The Sheliak fear the new governing body of New Romulus will not abide by the existing treaties between the Sheliak and the Romulan Star Empire after their well-known public refusal to accept the Tal Shiar as their ruling class, making all previous treaties between Empress Sela and the Sheliak Corporate null and void.
The Romulan physiology to withstand a higher exposure to these radiated planets (as evident by their occupation of Mol'Rihan despite its peculiar radiation characteristics) has drawn concern by several branches of the Sheliak Corporate that the Romulans will specifically target planets to infest that are more suitable to the Sheliak, out of the sheer lack of interest in said planets by other humanoid species. They are demanding a new treaty to be established, and insisting that the Federation and Klingon Empires enforce this treaty upon their newest allies, the citizens of the new Romulan Republic.
In order to avoid any aggressive behavior similar to the Sheliak reaction to the Enterprise-D and it's handling of the lost colony on Tau Cygna V circa 2365, Starfleet/ KDF has ordered you to attend initial treaty preparations talks and assist the Romulan Republic delegation sent to negotiate this new treaty.
Write a log entry with how the talks went, and what the outcome was. If you'd like to write from the Romulan Republic's point of view, write a log entry with your thoughts of the Sheliak not choosing to interact with your government on this matter.]
[This one kind of fits into the "Heresy" timeline, with Ronnie off patrolling in the Romulan borders... so, here it is.]
Personal log: Veronika "Ronnie" Grau, officer commanding USS Falcon, NCC-93057
Datarecord: 2/12, 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07 (pending reassimilation/reclassification)
I come bounding onto the bridge of the Falcon, plump myself down in the command chair, and beam at everyone. Bet that's got them worried already.
"Tallasa," I say, "would you like to pick three words to describe me?"
My Andorian */*species 4464*/* exec's antennae droop. "I'd... rather not, sir," she says.
"Oh, well. Apparently," I say with a broader smile yet, "you could choose tactful. Or even diplomatic. Persuasive. Soothing, even."
"Technically," Saval, my Vulcan */*species 3259*/* science officer says, "those are four words, sir."
"Also exact," I say. "Our two weapons are fear, surprise and ruthless efficiency. Lay in a course for Zeta Ancillae IV, maximum cruising speed, and set us up to broadcast diplomatic credentials and ID. I am now the Federation's representative, with orders to reconcile the dispute between the Romulan Republic and the Sheliak Corporate."
Tallasa stares at me as if I've gone mad. Madder. Her sister Jhemyl has started to lay in the course, and I can see her hands moving slower and slower on the console, until they come to a dead stop. Saval just blinks - which, admittedly, is high emotion in a Vulcan.
"Some mean-spirited people who have no faith in their commanding officer's tact and diplomacy," I say loudly, "might think to contact Starfleet Command and get confirmation of these orders. Well, I already did that. Apparently, every diplomat in the Federation is... on holiday, or on a coffee break, or something. This one has really and truly been dropped in my lap, boys and girls, so let's get on with it."
Tallasa finds her voice. "This is... this is unexpected, sir."
"Too right it is." I let the smile drop. "This business looks distinctly dodgy to little Ronnie. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. But we're not going to work out what it is by hanging around here, so let's get to the state of Denmark and start some cautious sniffing. These days, the state of Denmark is on Zeta Ancillae IV, apparently. Step on the gas, Jhemyl."
---
The Sheliak. */*species 8821---exercise caution---unsuitable for assimilation in most cases*/* Major bad news.
They are a non-humanoid, xenophobic species, existing in temperatures and radiation levels that would fry a human in short order. They are technologically advanced, probably ahead of the Federation in many respects, and they are prickly, obstructive, and territorial. We do not need problems with the Sheliak. But we may get them anyway, oh joy.
I grab the paperwork and review the situation as the Falcon plunges across space towards Zeta Ancillae. The Romulan Republic has been rehabilitating New Romulus, cleaning up the weird radiation fields that used to render the planet uninhabitable except by wacky things with six eyes. The Sheliak are, apparently, miffed about the possibility of the Roms using this technology to terraform Sheliak-compatible worlds. Frankly, I don't think they've got too much to worry about, New Romulus is kind of a special case, courtesy of the Iconians */*species 29*/*, the tech the Romulans */*species 3783*/* have developed probably won't have wider applications. But the problem is going to be convincing the Sheliak of this... and it is further complicated by the fact that the Sheliak won't talk to the Republic.
