Embedded Files
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 5123421.3232. T’ Psycho is on her way to Melinar VI to mediate in a local dispute o’ some kind. I don’t have a bluidy clue about the details and I don’t really care. These damn things are all t’ same, dull, pointless and annoying. End log entry.”
Lieutenant-Commander Barfoot hummed merrily to himself as he swabbed down Main Engineering, cheerfully oblivious to the stares of those around him. He had developed this habit of starting his duty shift with a mop and bucket in recent times, and, although the Psycho engineering staff thought he was crazy, no-one had dared tell the deputy engineer that in this day and age it wasn’t strictly necessary to wash the decks. Even aboard the Psycho, some people were considered crazier than others, and Barfoot belonged in that elite category.
Stark watched his number two whistle his way past the main status console, and shook his head in disbelief. It was time, Stark thought, that Barfoot took some shore leave. Maybe even an away mission or two. Stark had strongly suspected that too much time in Engineering was bad for you, a suspicion that to his mind perfectly explained away most of the quirks and foibles he saw demonstrated on a daily basis. Sighing, Stark returned to the ratatouille gently simmering on the stove in his office, whilst with one hand sending the Captain a request that Barfoot be assigned to the next away team.
Up on the bridge, Captain Olding was playing solitaire in his ready room, the Counsellor had the bridge, and Lieutenant-Commander Damerell was frantically trying to discover if he had, in fact crashed the entire LCARS network. Federation-wide. His struggles were made ever more farcical by the fact that he was trying to cover his tracks as he went, and also by the fact he kept glancing round to give the rest of the bridge crew hunted looks. Next to him at the helm Ensign Ingram had long since given up the pretence of monitoring his own console and was watching the hapless Ops officer with a kind of horrified fascination.
Occasionally, Damerell would swear under his breath, before frantically tapping away at his console in a seemingly random fashion. Ingram, still young and fresh to Starfleet, was unaware that his senior officer, a man he looked up to not simply because Damerell was taller than him, was in fact tapping away randomly and ever more quickly. Ingram instinctively leaned away from the Lieutenant-Commander, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
In the centre seat, the Counsellor smiled to herself, then said, “Mr Damerell.”
Damerell jumped in his seat before spinning round and quavering., “Ye-es?”
“You haven’t crashed LCARS. Try resetting your terminal.”
“But how did you…”
The Counsellor tapped her forehead. “Empathic, remember? With a tendency towards telepathy when someone’s really broadcasting. And you, Mr Damerell, have been really broadcasting.”
“Oops.”
“Indeed,” the Counsellor said, rising an eyebrow at the flustered Ops officer. Before she could continue with what she was certain would become a pleasing exercise in applied sarcasm, the comm chimes sounded and Olding’s voice said, “Are we there yet?”
“Not yet, Captain. Twenty-two point five minutes until arrival,” the Counsellor replied quickly as Damerell turned back to his post.
In his ready room, Olding stopped playing patience and sighed. He had a diplomatic mission to complete in just under half an hour, and Olding hated diplomacy with a passion. A plain-speaking man (distressingly so at times), Olding loathed the prettifying of meaningless phrases which accompanied every diplomatic meeting he’d ever been involved in. Since taking command of the Psycho, he hadn’t had that many to do, thankfully, possibly because Starfleet realised that he and his ship were the best representatives of the Federation to send to a tricky situation requiring tact and diplomacy. But now there was a war on and, in the fine balancing of resources being carried out by Starbase One, it had been decided that it was marginally less dangerous to have Olding et al negotiating than in the firing line.
Olding harrumphed to himself, and started to think about who he would have to take with him to the planet for the deathly tedious round of discussions, meetings, badly-prepared meals and cold coffee that lay ahead of him. Right there on his screen was the request from Stark to take Barfoot along on the next away mission. Actually, the request read: ‘Get this fruitcake out of my engine room before more people get damp!’ Olding pondered the cryptic message, considered calling down to engineering for an explanation, then decided it was probably safest he didn’t know. For lack of any other options, he added Barfoot to the list, then picked Ensigns Ingram and Jethro. Olding remembered that, as an Ensign, he’d been on many a diplomatic trip relegated to the role of fetching and carrying, and decided it was time to pass on the misery. Sending out alerts to the relevant members of the crew, Olding decided he had just enough time to get in a nap before they arrived. Closing his eyes, he dozed off.
