A Time for War, a Time for Peace - Keith R. A. DeCandido [73]
“I am aware of the history surrounding the Khitomer Accords.”
Abrik leaned forward. “Then you should also be aware that the longer we keep this secret, the worse it will be when it comes out. And it will come out, Mr. Ambassador, sooner or later. It always does. Perhaps we’ll be fortunate and it’ll come out at a time when it’ll have no effect on our people, but we can’t count on that. It’s better to reveal it and own up to it.”
The stare intensified. “Do you intend to reveal this information?”
Sighing, Abrik said, “Not yet. The situation is too volatile, and we don’t even have any leadership in place. But if it becomes necessary—”
“You mean if Special Emissary Pagro loses the election next week.”
Abrik cursed the ambassador his perspicacity. “That is one option, but—”
“You have not told him, have you?”
Repeating those curses, Abrik said, “No. But I will if—”
“Ambassador Worf, please report to transporter station nine. Ambassador Worf to transporter station nine.”
Worf stood up. “This conversation is over. I will take your words into consideration when I return to the empire in order to convince the members of the High Council that the Federation is an honorable ally.”
Klingons were not known for their facility with sarcasm; Abrik chalked Worf’s expert use of it to his years living in the Federation. “I thought you’d understand. The truth about the Khitomer massacre came out, after all.”
“When the time was right, yes,” Worf said. “I do not think that time is now for Tezwa, nor do I see what you have gained in sharing that intelligence.”
I was hoping to gain an ally after the election, Abrik thought glumly. That seems to have backfired rather spectacularly. Worf was probably the person in the galaxy best qualified to do his job, and Abrik was hoping that this confidence sharing would have the added benefit of guaranteeing that he would continue in the role once Pagro was elected.
Abrik said none of these things, however. Instead, he simply stood up, reached out a hand, and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ambassador.”
Worf returned the handshake, but said nothing as he departed the lounge.
“Dammit,” Abrik muttered.
Then he looked over at the viewscreen. Pagro was talking.
“—lem with determining the needs of the rehabilitation efforts is that it’s an answer that will vary. The rebuilding efforts that have fallen by the wayside since the war do need to be addressed, but we won’t be able to please everyone. I have confidence that I, at least, will be able to navigate those requests with a proper notion of resource allocation. I’m sure Governor Bacco will make all kinds of promises in that down-home style of hers about what she’s done in the past, and she’ll probably throw in a baseball reference while she’s at it. But promises don’t feed the sehlat.”
Several members of the audience had laughed at various points, which heartened Abrik, as it meant the room was responding to him. Abrik had caught bits and pieces of the debate during his search for the ambassador, in addition to the segment he watched when entering the lounge, and with each question Pagro had grown more confident as Bacco’s answers had gotten more generic. The special emissary was used to the formal structure of the debate, and adjusting to the needs of the people he was dealing with at the moment. Bacco, as a longtime governor, was more accustomed to being the one in charge directing matters, which made her an excellent public speaker, but hamstrung her here. Both skills were, of course, of great use once one took office, but the flexibility was needed to reach that office in the first place.
“Governor Bacco, you have one minute for rebuttal.”
Bacco looked over at Pagro. Up until now, she had looked polite and reserved and kindly. Now, though, something was different, and Abrik