An awful lot has suddenly been dropped on the narrow shoulders of yours truly, and even my Borg-reinforced shoulders may not find it easy to cope.
I'm still staring at the transcripts of the negotiation sessions when the intercom chimes in my ready room. Tallasa's voice says, "Coming out of warp in ten minutes, sir."
"Right," I say. "Be right with you."
I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to do this at all.
---
Zeta Ancillae IV is a ghastly irradiated rockball, the sort of planet only the Sheliak could love. Starfleet Corps of Engineers has bolted together some prefabricated habitat modules on a small asteroid moonlet of the planet; it's crewed by a small technical staff, and is currently the temporary home to an angry and disconsolate group of Republic diplomats.
"They are intransigent," Ambassador Rodumus tells me glumly. He is the Romulans' senior negotiator; he is tall and suave and patrician-looking, and if he can't get anywhere, I don't see what Starfleet expects a small scruffy cyborg to accomplish. "At first, we thought there were grounds for reasonable discussion - then, they broke off the negotiations entirely, they ordered us off the planet, and submitted the request for your government to take over."
"I'm guessing you're not best pleased about that," I say.
"The Romulan Republic should be - trusted - to handle its own affairs."
"Makes sense to me. But then I'm not a talking hot rock. What's the protocol for getting in touch with these guys anyway? I read through the treaty, there's normally quite a rigmarole...."
"The Corporate has erected a force-field dome on the planet's surface, with a class M environment inside it. We are - or were - allowed to come and go as we please, between this facility and the dome. The Sheliak apparently regard this as a great concession on their part."
"Probably is. Their sort of xenophobia runs pretty deep.... Can you figure out what, if anything, you did to set them off?"
"Regrettably, I cannot. I was very cautious to stay within all the known diplomatic protocols. And yet, still, I managed to cause offense...."
Oh, God. A career diplomat can't avoid getting these guys hacked off, and here's me taking over, and I can cause offense in my sleep.
"I understand," Rodumus continues, "that the Sheliak have also been in contact with the Klingon Empire over this issue. Thus far, I am not aware that the Klingons have made any formal diplomatic response. However...."
"If a Klink ship shows up, I won't shoot it right away. This just gets better by the minute, doesn't it?" I scratch an itch by the Borg implant covering my left eye. "OK. I'd better go down and check out this concession of theirs, hadn't I?"
---
It's not much of a concession. The hemispherical force shield is about eight metres across, and there is a beam-down pad and a pillar-like thing that's obviously some sort of communicator, and that's it. Nothing but a circle of hot, bare dirt. There is some sort of metal doohickey just outside the field, evidently a generator for the force shield and the class M environment... I have no idea how it works. I just hope it doesn't stop working while I'm here.
Even with this thing going, the air is hot and stuffy, and very little is visible behind the shimmering glow of the shield. The atmosphere seems to be mostly murk, and there are things moving inside it.
One of the things comes up to the perimeter of the shield. It looks like a pile of wet muddy rocks, except it moves. It makes a noise like an accident in a brickyard, and the pillar says, "I am Mediator 6923. Lesser species cannot pronounce my name. You will state your identification in accordance with protocol."
"I am Vice Admiral Veronika Grau." I don't add call me Ronnie, everyone does - I think I deserve brownie points for that, anyway. Mediator 6923 rearranges itself in some obscure way - I hope it's making itself comfortable. It'll be in a better mood if it's comfortable.
There are more breaking and grating noises. "Accepted and verified according to credentials previously transmitted. You will arrange for protection of Sheliak interests against Romulan intrusion."
"I don't have authority to make binding agreements on behalf of the Romulan Republic," I say.
"The Federation is allied with the Republic, and the Federation's obligations under the treaty are specified."
"The Federation recognizes the Republic, and has cooperated with it in some ventures, but that is not the same as a formal alliance."
"I refer you to the definitions in Appendix 83, subsection D, paragraphs 43 to 52 of the prolegomena to the Treaty of Armens." Oh, hell. It took three hundred and seventy-two legal experts to knock that treaty into shape, what chance do I have of following it?
"I'll have to check with my legal advisors to see if your interpretation is correct," I say guardedly.
"It is correct. We do not make errors, creature."
"Assuming - provisionally - that's the case, how do you want us to proceed?"
"I refer you to the treaty itself, section 12, subsections A through E...."
This is going to be a long, long day.
---
A cool glass of water in my ready room is very refreshing. About a litre of Saurian brandy would be a lot more refreshing, but something tells me I really shouldn't.