Down in Engineering, Barfoot put aside his mop and bucket as a junior crewmember handed him a padd. Glancing at it, Barfoot realised he had been assigned to the diplomatic away team heading down to the planet. He grinned excitedly and said, “Thanks, Crewman.”
“No problems sir, I… Aaargh!” The crewman had taken a step back, slipped on a slick piece of deck that Barfoot had just washed, and toppled over. As Barfoot watched bemused, the crewman slid along the sopping wet deck, under the safety railings, and plummeted down past the warp core.
“Unusual,” he said, returning his attention to the padd.
Time passed, during which Barfoot wondered why the engineering staff seemed to be upset about something, Damerell slowly returned to normal, and Olding drooled uncontrollably before falling off the couch in his ready room. Just as he was picking himself up and dusting himself down, the comm. chimes sounded and the Counsellor said, “Bridge to Captain, we’ve arrived at Melinar VI.”
“On my way,” Olding said distractedly, frantically trying to dry his uniform jacket. Giving up, he hurriedly shrugged off the jacket, straightened the jerkin underneath, and stalked out onto the bridge as if nothing was the matter.
“Uh, Captain,” the Counsellor said as she surrendered her chair, “You appear to be suffering from a bad hair day.”
Olding reached up to discover that his hair was standing on end. He hurriedly tried to push it back into place, but the moment he’d finished, his hair sprang back up into its previous unruly position. He gave up, hoping that the inhabitants of Melinar VI were sufficiently alien as to not know about human fashion norms.
“Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… We are being hailed from the surface, Captain.”
“Bluidy marvellous. Right, put ’em on.”
“Captain, I am Eminence Zhnfrgin, welcome to… What happened to you?”
“Nothing, Eminence, I assure you I’m fine,” Olding said, arms clasped firmly behind his back in a fight to avoid the temptation to try and press his hair down again. The Eminence didn’t look convinced and her eyes kept flicking upwards to the top of his head.
“If you say so. We are glad you are here, Captain. The situation with the Krzngngfn is getting ever more serious.”
“Indeed,” Olding said in a tone of voice that completely disguised his ignorance of just who the Krzngngfn actually were. It was occurring to him that, given the hair and his lack of preparation, the nap wasn’t nearly as clever an idea as it had seemed earlier. But then, as his previous experience in these matters had taught him, it would be explained to him exactly who was who and what the problem was. Over and over and over again, usually.
“Captain, your help will be most appreciated. How soon can you beam down?”
Olding blinked at that one. This was a little quicker and more business-like than he was expecting. Still, had to be a good thing. “Right away.”
“We look forwards to meeting with you.” The Eminence signed off, and Olding said, “Counsellor, t’ ship is yours.”
Barfoot arrived in the transporter room shortly before Olding, quite looking forwards to his excursion on the planet. Olding had made it clear in his note that this mission was a cakewalk and Barfoot’s role, as defined by the Captain, was to “Sit there, say nowt and try to look intelligent.” This was a challenge Barfoot intended to rise to. Joining Ensigns Ingram and Jethro on the transporter pad, Barfoot was surprised to see the Captain arrive white-faced and ashen. He was reading from a padd and shaking his head occasionally.
“Problem, sir?” Barfoot asked cheerfully.
“Yes, Mr Barfoot. We have a serious bluidy problem,” Olding responded, thrusting the padd at him. “Read that.”
Barfoot had just enough time to read the heading and realise it was a briefing on the situation they were beaming into before Olding called, “Energise,” and the Psycho disappeared in the whirl of the transporter beam.
They arrived in a courtyard, although Barfoot didn’t see much of it as he was busy reading his padd. He could now see why Olding was looking concerned, as the situation seemed far from rosy. The planet was on the verge of a rather unpleasant civil war, and the government wanted Federation intervention to try and calm the rebels down.
“Captain, I welcome you and your people to Melinar.”
“Eminence,” Olding said, “It is a pleasure to be here.”
Not bad, Barfoot thought, pleasantly surprised by the Captain’s use of Starfleet Diplomacy Tone #5 – Sincere Fawning.
