Looking up, he drank in the majestic, bleak beauty of the planet around him. Barren, utterly desolate, worthless but for its atmosphere, this blighted orb represented his best hope of making his career stand for more than a farce. It was his last chance to create something of enduring, tangible value to the galaxy.
Part of him was unable to believe his plan could work. It seemed too far-fetched. Too optimistic. Too invested in ideals such as peace, trust, and hope.
The sun’s edge sank below the horizon. In the sky, fiery streaks of red turned violet and purple. Stars peppered the darkling heavens.
Despondent, Jetanien walked toward his shuttle, prepared to consign another day to the abyss of time.
As he neared the open hatchway of his shuttle-turned-shelter, he heard something behind the cries of the wind, a rising shriek of thrusters underscored by the low thunder of displaced air. He stepped back from his shuttle, arched his back, and looked up into a growing point of light.
A ship was descending toward the mesa.
Jetanien adjusted his pristine white-and-gold raiment and straightened his black fez, making sure its white drape was centered behind his head. Then he held his hat in place as he watched the first of his invited peers arrive.
The small personal transport slowed as it completed its vertical descent and touched down on the mesa, only a few meters from Jetanien’s vessel. Its roaring thrusters shook the ground as it settled into its landing, then they went silent as the ship powered down.
Its design was distinctively Klingon in origin.
Jetanien stepped toward it as its side hatch slid open.
Lugok, the Klingon former ambassador to Vanguard, emerged from the vessel and strode forward to meet him. Taking the Chelon’s manus in his powerful grip, Lugok said, “Jetanien, you crafty old petaQ. I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
“I might have said the same of you,” Jetanien replied, shaking the Klingon’s hand. “But I’m encouraged to see you have not entirely given up on diplomacy.”
Releasing his grip and withdrawing his hand, Lugok said with a jagged smile, “Don’t go all soft on me, Chelon. I just came to see if D’tran of Romulus actually shows up. After all, the man’s ancient, practically a piece of history himself. Who wouldn’twant to meet him?”
Folding his arms, Jetanien replied, “Regardless of your motive for making the journey, thank you for coming.” Gesturing to his shuttle, he added, “I was about to have dinner. If you—”
“I prefer to eat alone,” Lugok said.
“Very well.” Jetanien turned and went back inside his ship. Until D’tran of Romulus arrived, he would still be only waiting. But now at least he had company.
PART TWO
Night’s Black Agents
17
May 29, 2267
Most mornings, Captain Rana Desai’s walk from her quarters on Starbase 47 to the main entrance of the Starfleet JAG Corps’ complex in the station’s core was short and free of distractions. Today it was a gauntlet.
Desai had barely taken one step through the front door when she was set upon by packs of junior officers, all of them pushing data slates at her while calling out hurried requests.
“Captain, I need you to sign this …”
“Can you approve this change-of-venue order, sir?”
“Have you ruled on my discovery motion yet, Captain?”
She scribbled her signature, fired off curt answers, and delegated several bits of tedium. Just when she thought she had weathered all the obstacles keeping her from her desk, she was intercepted by one of her senior personnel, Lieutenant Holly Moyer. The willowy redhead, who kept her long straight hair tucked in a regulation bun while on duty, appeared beside Desai. “Good morning, Captain.”
“It is so far,” Desai said. “Here to ruin it for me?”
Moyer smiled. “If we had time for a game of racquetball, I would be.” She handed Desai a data slate. “I finished the background checks on the incoming security personnel.”
Skimming the report, Desai asked, “Any red flags?”
“Just one: Petty Officer Third Class Armstrong. Forensic specialist asking for a transfer from the U.S.S. Orem. Multiple reprimands for insubordination, and a history of creating public disturbances. I rejected his application.”
Desai looked over the top sheet of Moyer’s report and nodded. “Fine. Need anything from me?”
“Just sign next to the Xand I’ll bounce his butt to a graveyard shift on some rock where he won’t bother anybody.”
“Done,” said Desai. She etched her autograph onto the transfer orders with the slate’s stylus, then handed both items back to Moyer. “Bounce at will, Lieutenant.”
Veering away toward her own office, Moyer replied with a smile and a playful salute, “Aye, sir.”
The door of Desai’s private office was open, and she could see her desk and chair. She nodded at her assistant and was almost inside her pseudo-sanctuary when a man called out to her. “Captain?”
She turned to see another of her senior lawyers, Commander Peter Liverakos, walking toward her. Like everyone else in the JAG complex that morning, the lean man with a salt-and-pepper goatee had a data slate tucked under his arm. Desai resisted the urge to heave a rueful sigh and said, “Yes, Commander?”
“Sorry to bother you, Captain, but the Orion ambassador’s been giving an earful to Admiral Weiland about some of our prosecutions of Orion nationals here on the station. The admiral would like to know where we stand on those cases.”
Desai rolled her eyes. “They broke the law on Federation soil. If they’d stayed on their own ships, this wouldn’t be an issue.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a moment. “Where did we leave those cases?”
“I’ve offered their counsels plea bargains. They haven’t replied yet. My guess is they’re hoping we’ll drop the charges.”
“And what does Admiral Weiland want us to do?”
“I think his exact words were, Crucify them,but I’d have to check the transcript to be sure.”
“Revoke the plea deals,” Desai said. “If they want mercy, let them give us something we can use. If they don’t, Mars can always use a few more ditchdiggers.”
“Aye, sir,” Liverakos said with a nod and a grin, clearly eager to get to that day’s work.
Finally free of distractions and emergent crises, Desai stepped into her office and settled into her chair. Her computer terminal powered up at the touch of a button, and she began looking over that day’s official communiqués from the Starfleet JAG office on Earth, as well as daily situation reports from the station’s security division. It had been a fairly busy overnight shift.
Her door signal buzzed. “Come,” she said.
The door slid open, and her assistant, Ensign Roberta Lenger, entered carrying Desai’s breakfast on a tray. She set a mug of steaming-hot coffee on Desai’s desk. “Morning, Captain.”
Desai picked up her coffee and smiled at the younger woman. “It is now.”
Placing a small plate on the desk, Lenger said, “The commissary was out of raspberry pastries. I hope blueberry is okay.”
“It’s fine,” Desai said. “What’s my schedule this morning?”
“You have a meeting in twenty minutes with Admiral Nogura, to review an interdiction order for the Omicron Ceti colony.”
Desai shook her head. “As if we need the threat of arrest to prevent people from visiting a planet whose star bathes it in Berthold rays.”
Lenger shrugged. “You know how looters get.”
“I certainly do. Is the docket set for the afternoon?”
“Yes, Captain. The disciplinary hearing for Crewman Sohl starts at fourteen hundred. You’ll be presiding over opening statements and the first part of the prosecution’s argument.”