"I wound up pleading indisposition," I said. "Told the mediator the force shield was interfering with my neural circuitry and affecting my memory."
"That may even be true, sir," says Saval, who is reading the transcript with every appearance of interest. "Some of these references and precedents you cite are unfamiliar to me."
"Yes, put that down to lapses in memory," I say. "Sounds better than admitting I made them up. Listen. I can't handle this guy, he is going to make me sign up to something the Romulans won't swallow, and then we'll be in a worse mess than before. I said it before and I'll say it again, play 'As Time Goes By' - no, wait, that's not it." I swallow the last of the water. "This is a set-up. And we need to work out who's setting us up and why."
I stand up. "Tallasa, I've got an EV suit somewhere, haven't I? I remember walking around in one, on Nukara...."
"Sir..." Tallasa begins, in her I am going to try being reasonable before I use violence voice.
"It's so I can hang around in that force field bubble and be shielded from interference. Right?"
"Of course it is, sir," says Tallasa in tones of the deepest gloom.
---
The surface of Zeta Ancillae IV is rocky and hot and generally unpleasant - what I can see of it, through the murk. The visual records I've seen of the Sheliak always had them working in a pretty clear atmosphere, I thought: what happened?
Maybe this is a seasonal thing. Or an aesthetic thing. Or a thing for which I have no cultural reference point. Anyway,
I plod on. The gravity is well above Earth normal, too. Damn it.
A voice in my ear says, "Halt!", just as something large and rocky looms out of the mist ahead of me.
"I'm looking for Mediator 6923," I say. I just hope the universal translator copes. It coped with "Halt!", but "Halt!" is one of those fundamental concepts, particularly as uttered by large hostile security guards.
"You are trespassing on the sacred soil of the Sheliak!"
"Well, of course I am, I wouldn't be looking for Mediator 6923 on flippin' Risa, would I?"
"Return at once to your vessel and no more will be said of this."
I stand still, fold my arms, and say, "No." I'd look him in the eye, if he had eyes.
"I will deal with this." Annoyingly, the translator uses the same voice - but a second ambulant rockpile has loomed up, and it's clearly this one who's speaking. I'll give the Sheliak one thing, they don't half loom well.
"Are you Mediator 6923? I'm Veronika Grau, call me Ronnie, everyone does." Oh, damn. I said it.
"You are violating diplomatic protocols -"
"Yes, I know. I wanted to talk to you. In an informal, undiplomatic, non-legally-binding way. Just you and me, buddy. Creature to creature."
The first Sheliak shambles off. The second one stands very still.
"Very well. Talk," says the voice in my ear.
"Thanks. First off, I'm not a diplomat. Oh, I'm a senior officer of appropriate rank, and all that guff, but I'm not a diplomat. We'll get back to that, because I think it's important. But you are a diplomat, and so's Rodumus, so why aren't you talking to him?"
"The Romulan creature is not reliable. He says one thing, then he says another. He does not deal in good faith."
"OK. OK. Assuming you're right... why? The Romulans want this negotiation to succeed. They don't want a conflict with the Sheliak Corporate...." Something clicks inside my miswired head. "And you don't want a conflict either, do you? We've been grumbling about Sheliak arrogance and legalism, but the fact is, by your standards, you guys have been falling over yourselves to be accommodating, here. Class M reception room on your sacred soil, trained mediator on hand... you don't want a fight any more than we do!"
"The resources of the Corporate could be better used than in conflict with the Romulan creatures," 6923 admits.
"So you don't want a fight, and the Roms don't want a fight, and despite all appearances I don't want a fight. So who does? Cui bono? Follow the money."
6923 shifts about a bit. "I do not think my translation system is capturing your speech correctly."
"Oh, that's all right. It probably is, it's just that sometimes I don't make much sense. I told you, I'm not a diplomat - which is why I think someone is setting up these negotiations to fail. You and me, 6923, good buddy, we are being set up for a fall, here, and I don't think you want that, do you? On a personal level."
"It would be preferable if the negotiations were successfully concluded," 6923 says, which I think is Sheliak for my job's on the line here. The big rocky bulk is shifting around again. "But you say you are not reliable. And Rodumus contradicts himself - it is not a question of misinterpretation or shades of meaning. I understand your limited languages and I make allowances. The Romulan creature explicitly contradicts himself. I can provide you with references in the transcripts -"
"Yes. Yes, you do that." Ideas are bubbling up in little Ronnie's head. "The Federation, good buddy, has enemies. They'd just love to have a conflict between us and the Sheliak. And some of those enemies are very good at infiltration." 6923 can't see me smile, behind the faceplate of my helmet. And he wouldn't recognise a smile if he could see it. But I smile anyway. "Let me suggest something. Rodumus might say different things at different times if he was actually two different people...."
