“What is that?” Moreno cried, his voice rising an octave, and when Jetanien looked at him, the assistant’s fear was evident in his features.
The ambassador said, “Some kind of crude projectile weapon.” He watched the woman run back across the street, her movements affording him a brief unobstructed view of her weapon. It was not like any rifle he had ever seen, looking as though it had been fashioned from a length of metal pipe and featuring what appeared to be a sort of canister or other container strapped to the end opposite its barrel. A length of tubing connected the canister to the pipe, and Jetanien wondered if the weapon might not be gas-operated after some fashion. Were the security forces aware of this development? Though they were armed with phasers, Jetanien was certain the crude projectiles being fired at his window could still inflict significant damage on unprotected flesh.
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 onyour 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.”