Star Trek V: The Final Frontier Read Online Free PDF Page B

representative of the United Federation of Planets sat conversing with the consul from the Imperial Klingon Empire.
    Both of them were too drunk to notice Caithlin’s entrance. If she could have raised her breathing device without seeming too rude, she would have done so: for some reason, the stench was stronger here in the back room. Caithlin lowered her breathing filter and waited silently while the men drank—the human from a large tankard of what looked, ironically, like Romulan ale, and the Klingon directly from a dust-covered flagon.
    After a moment, while they remained oblivious to her presence, Caithlin said, in a voice that would have wakened the unconscious from an intoxicated slumber, “Gentlemen. I am Caithlin Dar.”
    “Well, well,” The human, a malnourished light-haired male, rose languidly from his chair. The act seemed to tire him a good deal.
He’s ill,
Caithlinthought at first, until she saw that his tankard of ale was almost empty. Any human who could finish off that much Romulan ale and retain enough motor coordination to get out of his chair had to be an alcoholic. She had heard of the phenomenon, and on rare occasions, actually seen an individual who suffered from it.
    The human ran his hand through his limp, disheveled hair and smiled wanly as he extended a bony hand. Recalling the custom, Caithlin reached out and grasped it firmly. His grip was weak, the grip of a coward.
    “Well, well,” he repeated. “So our new Romulan representative has come at last.”
    Most Romulans would not have noticed anything odd about the man’s accent, but Caithlin noticed immediately that it was British; Liam O’Malley would not have cared for this man, either.
    “Welcome to Paradise City, capital of the so-called Planet of Galactic Peace, Miss Dar,” the Englishman continued. “I’m St. John Talbot, the Federation representative here on Nimbus. I must say, I have never met a Romulan by the name of Caithlin before.”
    “Nor I a living saint.” She held the thin, frozen smile in place as she turned to exchange hostile glances with the Klingon. Technically, the Klingon and Romulan empires were allied, a result of economic necessity rather than mutual admiration.
    “Ah, yes.” Talbot recovered from her retort. “My ever so charming companion, the Klingon consul, Korrd.”
    Talbot was capable of irony, at least. Korrd, old andimmensely obese, kept his seat. His narrow eyes glittered as a result of alcohol. They flicked over her quickly, and then he turned away abruptly, as if bored, and took a substantial swig from the dust-covered flagon in his huge paw. As if to punctuate his disdain, he emitted an earthshaking belch.
    Caithlin maintained her composure. “I expect that’s Klingon for ’hello.’ “
    Talbot reached out to touch her hand with an obsequiousness that repelled her. “I realize there’s no love lost between your peoples, Miss Dar, but you must forgive him. He’s not exactly trained in Romulan social customs—or human ones, for that matter. He doesn’t even speak English, I’m afraid.”
    Caithlin lifted an eyebrow. It was typical of the Klingon government to send a delegate who was unprepared to converse in a common tongue with the other diplomats. Fluency in English was not a necessity, but it was a courtesy. “I suppose we can resort to using a universal translator. But that does tend to slow down negotiations.”
    Talbot made a gesture that conveyed helpless embarrassment. “I’m afraid . . . well, I’m afraid that we don’t have one.”
    “Don’t have one!” Caithlin exclaimed.
    “I’m afraid our governments aren’t willing to invest any more than is necessary—perhaps even less than that—in Nimbus Three. Surely you’ve noticed.”
    Caithlin narrowed her eyes at Korrd. The Klingon’s tunic, though decorated with dozens of medals, was stained and covered with wrinkles . . . and it was too small to cover Korrd’s expanding bulk. From whereCaithlin stood, she could