What if it already was too late? Had he squandered his one chance to make a difference here, where steady, lucid leadership and gifted foresight were necessary if the unthinkable was to be avoided?
His thoughts were broken by the sound of his door chime. Rising from his sleeping tablet, Jetanien reached for a robe to cover his considerable bulk before answering the summons.
“Enter.” From beyond his bedroom he heard the sound of the door to his quarters opening, followed by the gentle, rhythmic footfalls of someone walking in his direction.
“Ambassador?” called out a female voice, one he recognized. A moment later, Akeylah Karumé appeared in his doorway, wearing one of her customary multicolored robes replete with its dazzling array of abstract designs. The tall, brown woman appraised him with an expression of alarm.
“I apologize for disturbing you, Your Excellency,” she said, glancing away in obvious embarrassment.
“Not at all,” Jetanien replied, clicking his beak as he stood up and ushered her into the room. “What can I do for you?”
Clearing her throat, Karumé said, “We’ve just received this parcel addressed to you.” She produced what he recognized as a standard-issue green diplomatic pouch of a type used by members of the Federation Council when in session on Earth.
“Indeed,” the ambassador said, considering this unexpected delivery. “From one of my esteemed colleagues, no doubt.” Experiencing a pang of optimism, he asked, “Might it have come from Sesrene?”
Karumé shook her head. “Actually, it’s from Lugok.”
Making no attempt to stifle his surprise, Jetanien released a disbelieving snort. “You’re joking. Did you have it scanned for explosives?” he asked even as he extended one of his thick webbed hands to take the proffered pouch from her.
“And biotoxins,” Karumé replied. “Though any self-respecting Klingon will tell you that to attack one’s enemies in such an underhanded manner is dishonorable.”
“Only if anyone were to find out,” Jetanien countered as he opened the pouch. Its contents consisted of a single green data cartridge, the squared variety used as secondary storage in Federation computer systems.
“Is there anything else, Your Excellency?” Karumé asked after a moment.
Shaking his head, Jetanien moved toward the doorway leading from his bedroom to his office. “No, my dear. Thank you for delivering this. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He walked to his desk, lowering himself onto the stool situated there before turning and holding up the data cartridge so that Karumé could see it. “If there’s anything here of note, I’ll be sure to call you immediately.”
Karumé took her leave of him, and Jetanien waited until the doors closed behind her before inserting the cartridge into his desktop computer interface and activating the unit. A moment later, the display screen flared to life and the image coalesced into view to show an almost genteel-looking Lugok.
“ Ambassador Jetanien,”the recorded image of the Klingon began, “ I apologize if this message disturbs you at an inconvenient hour.”
Never trust a polite Klingon,Jetanien mused as he considered Lugok’s expression.
“ Your Excellency,”the ambassador continued, “ as you certainly can appreciate, the demeanor of conflict a diplomat might project in a group setting is different than the one he might choose to show an individual in a more private discussion. Politics, as you well know, is as much a game of positioning and perception as it is power and progress.”
“I wonder, do I sound this way when I talk?” Jetanien asked aloud, the question of course being heard by no one.
On the screen, Lugok said, “ Despite the impasse at which our respective governments find themselves, I am…hopeful that you and I might find a way to continue the dialogue we began before the termination of the summit. It would be unfortunate if our superiors’ shortsightedness prevented us from realizing the potential you seem to believe awaits us all. I look forward to your response, so that we might discuss how best to proceed. Qapla’, Your Excellency.”
Jetanien was already stunned into silence as he watched the recording. His surprise was only compounded as Lugok’s expression melted into something that—loosely defined, of course—resembled a warm, welcoming smile. Then the image faded as the recorded message ended.
“Well,” Jetanien said to no one, “that certainly was unexpected.”
Naturally, the ambassador was suspicious. What could be motivating Lugok to act in this manner? Jetanien’s instincts told him the Klingon’s motives were far from noble, but what if he was wrong? Was it possible that Lugok had been visited by a realization that so far seemed to elude his superiors on the Klingon High Council? Might he truly be inspired to forge a lasting peace here in the Taurus Reach?
There is only one way to answer those questions.
Tapping one of his claws against his broad beak, Jetanien grunted in growing anticipation as he considered his options in responding to Lugok’s intriguing proposition. How should he proceed? What risks lay ahead, and were they worth incurring?
It seemed he would have to call Karumé after all.
48
Still damp from her shower, Anna Sandesjo stepped from her bathroom and wrapped a robe around her cooling body. Crossing her quarters to her desk while using the towel she still carried to complete the task of drying her hair, she paused, smiling to herself as she realized that T’Prynn’s scent still lingered among the other aromas permeating the room. It, the disheveled bedsheets, and the various articles of her discarded clothing scattered with abandon about the room all conspired, along with her own still fresh memory, to reconstruct the scene of vigorous passion that had unfolded here.
T’Prynn’s appearance at her door had been unexpected though not unwelcome, and Sandesjo could see that she was distracted, even upset—by Vulcan standards, anyway. At first she had been worried by T’Prynn’s unexpected visit, but it had quickly become apparent that her lover had come for a single purpose. Surprised to find herself in the unfamiliar role of caretaker, Sandesjo had asked what was troubling the Vulcan, but her questions had gone unanswered. Then the need for words had passed, replaced by other, more urgent desires, after which T’Prynn had left as abruptly as she had arrived, offering as an excuse a need to return to her duties.
Just as well,Sandesjo mused, considering that I have duties of my own.
Opening her briefcase to extract the hidden subspace transceiver, she proceeded quickly through the steps to activate it and send its clandestine hailing message. Engaging in yet another unscheduled communication carried a risk, particularly now, during the time observed aboard the station as “late night.” Though most civilian businesses—with the exception of the various taverns scattered across Stars Landing—were closed until morning, Starfleet operations continued around the clock. Her transceiver was programmed to camouflage its signal amid the plethora of communications coming and going from Starbase 47, of course, but there was always the chance that a bored ensign working the late shift might through fortunate happenstance stumble across her clandestine frequency while searching for something more interesting with which to pass the time.
A tone sounded from the unit’s interface panel, signifying that the transceiver had completed the connection process. Sandesjo released a sigh of resignation, knowing that the elation she had enjoyed during the past few hours was about to evaporate in the face of the reality that was her duty.