Open Writing

* *
Before.
Kronos
Home world of the Klingon Empire.

The smell never quite leaves them, thought Richard Snell, as he took his seat in the crimson-tinged amphitheater, along with the eleven other members of the unofficial Star Fleet delegation. The seats were hard, and the red glow of the room’s lighting even harder on the eyes, but he and the others knew these were but minor discomforts, easily borne considering what was at stake. Nothing must distract us from our goal, he thought resolutely. We will see this through to its end, no matter how bitter that end may be.

This meeting, Snell reflected, might well turn out to be the most important, and the most dangerous any of them had ever attended; if word were to get back to the Federation, they could all be tried for treason. Snell glanced down the table, then turned to his assistant, Korda, seated beside him.

“We must not be distracted from our goal. If we can get the Klingons to agree to our terms, then there is great power to be gained. For us all.”

Korda leaned closer, whispering urgently. The young man had thought, when he won the appointment as Snell’s number two, that he was on track for the heights of his profession. Snell, he had recognized, was a high-flyer, destined for great things, and the opportunity to ride on his coattails was gratefully accepted. Now, however, he was beginning to have grave doubts. This action, if discovered prematurely, could mean the end for them all. He glanced nervously around the room as he spoke.

“But surely they will have a price for their co-operation?”

Snell answered without taking his eyes from the head of the table, where the Klingons were still in conference with each other.

“Of course. And we will pay it, if it is at all payable. But I don’t think they are in any position to bargain too much. Remember that their world is going to become uninhabitable in less than fifty years. If we can reach agreement here today, there will be huge rewards for those who seize the moment. The risks, no matter how great they may be, are outweighed by the potential power to be gained.”

Korda glanced again at his mentor. “You treat this like a game.”

For a moment, Snell moved his attention from the head of the table to his assistant, and wondered, not for the first time, if he had made the correct choice in this man. His cravenness was becoming tedious; perhaps, after this was over, he would see about cutting him loose. Who knew, perhaps a scapegoat might even be needed.

“Have you learnt nothing, Korda?” he sneered. “Of course it’s a game. Politics is always a game.”

“But if we are discovered, we could face treason charges.”

Snell regarded the other man with contempt, his earlier misgivings stronger than ever. “If you have no stomach for it, you shouldn’t have joined us. Everything worthwhile has a price, Korda. Just as we must pay what the Klingons demand, so must we be prepared to acknowledge the consequences of failure.” He glanced down the table again, and saw that the Klingons were still not ready. Then he turned away from his timorous assistant and reflected on the brilliance of his plan, and its audacity.

Imagine, a conference with the Klingon High Council, right here on Kronos, the Klingon home world. The High Command had made it known, through intermediaries, that they would be willing to confer “favored status” on Snell and his colleagues in exchange for a fast-track entry into the Federation, with all barriers removed.

Snell was no fool; he knew the Klingons wanted something else in return for their co-operation, something the Federation would not, in all likelihood, agree to. He, however, had no such qualms, and was prepared to seize the moment. Although this was an unofficial meeting, unsanctioned by the Federation, Snell and the others had deemed it worth the risk. The prize at stake, the potential power to be grasped, was huge. Worth any risk.

While he waited for the Klingons to signal their readiness, Snell thought of how this extraordinary event had come to pass. Following the attempted coup at Camp Khitomer three years previously, relations between the Klingon Empire and the Federation had been strained, and slow to improve. Too slow for some; real trust still appeared a long way off, and unlikely to occur in the foreseeable future. This rate of thaw was not acceptable to Snell and his co-conspirators, and it was obvious that at least some of the High Council felt the same way. They wanted results now, but it was clear from their overtures that they had a fee in mind for their co-operation.

So be it, thought Snell, as he waited for the Klingons to settle themselves at the long table. If we can reach agreement here today, there would be opportunities to exploit, and power to be gained, enormous power. The risks, great though they might be, were outweighed by the potential rewards. As he had told Korda, politics was always a game, and this game, the greatest of them all, was definitely worth the candle. Snell saw this secret summit as an opportunity to gain a great advantage over his rivals.

There had been some dissatisfaction over the Federation’s handling of the Klingon situation; after all, their world was going to become uninhabitable in less than fifty years following the destruction of its moon, Praxis. Weaknesses had to be exploited, and no matter what the Klingons demanded in return, decisive action had to be taken, and taken now. Now, thought Snell, now was the time. When no official action appeared to be forthcoming from either side, he and his fellow plotters had decided to pre-empt the foot-draggers of the Federation and the High Council alike, and conduct their own negotiations. An advantage must be exploited while it is held, for such a situation will not last forever. Snell glanced down the table again at the Klingons; at last, they appeared to be ready.

Whatever it was that they wanted, they had to be hurting badly to stoop this low, to actually invite the hated Federation, albeit unofficially, here to Kronos. Snell shifted in his seat and looked towards the far end of the table.

“Well, if we can proceed, Mr. Chairman…?”

The leader of the Klingon conspirators, second-ranked on the High Council, raised his ridged and battle-scarred head and looked towards Snell. Few Federation members had ever set foot on Kronos and lived to tell of it, especially one as insolent as this. Once, the human would have been spitted for such arrogance. Perhaps, perhaps… the old, buried hatred threatened to bubble to the surface, and the Klingon fought it down. No, he thought, that is not the way, not now. The home world is in deadly peril, and the race must be preserved if we are ever to conquer these aliens. Later, when the Federation had been lulled, then…. But not now; now is the time for conciliation, for accord. But still they would have their pound of flesh. Aloud, the Klingon said, “We welcome you to our world, Mr. Snell. You and the rest of your delegation.”

The leader of the human conspirators inclined his head in acknowledgement, and the first hurdle was passed. Now it begins, thought Snell, as he tried surreptitiously to settle himself on the too-hard seat.

Now, we fight.

*

And seven hours later, even Snell, his political aspirations notwithstanding, could scarcely believe what they had done. For the sake of future harmony, for a peace that might only ever be, at best, a fragile one, they had sacrificed one of their own. But the potential gains, long term or otherwise, to the Federation were as nothing next to the personal rewards.

Snell wondered what the subject of their plotting would make of it, whether he would appreciate the planning, and the effort that had gone into what they had achieved. The answer came immediately; of course he would. The admiral might not be much at currying favor with the Star Fleet hierarchy, but Snell knew he still had a finely tuned sense of irony.

In times of great crisis, certain sacrifices must be made, thought Snell piously as he walked the blood-red corridors of the spaceport. How the Klingons had done what they had done, God only knew, but done it they had. The proof they had presented was irrefutable; now, the admiral must pay the ultimate price yet again. A small part of what passed for Richard Snell’s conscience was tweaked by this, but only briefly. The man had brought it on himself, he reasoned; disobeyed orders, followed his own instincts too often. Well, now comes the payoff.

He walked faster, anxious to be off this alien planet, his misgivings as brief as his desire to be gone from this place was strong. By the time he reached the transporter terminal, from where he would be beamed up to the waiting starship, Snell had convinced himself, with the self-righteousness of the true hypocrite, that what they had done was the only action left open to them, and was the best course for all. Or, at least, for most.

The Federation would, he was sure, come to agree with him, after the deed was done, when it was presented as a fait accompli and the price of peace with the Klingons was paid. As the transporter beam took hold, and he was taken away from the hateful place, Snell’s thoughts were already turning to other, more pleasing matters, such as his own personal outcome from this unpleasant but necessary business. And by the time his starship was heading at warp speed towards earth, Snell had, finally and completely, closed the book on James T. Kirk.

And whomever else the admiral chose to involve.

***