Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [39]
“Allow me to explain,” said Picard. “As the Federation sees it, your empire is in a no-win situation. If you keep the prisoners, they become symbols of oppression to all those who already sympathize with their movement, if you kill them, they become martyrs, and the pot of discontent gets stirred even more quickly. But if you turn them over to us
“
“I see your point now,” Eragian replied—though of course, he must have seen it right from the beginning. “If I release the prisoners, they will be seen as exiles. Examples of Federation weakness, who couldn’t make it in the Empire.”
“Precisely,” the captain confirmed. “Not that it will provide a long-term solution to the unificationist problem, but at least it will buy you some time to think of one.”
The Romulan tilted his head. “Then you believe this … unification movement… will be an ongoing difficulty for us? Even with this group gone?”
“I do,” Picard told him.
That much was the truth. What came next was the lie
“Nor is Vulcan any happier about it than the Romulan are.”
Eragian’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “What ha Vulcan got to be unhappy about… if I may ask?”
“Perhaps I misspoke,” the captain said. “Certainly few individual Vulcans are in favor of unification. How ever, most believe that their society will be corrupted by an influx of Romulan ideas and want no part of it. Hence the dispatch of the Enterprise.”
“In other words,” the Romulan commented, “this is embarrassment to your side as well as mine.”
“Yes,” Picard answered. “And my job is to eliminate it—preferably before it gets out of hand.” He paused for effect. “What I am offering,” he emphasized, “is a graceful way out of this mess. If I were you, Proconsul, I would give it some thought.”
Eragian seemed to be doing that already. Finally he said, “I will take it under advisement, I assure you. We will speak again, Captain. Eragian out.”
A moment later, the image on the viewscreen reverted to the grid they’d seen before, with its red blips moving slowly from one quadrant to the next.
Picard frowned. It wasn’t easy to tell what effect his advice had had on the proconsul. However, he was reasonably confident that he’d made some headway.
The captain had barely completed the thought before he heard an exclamation from the vicinity of the aft stations. Turning, he saw Admiral McCoy glaring at him.
“Dammit, man,” the admiral rasped, making his way around the sweeping curve of the tactical station. “Are you out of your mind?”
Again, the captain thought. On my bridge. In front of my officers.
Picard could feel a gout of anger rising in his throat. With an effort he fought it down.
“If you have something to say to me,” he responded, “I’d suggest we discuss it in my ready room.” Then, before McCoy could suggest otherwise, he turned to Riker. “You have the bridge, Number One.”
His executive officer nodded sympathetically. “Aye, sir.”
The captain led the way into the familiar confines of his ready room, took a seat behind his desk, and waited patiently for the admiral to join him. He didn’t look at McCoy until he’d shuffled in and the door had closed behind him. Then he raised his eyes to meet the admiral’s.
“Now,” said Picard, “what is it you wished to tell me?”
McCoy cursed lavishly beneath his breath. “My question,” he declared, “is why you don’t know these things for yourself. I mean, you’ve dealt with the Romulans before, haven’t you? You’ve seen what they’re like?”
The captain felt his lips compressing into a thin, hard line. “And your advice?” he prodded as gently as possible.
That brought forth another string of curses. “My advice,” the admiral hissed, “is not to trust those bastards. Dollars to doughnuts, they’ll find a way to stab you in the back—unless you stab them first.”
Picard leaned forward. “What, exactly, are you suggesting? That I carry out this negotiation without speaking to the Romulans?”
McCoy’s face reddened. He came forward until he was standing directly in front