“I wish there was time to show you something of our fair planet, but unfortunately these are perilous times.”
Even more impressive, Barfoot noted, the Eminence had obviously had her fair share of training. That was Professional Strained Concern, with the Impending Calamity quaver, if ever he’d heard it.
“Of course. I hope we may be able to provide some assistance.” Barfoot sneaked a look at the Captain, now utilising Starfleet Provision Of Succour And Assistance voice #2.2. Almost a picture of the perfect diplomat. Shame about the hair…
“As do we all, Captain.” Ah yes, Grave Acceptance With Hope Foremost. Barfoot nodded to himself much in the way a connoisseur would over a fine wine. This trip could actually be quite fun, he decided.
They were shown into one of the government buildings, and ushered into a conference room. Barfoot thoroughly approved of the setup. In the centre of the room was a triangular table, with seats laid out for the government, the rebels and the Starfleet crew. There was one breach of established diplomatic protocol in that water glasses had already been laid out in defiance of the tradition that said the first day of any negotiations should be spent discussing the precise shape, colour and carrying capacity of the glasses to be used during proceedings. Barfoot took this to be a sign of the urgency of their situation.
“Eminence, I hope that we can get started as soon as possible,” Olding said, taking his seat in the centre of the Starfleet wing of the table.
“Of course, Captain,” Zhngrfin replied, taking her own seat. Barfoot sat down next to his Captain, leaving Ingram and Jethro to take the last two seats on either side of the senior officers. Whilst the Eminence was busy consulting with her advisors, Olding leaned across to Barfoot and said, “We’re in trouble, tha knows.”
“Sir?”
“Did you read t’file?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then. These people want to start a war. We’re just here as an excuse to get t’whole thing kicked off.”
“You think?”
Olding chose to respond to that one with a stare that, Barfoot realised, owed absolutely nothing to Starfleet diplomatic protocol. “Yes, sorry sir,” he muttered.
Before Olding could say anything more, the doors were flung open and the rebels arrived. The Eminence and her staff seemed unimpressed, but the Starfleet crew let their jaws drop open in shock. The rebels hadn’t made any attempt to surrender their weapons, or indeed dress smartly for the occasion, having chosen instead to arrive with bandoliers of ammunition, nasty-looking plasma rifles and knives everywhere.
Their leader threw himself into a seat and gave Olding a contemptuous glance, before directing his attention to the Eminence. “Right, fascist, let’s get this sham going.”
The Eminence, who previously had been the model of politeness, glared at the rebel leader, and said, “Very well, rebel scum, let us commence the end of your foolhardy attempt to cease power.”
“Okay,” Olding said loudly. “Let’s start t’session by establishin’ some common ground, shall we?”
“We have no common ground, Starfleet stooge,” the rebel leader responded. “Why else are we at war?”
“You’re not at war yet,” Olding pointed out.� Barfoot gave his C.O. a worried glance. The Professional Civility voice was slipping to be replaced by Pissed-Off Olding In A Strop voice.
“Our brave soldiers have been fighting and dying for months!” the rebel leader snarled.
“Your terrorists have been committing crimes and attacking our police officers for months,” the Eminence retorted.
“Fascist!”
“Scum!”
“Right!” Olding thumped his hands on the table, and glared down the table at both sides. “You are supposed to be here to be negotiating a truce!”
“Uh, Captain…” Barfoot tapped his Captain on the arm, trying to attract his attention, or at least distract him.
“We are here to negotiate a truce, Captain,” the Eminence said, her warm tones turning icy. “Under your expert guidance.”
“Really? What’s the bluidy point in me helpin’ you negotiate a truce? You’ve obviously already made your minds up to start killin’ each other!”
Barfoot kicked Olding sharply under the table, in out and out desperation, but by then the damage had been done. “What the Captain means to say is…” he began hopefully, but was cut off by the Eminence. “What the Captain means to say is that we are primitive savages more interested in war than dialogue!”
“Exactly,” the rebel leader growled.
