What Judgments Come

“They’re inside,” Schiappacasse hissed, increasing the pace of her advance as she closed the distance toward the foyer leading to the staircase. “Come on! Move!”

The quartet reached the stairway landing, itself a balcony overlooking the open space that was the center of the entire building. Jetanien peered over the railing to see smoke and dust billowing up from below. Where the set of massive double doors forming the front entrance should have been was now a ragged, gaping hole. Figures obscured by the smoke were darting about, and Jetanien heard the thump of ru

“All units, report in!” Schiappacasse called into her communicator as she moved to take up a defensive position near the stairs. Jetanien, hearing the muffled sounds of a voice replying to the constable through the communicator’s speaker, began moving toward her, but he was stopped when she gestured upward with the muzzle of her phaser. “Get to the roof!”

Reaching back to take D’tran by the arm, Jetanien led the way to the stairs even as the footsteps from below continued to grow louder. The Chelon was startled by the howl of phaser energy in the narrow passageway, which was followed by the sound of something falling back down the stairs. Then a resounding snap echoed in the corridor and Jetanien heard Schiappacasse cry out in pain. He turned in time to see the security officer thrown backward and off her feet, her phaser sailing from her hand to disappear over the railing as she crashed to the floor. Jetanien stepped toward her, realizing as he drew closer that her face now was a mask of blood and shattered bone.

“No!” he shouted. Then, realizing his cry likely would draw attention, he turned and lumbered toward the stairs, where Moreno was assisting D’tran. Heavy footfalls clamored up the stairwell behind them just as the trio reached the security door leading to the rooftop. Moreno keyed a code into the pad set into the bulkhead and the hatch slid aside. He hustled D’tran through with a small yet firm shove from Jetanien. The Chelon stepped through the doorway and hit the keypad on the other side, and the last thing he saw as the door closed was the lifeless body of Carla Schiappacasse. The chaos of the moment would prevent him from offering her a proper acknowledgment of her sacrifice, and he vowed to rectify that at the earliest opportunity. For now, however, the only thing he had to give seemed woefully inadequate.

Thank you, Constable.

Turning from the door, Jetanien realized for the first time that they were not alone on the roof. Several members of his staff—two female humans, a male Rigellian, and two female representativesof his own race—stood near the shuttlecraft. Two others, both male humans, were absent.

“Where are Thies and Adinolfi?” Jetanien asked.

One of the human females, a short woman of medium build with close-cut brown hair named Tara Varney, was visibly upset as she shook her head. “We don’t know. They were on the ground floor when the bomb went off.” She said nothing else, leaving Jetanien to contemplate the dreadful possibility behind her words. Turning to look beyond the parapet surrounding the building’s roof, he gazed upon Paradise City, evidence of the night’s violence staining the brightening sky with a dozen columns of dark smoke. One such plume rose from the vicinity of the Romulan Consulate. Random shouts echoed above the ambient noise from the streets below, punctuating the single thought that now taunted Jetanien.

The Planet of Galactic Peace was a failure.

Beside him, visibly stressed from his exertions, D’tran said, “We can do nothing for them, my friend. Your responsibility now is to these people.”

“You’re right,” Jetanien said, his voice low and tight. To the group, he added, “Get aboard the shuttle.” Then something thumped against the other side of the door leading to the roof, and Jetanien realized the hatch would not withstand a prolonged assault. Whatever resistance it might provide would without doubt be nullified if the rioters had brought with them another explosive.

Standing near the shuttle’s hatch, Moreno flipped open a communicator. “Code One alert to anyone receiving this message! We’re being attacked at the Federation Consulate! Help us!”

“Get aboard the shuttle!” Jetanien repeated, all but shouting the command. “There’s no one in range to hear you, anyway.” How long until the first Starfleet support vessel was due to arrive? Hours, at last report. Even if they arrived ahead of schedule, it likely would be too late unless he and his charges acted to save themselves.

The shriek of rending metal pierced the air and Jetanien turned to see the control panel near the door explode in a shower of sparks just as the hatch slid aside, revealing at least a half dozen men and women, all of them dressed in utilitarian garb and brandishing some sort of weapon. The first one through the doorway was the man Jetanien had seen on the video feed, his left arm still in its sling and his right hand wielding that same length of metal pipe. He swung the improvised club at Jetanien the instant his eyes locked on the Chelon, but Jetanien was faster, shambling out of his attacker’s reach. The man, his eyes wide with unchecked rage, lunged forward, swinging the pipe a second time even as the rest of his group followed him onto the roof. Jetanien stumbled as he tried to keep one hand on D’tran’s arm, but the elderly Romulan staggered, unable to match his friend’s pace. He twisted in an effort to keep his balance, but the motion cost him momentum, giving the man with the pipe an opening.

“No!”

The metal club struck D’tran’s head with sufficient force to crack the Romulan’s skull. His eyes rolled over white as green blood spilled out across his silver hair. Already dead, the senator crumpled to the rooftop as Jetanien rushed his killer, slamming into him and throwing him to the ground. The man landed on his wounded arm and cried out in pain, but Jetanien ignored him as he reached forward to wrench the pipe from the rioter’s hand.

“I should kill you myself!” he barked, reaching for the man with his free hand. He stopped when he heard Moreno calling for help, and turned to see his assistant fighting with another of the rioters near the front of the shuttlecraft. As he moved to help, the other man, a large human male dressed in soiled coveralls, threw Moreno to the ground before turning and moving for the shuttle-craft’s open hatch. Pulling himself to his feet, Moreno moved to follow the other man.

“Wait!” Jetanien shouted, and his assistant halted, looking to him for guidance. “Let them go! Just let them have it!” Turning back to the man who had just killed D’tran, he pointed the pipe at his face. “Go,” he said, his attention drawn once more to D’tran’s limp, lifeless body. A pool of bright green blood was spreading beneath the Romulan’s head. “Go, before I change my mind.”

He did not watch the man regain his feet and run for the shut-tlecraft even as he heard the vessel’s engines whine to life. His gaze instead remained fixed on D’tran. For more than a century, and often working in secret, the elder diplomat had broken ranks with his fellow senators and even his praetor, devoting a significant portion of his adult life to pursuing peace between the Romulan Empire and its interstellar neighbors. A life’s work, crushed with the same intensity as with the weapon that had ended his life.

Not if I can help it.

Dropping the pipe at his feet, Jetanien turned to look for Moreno even as he saw the shuttlecraft’s hatch closing. His assistant was backing away from the ship as its engines increased their power output. Where would they go? The shuttle had no long-range capabilities, and the moment it was detected by an incoming starship, everyone aboard would be taken into custody.