Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (5 page)

Both of them were too drunk to notice Caithlin’s entrance. If she could have raised her breathing device without seeming too rude, she would have done so: for some reason, the stench was stronger here in the back room. Caithlin lowered her breathing filter and waited silently while the men drank—the human from a large tankard of what looked, ironically, like Romulan ale, and the Klingon directly from a dust-covered flagon.

After a moment, while they remained oblivious to her presence, Caithlin said, in a voice that would have wakened the unconscious from an intoxicated slumber, “Gentlemen. I am Caithlin Dar.”

“Well, well,” The human, a malnourished light-haired male, rose languidly from his chair. The act seemed to tire him a good deal.
He’s ill,
Caithlin
thought at first, until she saw that his tankard of ale was almost empty. Any human who could finish off that much Romulan ale and retain enough motor coordination to get out of his chair had to be an alcoholic. She had heard of the phenomenon, and on rare occasions, actually seen an individual who suffered from it.

The human ran his hand through his limp, disheveled hair and smiled wanly as he extended a bony hand. Recalling the custom, Caithlin reached out and grasped it firmly. His grip was weak, the grip of a coward.

“Well, well,” he repeated. “So our new Romulan representative has come at last.”

Most Romulans would not have noticed anything odd about the man’s accent, but Caithlin noticed immediately that it was British; Liam O’Malley would not have cared for this man, either.

“Welcome to Paradise City, capital of the so-called Planet of Galactic Peace, Miss Dar,” the Englishman continued. “I’m St. John Talbot, the Federation representative here on Nimbus. I must say, I have never met a Romulan by the name of Caithlin before.”

“Nor I a living saint.” She held the thin, frozen smile in place as she turned to exchange hostile glances with the Klingon. Technically, the Klingon and Romulan empires were allied, a result of economic necessity rather than mutual admiration.

“Ah, yes.” Talbot recovered from her retort. “My ever so charming companion, the Klingon consul, Korrd.”

Talbot was capable of irony, at least. Korrd, old and
immensely obese, kept his seat. His narrow eyes glittered as a result of alcohol. They flicked over her quickly, and then he turned away abruptly, as if bored, and took a substantial swig from the dust-covered flagon in his huge paw. As if to punctuate his disdain, he emitted an earthshaking belch.

Caithlin maintained her composure. “I expect that’s Klingon for ’hello.’ “

Talbot reached out to touch her hand with an obsequiousness that repelled her. “I realize there’s no love lost between your peoples, Miss Dar, but you must forgive him. He’s not exactly trained in Romulan social customs—or human ones, for that matter. He doesn’t even speak English, I’m afraid.”

Caithlin lifted an eyebrow. It was typical of the Klingon government to send a delegate who was unprepared to converse in a common tongue with the other diplomats. Fluency in English was not a necessity, but it was a courtesy. “I suppose we can resort to using a universal translator. But that does tend to slow down negotiations.”

Talbot made a gesture that conveyed helpless embarrassment. “I’m afraid . . . well, I’m afraid that we don’t have one.”

“Don’t have one!” Caithlin exclaimed.

“I’m afraid our governments aren’t willing to invest any more than is necessary—perhaps even less than that—in Nimbus Three. Surely you’ve noticed.”

Caithlin narrowed her eyes at Korrd. The Klingon’s tunic, though decorated with dozens of medals, was stained and covered with wrinkles . . . and it was too small to cover Korrd’s expanding bulk. From where
Caithlin stood, she could see Korrd’s bronze-colored stomach bulging out under the hem of his tunic and over the waistband of his trousers. She averted her eyes in disgust; the old Klingon warrior continued to drink with gusto, oblivious to her scrutiny. “I don’t speak Klingon, Mr. Talbot.”

“I’m afraid I do.” He motioned with a smooth white hand at his own chair. “Please sit, Miss Dar.”

Caithlin settled into the filthy chair while Talbot located one that was not too seriously broken and dragged it up to the table. He brushed the seat vigorously and coughed at the clouds of dust generated.

“May I get you a drink, Miss Dar?”

“No,
“she replied emphatically. She’d been as polite as possible; now it was time to speak her mind. “Quite frankly, Mr. Talbot,” she said as he took his seat, “I’m shocked at what I’ve seen here. Nimbus supposedly represents the best our three governments can offer, and yet hunger and poverty are rampant here, law enforcement nonexistent.”