---
"I need," I announce, as I step off the transporter pad, "complete transcripts of the negotiations, complete logs of all the transporter activity between the station and the surface, and all available security visual recordings from the station itself." I pull the suit's helmet off. Smoke is rising from the soles of my boots as dust from the planet's surface burns away in our air. "Also, I will need several hours alone in my ready room, and I will probably need a stiff drink and a bucketload of painkillers afterwards. This is not going to be fun."
"Sir?" says Tallasa.
"We have a ringer, folks. Someone has been impersonating Ambassador Rodumus. The Sheliak granted access to that dome of theirs at any time, right? Someone has been putting the Ambassador's face on and beaming down while the Ambassador is safely tucked up in his little Romulan bed. Big question is, who?"
"How do you intend to find out, sir?" Tallasa looks worried. "The security records won't be complete, even if they've not been deliberately tampered with."
"Right. Right. What we need, I'm afraid, is computer-like attention to detail, scanning and analysing every second of the records we have... and we also need an organic brain's ability to make intuitive leaps, play hunches, generally work from inadequate data. We need a composite mechanical-organic brain." I sigh heavily. "Now, where oh where are we going to find one of those...?"
---
"Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?" Tallasa hisses at me as she climbs into the cupboard. Her tone shows pretty plainly that she doesn't.
"Not really," I say, "but it's the best I can come up with at short notice. Saval, hide behind the wardrobe. I'll just stand by the door." Technical Specialist Arthur Corley's quarters on the station are not very large, they don't offer a wide range of hiding places. Especially when the people doing the hiding are carrying phaser rifles of the stonkingly huge variety.
"We should have more people," Tallasa whispers urgently. "If he's what you think he is -"
"There isn't room for any more, and this is our best chance to jump him."
"At least let me get more security people in the corridor -"
"He'd smell a rat. Now shush, I think I hear him coming." And I shut the cupboard door on her. Oh, man, that feels good....
Footsteps in the corridor outside, and a brief pause, while Corley checks the hair on the door's access panel is in precisely the same place as when he left it. It is, of course. I put it back very carefully.
The door hisses open. I get a brief look at the man as he steps through, and before my presence has had time to register with him, I hit him. I hit him as hard as I can, all my Borg mechanical parts tuned up to full force.
I'm not sure what I'm expecting - for him to splash like liquid, or morph into some tripod monstrosity. Whatever fight it is, I have to be ready for it -
What I didn't expect is for him to go down at the first blow and lie senseless on the floor.
Tallasa bursts out of the cupboard with her phaser rifle at the ready. "Sir -"
"Ow," I say. I look at my Borg-augmented hand. "I think I broke a... strut, or something." */*confirm mechanical damage---actuators Z9838321 and X5287149 out of alignment---initiating autorepair*/* "Ow. Saval, take a look at him...."
"Is this the right one, sir?" Tallasa's antennae are drooping.
"Should be. It's definitely Corley, and he was the only one I couldn't account for when the fake Ambassador was fake-Ambassadoring. Saval, scan him."
Saval has his tricorder out, is examining the inert form. "I have a possible energy signature," he says, frowning in concentration. "Consistent with...." His eyes widen and he does the Vulcan eyebrow thing. "Sir, he's wearing a holo-emitter."
"I was right. Calloo, callay, oh frabjous day. Pull the power cell, let's see what we've got."
Saval reaches for something at Corley's waist, and the shape on the floor flickers and changes -
Tallasa says some words in Andorian that a well-brought-up first officer shouldn't know. Saval blinks several times, rapidly.
"Oh, Jesus H. tapdancing Christ on a pogo stick," I moan. "Think, Ronnie. Think...."
---
Franklin Drake glares at me through the force field. The dressing on the side of his head isn't improving his looks... or his disposition.
"Well, it's your own fault," I say crossly. "I thought you were an Undine or a Changeling or something, of course I hit you as hard as I could."
Drake just carries on glaring with those worrying yellow eyes of his. Maybe I should have had the medics check him for jaundice as well as skull trauma.
Finally, he says, "So how do you intend to salvage this situation?"