“Well, at least we’ve found some common ground,” Barfoot said brightly. All the parties stared at him, and Olding, surreptitiously rubbing his ankle, glared at the engineer. Barfoot, knowing full well he was in a serious amount of trouble as it was, decided to take the plunge. “We’ve made progress already. You can agree with each other on some things. I’m sure we can find more commonalities through our future dialogues.”
The Melinarians continued to stare at him, but Olding’s glare began to change into more of an expression of surprise.
“Do you see hope for us, Lieutenant?” the Eminence asked. No, Barfoot thought, but he nodded emphatically. “There’s always hope, Eminence,” he said, grinning cheesily.
“Can I speak to you in private, Mr Barfoot?” Olding asked through gritted teeth.
“Is this break strictly necessary, Captain?” the Eminence asked.
“Oh, yes,” Olding responded, before standing up and grasping Barfoot by the ear. “Ow!”
“Shurrup!”
Olding dragged Barfoot out of the conference room and into the corridor beyond. “What the bluidy hell do you think you’re doin’?”
“Well, Captain, things were getting a little tense in there…”
“They were bluidy tense before we arrived! You’re only here as decoration, Mr Barfoot. For better or for worse, I’m the one wi’ t’diplomacy trainin’. Let me handle it.”
“I have done Introduction to Diplomacy, Captain,” Barfoot offered.
“What we’re goin’ to do is get back in there, wait for all this to be over then get out before we get in real… What did you say?”
“I did Intro to Diplomacy, sir. At the Academy.”
“What t’ hell were you doing taking Diplomacy classes?”
“Extra credit, sir. I wanted to take Pottery but that was booked out so I took Intro to Diplomacy instead.”
Olding’s eyes bulged for a second as he assimilated this new information. “Fine. Good. But we still play this my way, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“These people have already made their minds up to fight. I just want to get my ship and crew out o’ here before they start blowin’ things up!”
“Understood, Captain.” Barfoot nodded, this time wholeheartedly. He had no wish to be usurping the Captain, and, although this diplomatic assignment had promised to be a pleasant break from Engineering, now that things were getting tetchy he was glad he wasn’t the officer in charge down here.
They re-entered the conference room to find both the Eminence and the rebel leader standing to face them. “Captain Olding, you are hereby declared persona non grata on Melinar VI,” the Eminence said. “We find your attitude to be unacceptable.”
“Now wait just a damn minute!” Olding began, but the rebel leader cut him off.
“We still require a Starfleet presence here so we are instructing your officer to remain here.”
Barfoot gaped. “You are?”
“We are,” the rebel leader glared at him, and Barfoot grinned nervously back. “Just so I know.”
“You can’t PNG me!” Olding stormed.
“We just did, Captain,” the Eminence responded. “Please leave.”
“Fine. Bluidy ‘ell,” Olding muttered, then tapped his commbadge and said, “Olding to Psycho. One to beam up.” Glaring at Barfoot, he vanished in the transporter effect.
Back onboard the ship, Olding stomped up to the bridge, much to the carefully concealed surprise of the Counsellor, who hurriedly vacated the centre seat. Olding flung himself into the seat and fumed for several long moments, as the bridge crew exchanged glances and the Counsellor sat down in her own chair. Finally, and with a bravery equal to that of taking on a Borg cube single-handedly with only a cucumber sandwich for a weapon, she asked, “How are the negotiations going, sir?”
Olding’s initial reply was a drawn out growl, which took everybody aback. Before the Counsellor could come up with a plan to get a nurse up here with a sedative, however, the Captain decided to speak. “They kicked me out.”
“Oh. Any reason?”
“Said my attitude wasn’t right.”
“I see.” And that wasn’t a lie, the Counsellor reflected. Olding had never been the most diplomatic of officers, and, much as she respected her C.O., Hill hadn’t thought he was right for this mission when she first heard about it. “Are we leaving, then, Captain?”
“No. They want… Barfoot… to negotiate.”
“Holy shit!”
“Indeed, Counsellor.”
“Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… Is Lieutenant-Commander Barfoot qualifed for such a task, Captain?”
“He took Intro to Diplomacy at t’Academy.”
“Bleep… wzrtfgl… Mind the gap… Under Starfleet regulations, that is insufficient experience to run a diplomatic mission, Captain.”
