Chapter One

KRAETIAN SPACE STATION FEDERATION-KLINGON BORDER 2267 (SIX WEEKS LATER)

"NO RESPONSE from the ambassador," Fronde said, looking up from the viewscreen.

Ambassador Fox sighed, not bothering to hide his disappointment. He checked his chronometer. There was no mistake.

They were now almost two hours past due for their meeting. Getting the Klingon ambassador to meet with him directly had felt like a great victory after the run-around they had received from the Klingon High Council.

Fox had arranged for the meeting to take place on a station orbiting the Kraetian homeworld, a venue acceptable to both sides because Kraetia was a trading partner of both the Federation and the Klingon Empire but not aligned with either.

The whole time Fox was making the arrangements, he had felt a sense of hope for the first time in weeks, since his talks with the last Klingon ambassador had ended and the Klingon was recalled by his superiors. Fox knew that the key to preventing war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire lay in getting the Klingons talking. As long as talks continued, there was a chance of preventing open fighting.

Sometimes in diplomacy, all that was required was a delay to let passions cool. Of course, this crisis between the Federation and the Klingon Empire had been brewing—at least on the Klingon side—for twenty-five years, since the inconclusive Battle of Donatu V. Nevertheless, the immediate crisis and recent bloodshed were the reasons he was here. His job was to defuse the current situation. If he did that, time might take care of the rest.

"Perhaps the Klingons have a more elastic notion of timeliness than we have previously believed," Fronde said.

Fox wished that were true. He had endured some frustrating negotiations where he had dealt with races whose concept of time meant that a meeting scheduled months in advance might take place hours, days, or even weeks after Fox arrived. However, he felt certain that this was not the case with the Klingons. Martial cultures like theirs depended on precise coordination of military activities. That sensibility spilled over into every aspect of their culture, including diplomacy. On this point, both Starfleet's and the diplomatic corps's analysis were in agreement.

Reading Fox's expression, Fronde said, "Maybe it's just a quirk of the new ambassador."

"No, they're making us wait for a reason," Fox said.

Fronde nodded, immediately accepting the judgment even though Fox had offered no facts to back it up. "What are you going to do?" Fronde asked. His eyes looked at Fox with great respect and something else. Expectation. Fronde fully expected Fox to have a strategy for this contingency, a plan of some kind to get the Klingons talking. Fox wished he had the young man's confidence.

Fox had found Fronde when he was giving a lecture at Fronde's school about his settlement of a Tellarite-Andorian conflict. Fronde had asked insightful questions, and Fox had been impressed by his command of the subtleties of the situation. Now four years out of university, Fronde had shown remarkable promise and Fox felt lucky to have him as his chief of staff.

In the past, Fox had broken impasses in negotiations by working within the framework of the culture or cultures involved. Sometimes that meant wearing traditional dress—or no clothing at all. Other times he'd had to participate in obscure rituals, including one that involved becoming a sort of godfather to a young prince—a relationship he had maintained for more than a decade now.

Each time Fox had found a way to accomplish his objective, but he had never faced stakes this high before. And Fox had rarely seen such a lack of goodwill on the other side before. Yet there it was: Fronde's absolute confidence in him showing in the younger man's eyes.

To his surprise, Fox found that some of that confidence seemed to seep into his own consciousness. There were billions of lives at stake, and many worlds were depending on his team, but for the moment, Fox realized that he was moved by the simple belief of a promising young aide.

He made up his mind in an instant and said, "Hail the ambassador's office."

Fronde worked the console as Fox stood in front of the viewscreen, preparing himself for what he had to do. The course had been suggested by a Starfleet report, but Fox had resisted using it until now, partly because it went against all of his training and experience, and partly because he didn't think it would work.

Now it seemed to be all he had, and Fox's instincts told him that it might just work. In any case, at this point it could hardly hurt. After a few seconds, a Klingon face appeared on the viewscreen. It was Kreg, a diplomatic aide that Fox recognized from his previous talks with the Klingons.

"What do you want?" the Klingon asked gruffly.

Fox took the customary Klingon greeting in stride, but put an edge in his voice when he said, "I demand to speak with the ambassador immediately." Kreg looked at Fox for a moment and than laughed unpleasantly. "Are you afraid to relay my demand, or simply too stupid to perform such a simple task?" Fox added.

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