“Never heard of them,” Zarin said honestly.
“Well, as I said, that’s just what I heard. Then again, these Foreheads are all talk and no action, as far as I’m concerned. They were more than happy to claim Raknal V after wedid all the work finding it and locating their damn ship. Have you noticed that whenever they’re faced with the prospect of a real challenge—a realwar, a realcrisis—they back off with their tails between their legs? I mean, all right, I suppose I can see why they begged the Federation for help after Praxis, though I can’t see why they couldn’t just support themselves and fix their own problems, but then there was the way they backed off after Organia.”
Zarin frowned. “I seem to recall that that treaty was enforced by the Organians.”
“If you believe that sort of thing, I suppose.” Monor’s disdainful tone indicated he did not. Zarin covered his reaction by sipping more kanar.The Federation had made the records on the Organian situation available during the initial negotiations leading to the Vulcan summit that ended so badly last year. Zarin had familiarized himself with them, and knew that neither the Federation nor the Klingons had much choice with regard to not going to war sixty years ago. “Frankly,” Monor continued, “I don’t believe in any of that sort of nonsense. Beings of energy pretending to be sapient so they can play games with us—utter foolishness, if you ask me. Just another excuse for the Foreheads not to fight. Like I said, all talk and no action. Mark my words, Legate, they’ll spend the entire negotiating time posturing and yelling and spitting. Especially spitting. Never seen a race that enjoyed spitting as much as they do. Except maybe Lissepians. Still, all they ever seem to do is spit.”
Zarin looked around the lounge, hoping for some excuse to get away from Monor. Unfortunately, the only other Cardassians were members of his staff, and the only high-ranking Federation officers present with whom it might have behooved him to be sociable were Commander Garrett and the just-arrived Captain Haden. However, they were talking with Dax, the Federation mediator, and Zarin wanted as little to do with him as possible away from the negotiating table. The ambassador was a flamboyant, annoying little tralk—more like a Ferengi than anything, and Zarin hated Ferengi.
On the other hand, even being in Dax’s presence couldn’t have been any worse than listening to Monor ramble.
“I don’t see why we need to negotiate in any case. The Foreheads aren’t going to do anything sensible anyhow. We should just go to war. Can’t imagine what Central Command is thinking going through this nonsense.”
That, at least, Zarin could speak to. “Central Command didn’t have a choice. Both the Detapa Council and the Obsidian Order opposed going to war.”
Monor sputtered at that, and Zarin felt a slight dab of spittle on his cheek. For someone who objects to Klingon spit, he is certainly free with his own expectoration,he thought angrily as he brushed a napkin over his cheek ridge.
“That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard,” Monor said. “Since when do we need anyone’s permission?”
In this, at least, Zarin appreciated Monor’s annoyance, since it was akin to the outrage he himself had expressed at Legate Kell when the latter gave Zarin this assignment. “Permission, we do not need. However, the Council does have oversight over our budget.”
Monor shook his head. “Pathetic. Isn’t that just like a civilian to let something as crude as money be used as a weapon against us? We’re no better than those damn Ferengi. As for the Order—well, the less said about them, the better.”
Zarin shrugged. “They just want an opportunity to study the Klingons and the Federation. You know how they are.”
“Vultures, all of them.” Monor scowled. “You didn’t let one of those voles into your party, did you?”
“Allow, no, but I would be stunned if one of my staff wasn’t reporting to the Order.” In fact, Zarin had given a great deal of thought to which of the six aides he had brought along served another master. The only one he’d eliminated was the young intern. Fresh out of Bamarren, Talen Kallar barely knew which buttons to push on his padd, and what he lacked in brains he made up for in lack of brains. The boy was an idiot, through and through. No,he thought, I’m betting it’s Doval’s new assistant, what’s her name? Just joined the staff, young, bright, eager-to-please—exactly the sort the Order loves to cultivate. Olett, that’s her name. Yes, I definitely need to keep an eye on her.At present, she was talking with Doval and Kallar, and the rest of Zarin’s staff. Doval was speaking, and the wide-eyed Kallar seemed to be hanging on Doval’s every word, and not noticing that his glass of hevritjuice was dangerously close to pouring out onto the precious Starfleet carpet.
“Let me tell you, Legate, the day we let those Obsidian Order vermin have free rein over our lives was the day that Cardassia started going into the waste extractor. Why, I remember a time…”
Zarin refilled his kanarglass, and wondered if he could drink enough to make Monor’s stories palatable.
Ian Troi’s neck still itched the next morning when he got up to report for his shift on the bridge. He found himself grateful that Starfleet had recently changed its uniform design to eliminate the turtleneck under the red uniform jacket.
Pausing only to grab a mug of tea from the mess hall on the way to the bridge—he had given himself some extra time to sleep off the evening’s festivities—he entered the turbolift along with three other members of alpha shift.
As he settled in next to Lieutenant Michael Zipser, the alpha communications officer, the latter looked up and down Troi’s frame. “Oh, good, I was worried.”
Troi closed his eyes. Zipser had made this joke every day for the last five days. Bowing to the inevitable, he said, “Worried about what, Mike?”
“Well, after getting married on Betazed, I wasn’t sure you’d remember to put your uniform on.”
Groans were heard throughout the turbolift. The bridge engineering officer, Lieutenant Susan Phillips, said, “Y’know, Zip, that joke wasn’t funny the first three hundred times, either.”
Wincing, Zipser said, “Hey, c’mon, don’t call me ‘Zip.’”
Phillips grinned. “Lay off Ian with the nudity jokes, and we might take to considerin’ it—Zip.”
Zipser turned to Troi. “What did I do to deserve this?”
Troi just grinned. “What, you don’t think telling the same dumb joke five days in a row qualifies?”
Whatever Zipser was going to say in his defense was lost by the turbolift doors opening to the bridge. Troi veered right to the science station between the bridge’s two lifts, while Zipser turned left and sat down at the communications station to the left of the captain’s chair. One of the other officers gave Zipser a consoling pat on the shoulder as he stepped down into the command well, which Zipser shrugged off, while Phillips passed behind Troi.
As she did so, Troi said, “Thanks, Sue.”
“Don’t mention it,” Phillips said in her mild drawl. “I’m thinkin’ Zip’s still smartin’ from Velazquez breakin’ up with him.”
Troi blinked. “When did that happen?”
“While you were off gettin’ hitched. She’s too good for him, anyhow.”
Shaking his head as Phillips moved on to environmental control, Troi did a quick run-through of the current sensor readings, thinking, I can’t believe I still haven’t caught up on all the gossip yet. Maybe I’ll give Mike some encouragement later.Grinning, he amended, After calling him ‘Zip’ a few times, anyhow.
The other turbolift opened to the rest of alpha shift entering, including Commander Garrett. She stepped down into the command well and took the center seat. “All stations, report.”
Navigation reported first. “Holding position at one hundred million kilometers from the Betreka Nebula.”
Even as the helm officer continued with his report, Troi noticed something odd on long-range from the direction of the nebula. He did a more active scan of the region to be sure, and called up yesterday’s scan results, as well as the last Federation survey of the nebula six months ago.