“I know, Bleep. But t’ Melinarians want him, and they don’t want me. Not a lot else we can do now. Counsellor, you have t’bridge.” With that, Olding stomped into his ready room. From inside there was the sound of muffled thumping as he kicked hell out of the panelling.
The Counsellor retook the centre seat, crossed her legs and remarked to no-one in particular, “We’re all doomed.”
“Well, Mr Barfoot, what are your recommendations?” The Eminence’s frown had evaporated and both she and the rebel leader were waiting expectantly for him to speak. Barfoot squirmed uncomfortably. He had no idea what to do. Granted, he’d been politer than the Captain, but politeness wasn’t the only tool of a diplomat and Olding probably had a better idea of how to negotiate a peaceful settlement than Barfoot did. The engineer considered that for a moment. The nearest he’d ever come to negotiating anything was to settle some dispute in engineering, and something told him this would be a little more complicated. Barfoot began to panic.
“Mr Barfoot?”
“Uh… What seems to be the problem?”
“Our present difficulties began fourteen months before when the fascists opposite passed a law banning our rightful freedom of expression,” the rebel leader began.
“We prevented you from blowing things up to make a point!” The Eminence retorted.
“Wait, hang on. Blowing things up was legal here?” Barfoot felt that point needed to be clarified a bit.
“Of course,” the rebel leader responded. “Legitimate political protest.”
Barfoot exchanged glances with Ingram and Jethro. Ingram looked surprised, and Jethro just shrugged. “We not be from round here, zur. They be doin’ things different, loike.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” Barfoot replied, before turning his attention back to the feuding parties. “So that was what triggered this off?”
“In a manner of speaking,” the Eminence replied reluctantly.
“Ookay,” Barfoot said. “Tell me more…”
In the hours to come, Barfoot came to regret asking for all the details, as both the Eminence and the rebel leader went on and on, pausing only for a blazing row over what appeared to be some very minor detail, before continuing with their exhaustive account of exactly what was wrong with their planet. There certainly wasn’t any common ground Barfoot could see, and he was coming to realise that Intro to Diplomacy, detailed though it might be on subjects such as diplomacy-speak and how to arrange a table, hadn’t been quite so hot on how to actually conduct negotiations. In fact, “establish a common ground” was the only thing Barfoot could remember being mentioned on that subject.
Next to him, Ingram was industriously taking notes of everything that was being said, and Jethro would occasionally supply him with entirely pointless ‘translations’ of the finer points of diplomacy. After one particularly dense piece of exposition by the Eminence, Jethro leant across and muttered, “Oi reckon she means that the rebels blowin’ up her home was a croime, zur.” To be fair to the Ensign, he had just compressed two minutes worth of longwinded explanation down to one sentence, but the banality of it impressed Barfoot, who thought that the Psycho engineers had said it all.
When the rebel leader and the Eminence had drawn breath during one of their interminable arguments, Barfoot, who could feel his will to live slipping away, quickly interjected, “Well, this has been productive, hasn’t it? Shall we call it a day there and come back to it tomorrow?”
“Of course, Mr Barfoot.” The Eminence nodded gravely. Barfoot nodded back, collected his thoughts and his junior officers, and scuttled off.
“Oi’m impressed, zur,” Jethro said.
“Why’s that?”
“Arr, well, you be interruptin’ them back there in mid-flow, loike, and they didn’t care at all.”
Barfoot’s eyes widened as he realised that Jethro had a point. He hadn’t really been paying attention for the last hour or so, but that wasn’t the point, was it? He had cut things off at a totally unnatural point, and no-one had minded. Now what did that mean?
First things first, Barfoot thought. Time to get off this planet, at least for a night. “Barfoot to Psycho. Three to beam up.”
Later that evening, in Fred’s Bar, Barfoot found himself sat with the Counsellor, Stark and Damerell. Whilst Fred kept the drinks flowing, the senior officers griped, grumbled and whinged in the finest tradition of colleagues talking shop everywhere.
“I’m telling you,” Stark said, “There’s some kind of collective psychosis going round Engineering right now.”
“I’ve never noticed,” Barfoot said, sipping his drink reflectively.
“Exactly!” Stark exclaimed, waving his pint in Barfoot’s direction. “You’re as psychotic as the rest of them!”
