“YOUR TERMS are more than fair. On behalf of a grateful people, I offer you our thanks.”

Bilok bowed his head and wore a serene expression that belied his anxiety. The salty grit of raw shellfish on his back teeth mingled with the tart aftertaste of jeefa; together, they tasted like shame. My people are starving, he chastised himself, and I’m sharing delicacies with our conquerors.

He corrected himself: The Federation had shown no interest in behaving like a conquering power. Seated on the other side of the negotiating table were Federation Ambassador Lagan Serra and Starfleet Captain Picard. Lagan was a statuesque and regal-looking Bajoran woman whose steely eyes hinted at a past steeped in suffering. Similarly, Picard’s affable manner and practiced courtesy were marred by an unspoken sadness. They both had shown Bilok every courtesy, and their generosity on behalf of their government was more than he would have dared to hope for.

Gathered behind them was a retinue of diplomatic hangers-on that included Commander Deanna Troi, who had accompanied the captain to the previous day’s disastrous—and, in hindsight, fraudulent—peace negotiations. Standing beside and behind Bilok were numerous Gatni ministers, and a handful of moderate Lacaam Coalition ministers who had quickly distanced themselves from Kinchawn after he fled the capital. Bilok had named Tawnakel as his deputy prime minister, and he had promoted Unoro to serve as the new minister of state. The rest of the senior ministry posts were still in flux, left vacant due to internecine squabbling.

“The Enterprise will remain in orbit for the next several weeks,” Lagan said. “More starships will arrive within the next forty-eight hours, to provide security for the civilian vessels that will bring supplies and relief workers.”

“We look forward to welcoming them,” Bilok said.

Lagan affixed her signature to the aid agreement, and applied an embossed stamp of the Federation emblem next to it. She slid the oversized document across the table to Bilok, who signed it and marked it with the Tezwan double-winged crest. They both stood and shook hands, completing the ritual that had been described to him before he’d entered the room.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” Picard said as Bilok returned the agreement to Lagan. “With your permission, I’d like to pose a delicate question.” Behind Picard, the rest of the Federation personnel were slowly moving en masse toward the exits.

“Please, speak candidly, Captain.”

“The artillery that you say Kinchawn developed in secrecy…it would have required a significant number of personnel to assemble, would it not?”

“Yes, I imagine it would.”

“It would be difficult to keep so massive a project secret, don’t you think?” The captain’s tone was civilly neutral, which Bilok knew was the preferred tenor of seasoned verbal assassins.

“Kinchawn’s influence over the military was profound, Captain,” Bilok said. “But I agree—the scale of this deception was truly shocking.”

“Do you have any theories on how Kinchawn acquired that kind of technology? Was it developed here? Or did he acquire it off-world?”

“I wish I knew, Captain. But I fear its origins are as much a mystery to me as they are to you.” That answer seemed to satisfy Picard, who said his farewells and departed with the rest of the Federation contingent.

Bilok didn’t enjoy lying to Picard; he genuinely liked the man. But Koll Azernal’s warning was still fresh in his thoughts. Only hours ago, the Zakdorn had contacted him in secret, both to congratulate him on his rise to the top of the Ilanatava, and to enlist his aid in a covert effort to disguise the origins of the now-destroyed nadion-pulse cannons.

The plan was hardly as simple as Azernal liked to make it sound. Its logistics were complicated, but the gravest threat to its success was its need for absolute secrecy. It would take only one misstep, one rumor to unravel the entire scheme.

Bilok had questioned the need for such elaborate measures. “Why not simply have Starfleet help plant your new ‘evidence,’ ” he’d asked Azernal. “They’re under your command, aren’t they?”

Azernal had grimaced. “You obviously don’t know much about Starfleet,” he’d said glumly.

Bilok stood alone at the enormous table, situated in the center of the cavernously empty, ornate banquet hall. Plates of half-eaten food and glasses smeared with oily fingerprints littered the dozens of small tables spread along the room’s perimeter. Outside the wall of towering windows, the midday sky was stained dark with the smoky aftermath of the Klingons’ anger. Beyond the protected environs of the capital, Bilok knew that his world lay in ruins. He felt exposed and vulnerable.

Yesterday I feared the Klingons’ revenge. Today I’m waiting for Kinchawn to take his. I was better off with the Klingons.

More than the petty bickering of his fledgling administration, more than the heartbreaking environmental devastation that threatened his people with starvation, Bilok worried about the return of Kinchawn, who now was safely at large and backed by a private army of his loyalist partisans.

He knew the exiled Lacaam’i would come back, seeking retribution, desperate to reclaim the reins of power at any cost. Not right away, by any means; and not all at once. No, he brooded, they’ll leave us be long enough to put out the fires of their carelessness. They’ll hide while we tend the wounded and feed the hungry, bide their time while we house the homeless. When they decide we’ve repaired enough of their damage to make this a world worth ruling…that’s when they’ll strike.

The new prime minister was too adept in the black arts of politics to believe that peace would reign for long; Tezwa’s current, placid state of affairs was doomed not to last. But he had not aspired to leadership without accepting its inherent risks. He had waited years for the chance to lead his world out of Kinchawn’s militarized dark age, and into a new era of individual liberty and modernity. Azernal’s dark bargain was Bilok’s best chance to effect real change on Tezwa. And what did Azernal ask of him in return?

Some simple lies. Some smuggled contraband. Partnership in a conspiracy to frame the Tholians as the source of Kinchawn’s artillery. A few buried secrets to help avert an interstellar war that would shatter the quadrant.

It was an ignoble agenda—but if it gave his people freedom, Bilok would call it his finest hour.