Talbot took a very long pull from his tankard before turning his bloodshot gaze on her. “It’s the bureaucracy, Miss Dar. Our three governments have generated a complex maze of laws, and now they’re arguing about how to enforce them. You must have known all about this before you came here.”

“And you must have known about it, too, Mr. Talbot. So why are the two of you sitting here getting drunk in the middle of the day?”

Talbot said nothing to defend himself, but his expression saddened so suddenly that Caithlin felt an
inkling of pity for him. With oddly appropriate timing, Korrd let loose with a guttural barrage of Klingon that sounded suspiciously hostile, as if he had understood all too well what Caithlin had just said.

Caithlin frowned at him. “What did he say?” she demanded of Talbot.

Talbot’s sallow complexion suddenly turned pink. “He says he hopes you’ll enjoy your tour of duty here. We are drinking, Miss Dar, because our once-illustrious careers have culminated in an assignment to Nimbus Three. Perhaps they didn’t bother to tell you that your predecessor died of shame and sheer boredom. Might I ask what horrible thing you did to get yourself banished to this armpit of the galaxy?”

“I volunteered,” Caithlin said evenly. It occurred to her that the Englishman might have assumed she was sent here because of her human blood . . . and perhaps he wouldn’t be far from wrong. Still, the thought disturbed her.

Talbot had just taken a mouthful of ale; at Caithlin’s answer, he spewed it in Korrd’s direction and started choking. The Klingon pounded enthusiastically on the Terran’s scrawny back.

“Vol. . . un . . .
teered?”
Talbot wheezed finally. He turned to translate the word for Korrd; the Klingon threw back his head and laughed scornfully.

Caithlin had anticipated that the other diplomats on Nimbus III would be angry, frustrated, or at the very worst, indifferent. She had been prepared for all of those attitudes, but she was not prepared to find trained diplomats engaging in utter debauchery. She leaned forward, trying to keep the defensiveness she
felt from her tone. “Nimbus Three is a great experiment. Twenty years ago, when our three governments agreed to develop this planet together, a new age was born.”

Talbot smirked at first, but the smug expression faded quickly as he seemed to realize she was quite serious. “Unfortunately, Miss Dar, things that sound perfect in theory generally don’t work. Your new age died a quick death. The Great Drought put an end to it And the settlers we conned into coming here—forgive me, but all of our governments did it—were the dregs of the galaxy. Convicted criminals, most of them. They immediately took to fighting among themselves. You can see what good the laws against weapons did: They made their own.”

Perhaps, Caithlin decided, there was an intelligence lurking behind Talbot’s drunken facade; about Korrd she was not so sure. If she could just convince the human . . . “Maybe I’ve arrived just in time, then. Mr. Talbot, hasn’t it occurred to you that the policies the three of us agree on could have very far-reaching—”

“My dear,” the human interrupted, “we’re not here to agree. You’re very young and very idealistic, and believe me, I applaud that. But you must realize that governments rarely do things for the reasons given the public. We were sent here to disagree. My comrade here”—he nodded at Korrd—“tried to make a difference, and look where it landed him. This ’great experiment,’ as you call it, was instigated merely to satisfy a bunch of bleeding hearts whining for galactic peace. It was intended from the beginning to fail.”

Caithlin felt her expression harden at Talbot’s words, but she forced herself not to give up. “I’m afraid I don’t share that view. We could
make
it succeed, regardless of anyone’s original intention.”

But Talbot shrugged her words off. “There, you see?” He smiled as if pleased. “We’re disagreeing already.”

She persisted. “I’m here to open discussions for a solution to these problems. Mr. Talbot, why don’t—”

Korrd suddenly came to life; he spat out a disgusting mouthful of Klingon, then leaned back in his chair, which seemed on the verge of splintering under his weight, and roared with laughter at his own wittiness. Whatever he said caused Talbot to wince noticeably.

It did not take a translation for Caithlin to understand that she had just been insulted. “What did he say?” She glared at Talbot in a way calculated to make the human realize that she would no longer tolerate any deception, no matter how polite or well intended. “I want his
exact
words. No lies this time.”

Talbot seemed to shrink in his chair; his expression became miserable. “He said”—his voice was so faint she had to lean very close to hear—“he said that the only thing he’d like you to open is your blouse. He’s heard Romulan women are different.” He looked away, too embarrassed to meet her eyes.