“Am I?”
“You are!”
“Boys, boys, play nicely,” the Counsellor said, grinning. “And anyway, we need our diplomat to stay unruffled.”
“Too late,” Barfoot said morosely. “I’m in way over my head.”
“Really?” The Counsellor said, managing to inject a note of surprise into her voice.
“Yeah,” Barfoot replied, before telling them the story of what had happened during the negotiations. Stark carried on drinking, and Damerell appeared more and more confused, but the Counsellor’s amiable expression darkened. When Barfoot had finished, and was lamenting the strange way in which the session ended, the Counsellor said quietly, “I don’t suppose you considered that it might have been deliberate?”
“Eh?”
“Well, it sounds to me like the Captain’s right. They don’t care about negotiating a truce. They’re just using you to make it look like they tried to negotiate properly.”
“Then why’d they kick out the Captain?” Barfoot asked plaintively.
“Makes it easier to blame the failure of the negotiations on Starfleet, then, doesn’t it?” The Counsellor pointed out. “You are what they used to call a patsy, Mr Barfoot.”
“I am?”
“You are,” the Counsellor nodded sagely, whilst Barfoot pondered his situation for a moment. Then, he kicked back his chair, stood up, and said, “Bugger that.”
As Barfoot strode purposefully away, the Counsellor said, “I think I may have created a monster.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, Mr Damerell.”
Barfoot returned to his quarters, feeling the curious combination of anger and confusion. He still didn’t quite understand why the Melinarians had picked on him for their little game, but he was damned if he was going to let them get away with it. And the only way he could do that was to successfully negotiate a truce. Barfoot accessed the library computer, called up all the files linked to diplomacy he could, and settled down to read.
The following morning, Barfoot awoke in front of his computer terminal, still fully dressed and with a padd stuck to his face. And with five minutes before he was due to beam down.
Hurriedly, Barfoot unstuck the padd, tried to brush some of the creases out of his uniform, and scuttled out of his quarters, anxious to put at least some of the things he’d learnt before dozing off to good use.
Jethro and Ingram were waiting for him in the transporter room, both looking much more presentable than Barfoot was ever going to be that day. There was no time to sort himself out, though, so Barfoot tugged his jacket straight, nodded at the transporter operator and, in his best Olding impersonation, said, “Energise.”
They arrived on the planet at the same location as they had previously., except this time they were met a minor flunky and shown into the conference room with much less ceremony than before.
Barfoot found the Eminence and the rebel leader already seated, and glaring theatrically at each other. He wasn’t buying any of it this time.
“Good morning, Mr Barfoot. I trust you had a pleasant night?”
“Thank you, I did.” Barfoot paused for a moment, as he decided on his strategy. Ah yes…
“I believe yesterday we were discussing the events that led us up to this point. Would you care for us to continue?”
“No, thank you, Eminence,” Barfoot said, flashing a reasonable attempt at Ingratiating Friendliness #7b in her direction. “I took the liberty of reading the reports last night. What I was hoping to accomplish today was a discussion of your overall aims and goals, so that I could highlight several common points I noticed during my studies.” Barfoot steepled his fingers and waited expectantly.
The Eminence and the rebel leader exchanged disbelieving looks, whilst Jethro muttered, “Bugger Oi.” Barfoot’s grin slipped momentarily into Classic Smugness, before he recovered himself, and said, “Who would like to start?”
Four hours later, Barfoot’s grin had once more vanished. For a while he had been convinced that he had the Melinarians beaten. Despite the fact he’d invented his story about having found some common points, as the dialogue progressed it turned out there were indeed some commonalities between the two sides. At one point, he’d got them to outright agree on something. However, just as Barfoot was beginning to savour the possibility of victory, the rebel leader had passionately denounced some minor point and the whole thing reverted back to square one.
They were on a break for lunch, and Barfoot was half-heartedly picking at some finger foods from the buffet, whilst Ingram and Jethro, with the traditional hunger of junior officers everywhere, demolished plate after plate of sandwiches, meat on sticks and assorted things sealed in breadcrumbs.
“I fear that the chasm between our two sides may be too much to conquer, Mr Barfoot,” the Eminence said, sidling up to him. Barfoot was about to agree when he remembered his vow to pull off a treaty, and instead smiled again and said, “On the contrary, I think we’ve made some remarkable progress here today.”
