civil police force, the initiative being yet another attempt at furthering the concept of equality among the colonists. One of Paradise City’s greatest hurdles—and one that Jetanien knew would take much more time to forge—was the establishment of a civil code that reflected the best balance between the different cultures the colony represented. Though Jetanien did not want to single out Klingon colonists as one of the main contributors to Paradise City’s numerous accounts of social discord, he could not ignore the increasing reports of civil complaints filed by various colonists. Whether made in regard to a dispute over property, perceived threats of personal harm, or incidents of fighting and other violent outbursts, the great majority of incidents shared a common thread of Klingon involvement.
More to assure himself than anything, Jetanien said, “We’re bound to experience our share of conflict as we all get accustomed to living with one another.”
“The situation is something we need to monitor and to temper should the trend continue,” D’tran replied. “Citizens have not been as quick to occupy the city as I had hoped. If this is to work, we need them to live and work together in the colony proper, and not continue to stay segregated in the outlying camps.”
Jetanien could not disagree with his friend’s contention. “We decided not to force an exodus of the camps, but instead to let volunteers come forward of their own accord. Do we need to set a deadline?”
“Possibly,” D’tran replied. “More socialization will help further an appreciation of tolerance. We cannot let them view Paradise City as a place to visit. It must be a place to live.”
The door chime sounded again, and when it opened this time it was to reveal a portly Klingon, dressed in an ill-fitting black and gray military uniform.
“Ambassador Lugok, son of Breg,” Jetanien said, as though announcing the new arrival to a room full of guests. “Happy Great Hope Day!”
Offering a groan of disdain, Lugok sneered as he shuffled past Jetanien into the room. From the smell of the Klingon’s breath and the grimy metal tankard clutched in his right hand, Jetanien surmised that Lugok had commenced his own celebrations earlier than the rest of the ambassadorial team.
“Remind me again what it is we’re celebrating?” Lugok asked as he stood beside the unoccupied chair next to where D’tran was seated.
“The completion of the residential facilities within Paradise City, for one thing,” Jetanien replied. “We were just discussing incentives to get more of the colonists to move within the city’s perimeter. Now that we’re able to accommodate all of the colonists, we can set about eliminating the outlying encampments.”
“I understand the theory behind your incentives,” Lugok said, “but I doubt the Klingon colonists will vacate the camp until they are ordered. Once they occupy the city residences, we’d better prepare for a settling-in period.”
D’tran added, “Until they get used to their accommodations?”
“More like until everyone else gets used to the Klingons,” Jetanien said.
Lugok laughed. “My people are not as used to such structured living arrangements. They seem to be handling themselves reasonably well in their camp. You might want to consider letting them stay there.”
“You speak as though the mere act of bringing them into Paradise City is only asking for trouble,” Jetanien said.
A sharp scream from somewhere outside made the ambassador rise from his chair and make his way to the balcony. Down the street, he could see the crowd, which had grown noticeably since he last looked, roiling against itself. More shouts followed as people fled the courtyard, while a handful of others broke from the pack to engage in shoving matches and fistfights.
As D’tran and Lugok joined him on the balcony, Jetanien watched a number of city constables—each wearing distinguishing white jumpsuits—pushing their way into the crowd. One of them was grabbed and hoisted aloft by an enraged Tellarite before being flung to the street. The wail of an alert siren rose above the crowd, which Jetanien knew was a call for more constables to converge on the scene.
Lugok snorted and released a loud belly laugh. “This now concludes Great Hope Day on the Planet of Galactic Peace. We hope you have enjoyed your evening.”
“Your humor is ill-timed, Ambassador,” Jetanien snapped, feeling his ire beginning to rise. “This is exactly the sort of problem we’re working to prevent.”
“Klingons are a proud people, Jetanian,” Lugok said. “Forcing them into a peaceful retirement community with their lifelong sworn enemies is not going to be easy.”
Jetanien shook his head. “Ordinarily, I’d agree, but they did volunteer to come to this planet, did they not? Besides, responding to a celebration of unification by starting a street riot is not what I would call acting with honor.”
“Do not speak to me of honor, Jetanien,” Lugok countered, pointing one gloved finger at the Chelon. “Not that it matters to those petaQ. You know as well as I do that our test subjects—excuse me, our colonists—do not come from the most respected Houses of the Empire.”