Caithlin stood up so abruptly that her chair very nearly tipped over backwards. A rush of blood warmed her face. So the old bastard spoke English after all. There was no way he could have understood her last comment; Talbot had not been translating.

Caithlin had told the truth when she said she spoke no Klingon. Except for one particular epithet. She hurled it at Korrd with venom and hoped her accent was correct.

It was. Korrd hoisted his ponderous girth out of the chair and hurled the flask aside. It shattered on the gritty floor, spraying glass and evil-smelling liquor everywhere.

“Screw
you,
too!” he snarled—in near-perfect English.

Talbot gasped in what appeared to be genuine surprise; apparently Caithlin hadn’t been the only one the Klingon had deceived. “Korrd, you sly old bugger! All this time—”

“So.” Caithlin smiled triumphantly. “You
do
speak English. I’m glad to hear it. . . It will make our work that much easier.”

The old Klingon was on the verge of replying when, outside in the distance, a warning siren began to wail. Korrd and Talbot froze.

Shouts came from the street, followed by the sounds of customers making a hasty exit from the saloon. Caithlin frowned in confusion. “What is it? What’s happening?”

“The city,” Talbot said, listening, his eyes wide. “Someone’s trying to invade the city . . . though God knows why anyone would want to.”

Korrd snorted at the idea, but he strode from the back room out into the now-emptied bar and through the double doors into the dirt street outside. Caithlin and Talbot followed.

A ragtag army of grim-faced homesteaders, all of them armed with pipe guns, was making its way down
the street. In its midst, a lone white-cloaked figure rode regally on horseback.

The soldiers were very clearly headed this way.

“What the devil. . . ?” Talbot breathed next to Caithlin’s ear.

The town’s dwellers were already in hiding. Caithlin thought of the phaser and the long knife with the delicately carved nacre handle, both of which she had left behind on her home planet, and swore under her breath at the intruders. By Romulan standards, their weapons were laughably crude, but she had no means now of protecting herself from them.

She turned to ask Talbot if he knew who the soldiers were—and saw that he and Korrd had fled back into the saloon. She went inside and found the Klingon behind the bar, pouring the contents of an upended bottle down his throat.

Talbot had gone to a far corner of the bar and yanked a dusty cover from a communications terminal. He bent over it now in a desperate attempt to get it working. Caithlin joined him to see if she could help, but the terminal was ancient; she had never seen one with similar controls. Clearly it was as old as the city of Paradise, and it had probably not been used since the outpost was first constructed.

Talbot jabbed furiously at the controls again, then waited for a response, eyes focused on the viewscreen, long trembling fingers poised over the keys.

The screen remained dark.

“I don’t understand,” Caithlin said next to him. “I wasn’t briefed about any group that wanted to seize control of the city. Who are they? What do they want?”

Again Talbot stabbed at the controls in vain. “I don’t know,” he said unsteadily. When the terminal again failed to respond, he straightened and looked at Caithlin with uncertainty and fear in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Talbot repeated, and then he visibly took control of himself. His tone lightened. “My dear, you know as much as I. What do
you
think on seeing an armed group of hostile homesteaders marching this way?”

Caithlin heard a steadily growing rumble in the background—the sound of soldiers approaching on foot.

“They clearly mean to seize control of whatever government exists here,” Caithlin answered. “Which means that our lives could be in danger. I think we should do what the townspeople have already done—flee. After all, they have weapons, and we have none.”

“Korrd has a pistol,” Talbot offered weakly.

She shook her head. “Hardly enough to do us any good. We should leave.”

Talbot raised his pale eyebrows in feigned surprise. “And you a Romulan! I thought you never surrendered.”

“Even a Romulan finds no disgrace in avoiding conflict when the opponents are unevenly matched.”

“Then go.” Talbot sighed. “You’re young: you have a future—that is, if you can get past the stigma of having Nimbus on your résumé. But there’s no reason Korrd and I should go with you.”

“They might kill you!”

“They might.” Talbot smiled thinly. “That would probably be one of the nicer things to happen to either
of us in a very long time. But if the group outside has gone to all this trouble to find the government. . . well, I think it would be rather rude for no one to be here to greet them. Someone’s got to listen to their demands.” When Caithlin remained, frowning at him, he said gently, “Go, my dear. Korrd and I will handle them. After all, someone has to notify our governments.”