"Already salvaged," I say cheerfully. "Now that my good buddy 6923 knows Rodumus was being sabotaged, the two of them have got back round the negotiating table and are threshing things out. The Sheliak are scared, Frankie, they are practically falling over themselves to get an agreement drafted. And Rodumus knows his stuff. Everything will be signed, sealed, delivered and tied up with red tape in a couple of days."
He doesn't look happy. "Speaking of tied up," I continue, "I guess I will have to turn over the saboteur from a Federation terrorist group who was trying to muck up the negotiations. I wonder how the Sheliak will interrogate you? They're awfully technically advanced, I bet they're good at it."
Drake is on his feet in an instant. "You can't do that," he hisses at me. "Not for my sake, Ronnie, for the Federation's. There are things I know, that - You can't do it!"
And I wonder if I am the only person now alive who's seen fear in Franklin Drake's eyes.
I grin at him. "Oh, c'mon, Frankie, I know I can't do it. Ronnie says relax, Frankie. We told the Sheliak you were an Undine infiltrator, and we didn't have the resources to take you alive. They bought it, they know we're inferior sorts of creatures who can't do simple jobs like that. I hope there wasn't anything important in that suitcase of yours, by the way. We had to disintegrate some mass with phaser fire, just for the look of the thing."
He looks at me in a way that makes me very glad I'm on this side of the force field. Then he sighs heavily and says, "It would have self-destructed anyway, if it was tampered with.... So. You win this one, Ronnie."
"I do? Great. Indulge me, then. What was the big idea?"
He shakes his head. "The Romulan Republic is... growing too fast. It's unpredictable, and it's as friendly with the Klingons as it is with us. We decided it needed... an obstacle. A problem to draw its attention away from the Federation."
"You don't think D'Tan's got enough on his plate with the Tholians and the Tal Shiar and the Iconians and the Hirogen?"
"We think our potential enemies can never have too much adversity." He smiles.
"Oh, great. What about our potential friends? We can work with the Republic, Frankie. I'm saying that, me, and I used to shoot Roms for a living. Anyway, you don't get to sit in back rooms and decide who our friends and our enemies are. It's against the constitution. That's what we have elected representatives for."
"You think our representatives are chosen wisely?" he asks scornfully.
"They should be. I don't vote. Anyway, enough of this." I turn to the master console for the brig, and pick up a small package. "Computer. Security field off." The force field drops.
"I'll need some time to arrange transport," Drake says.
"Oh, you'll have plenty of time." I step into the cell. "Computer. Security field on." The field glows into life behind me.
Drake looks puzzled. Afraid, and now puzzled - any more unfamiliar emotions and his face will break. "What - ?"
"Precautions, Frankie, precautions. I give you credit for knowing your stuff, I reckon you must have all sorts of contingency plans and fall-backs. I still don't know how you finagled me in as your choice for worst possible diplomat."
I grin at him; well, I bare my teeth at least. "And you know all sorts of tricks with security, back doors and trapdoors and what-not, I bet there isn't a cell in the Federation could hold you. But you don't have any back doors to my systems." My grin gets wider. "So we are going to sit tight in here until Rodumus and 6923 have done their deal, and I will keep my eye on you. Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be watching you. Till it's time for you to go back to Hollywood." I may be mixing up my twentieth-century musicians, there. I don't care.
"You're going to stay in this cell with me until the meeting is over?" He sounds anguished.
I hold up the package in my hand. "If you want to pass the time," I say, "I brought travel chess."
---
Mercifully, it's less than forty-eight hours before Rodumus warps out with a draft agreement under his arm. And a discreet, anonymous-looking civilian cruiser warps in, to take a passenger off my hands.
It feels good to be back on the bridge, even with Drake glowering at me from the viewer. "We'll meet again, Ronnie," he says.
"I'm betting on it," I say. "Let me know whenever you want more top-level diplomacy done."
"I think," Drake says, "we might use other resources for those tasks. Goodbye." And the screen goes blank.
"Bye, Frankie," I say. "Have a nice trip back to Hollywood."
Tallasa's face is thoughtful. "He's a dangerous enemy to have, sir."
"Oh, relax. It's all in the game to people like him. You get caught out, you resign graciously, thank your opponent, get ready for the next match. Like the chess game."
"You threw the board at his head and called him a cheating, conniving, backstabbing weasel, sir," says Tallasa.
"Only once. And he had it coming, that fool's mate was a cheap trick." I sigh contentedly. "Let's move on, shall we? Back to the front lines, back to people shooting at us - I prefer being shot at, it's so simple." I settle myself into the command chair. "Soothing, even."
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