“We have?”
“Oh, absolutely! I look forwards to another session along the same lines this afternoon.”
The Eminence gave him a funny look and wandered off again.
That evening, as the delegates packed up for the day, Barfoot ruefully reflected on his lunchtime conversation. He’d wished for the same again, and, sure as hell he’d got it. He’d managed to keep tempers down for the first half of the afternoon, but, once again, as soon as it looked like they were in danger of making progress, someone threw a wobbler and the session deteriorated into name-calling and insults.
Obviously, conventional diplomacy wasn’t working. But Olding had tried the short sharp shock method, and that hadn’t got anywhere. Barfoot was at a loss as to what to try next. He beamed back up to the ship deep in thought.
Olding was waiting for him in the transporter room, arms folded. Barfoot got the sense that it was only by a major effort of will that the Captain wasn’t tapping his foot impatiently. “Well?” Olding asked.
“Sir?”
“What’s goin’ on down there?”
“They are successfully resisting all my attempts to be diplomatic,” Barfoot complained. “Honestly, sir, I’m being as professional as all get out, and we’re still getting nowhere.”
“Looks like you were right, Counsellor,” Olding said. The Counsellor, who was leaning against the transporter console and generally looking much more relaxed than Olding.
“Seems so, Captain,” the Counsellor agreed. “Still hell bent on wreaking peace, Mr Barfoot?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do I look like a sir to you?”
“Ma’am?”
“Ugh!”
“Counsellor?”
“Impersonal, but it’ll do for the moment.”
“Once you two are quite finished,” Olding interrupted. “Counsellor, do you have anythin’ useful to add?”
“Not really, sir. Maybe you could try being unprofessional?”
“So, nothing useful at all, then,” Olding grumbled, but Barfoot began to think about it, and the germ of an idea formed at the back of his mind.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, “I’ve got some more research to do.”
“Go on then, for all the good it’ll do you,” Olding said. “I think we should just break orbit now and leave t’buggers to it.”
“Let me have one last try, please, sir?”
“Go,” Olding said, stalking out of the transporter room. The Counsellor followed Barfoot.
“Do you have a plan, Mr Barfoot?”
“Not yet,” Barfoot admitted. “I’d say it’s more of a pl at the moment.”
“A what?”
“A pl. Like, half a plan.”
The Counsellor gave him a long, searching look, and Barfoot wilted under her gaze. “Sorry.”
“Hmm. Well, good luck with finding the an.”
That night, Barfoot once more hit the library computer, but this time he was researching some very different topics. Once his research was complete, he then requisitioned two heavy replicators and set them to reproducing some specialised equipment for him.
As morning broke, Barfoot requested a meeting with both the Counsellor and Olding. He explained his plan to a pair of increasingly incredulous senior officers. As Barfoot finished, Olding gave him a long hard look, and said, “Do you honestly expect me to let you get anywhere near a warp core ever again?”
“Hang on, sir,” the Counsellor interjected. “This idea might not be as crazy as it sounds.”
“It’s every bit as crazy as it sounds!”
“Not necessarily. And besides, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“He starts a war!”
The Counsellor nodded and said, “True. But if he does nothing then that war starts anyway.”
Olding paused before responding, “Okay. Mr Barfoot, you have permission to continue with this crew’s tradition of inventin’ bonkers solutions to serious crises. We’ll be ready for your signal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Barfoot beamed down to the planet, feeling much more upbeat than he had done previously. So much so, in fact, that Jethro looked at him askance and said, “Excuse Oi, zur, but do you be alright?”
“I’m fine, Ensign. Why?”
“Well, zur, you be bouncin’ from foot to foot loike that, I be wonderin’ if you be needin’ the toilet or suchloike.”
“No, Ensign, I’ll hang on for a while yet. I’m just looking forwards to the day’s negotiations.”
Jethro allowed that comment to hang in the air for a long moment, then, muttering something in Cornish under his breath, followed Barfoot and Ingram into the conference room.
“Good morning, Mr Barfoot,” the Eminence said. “What are your plans for us today?”
“Well, Eminence,” Barfoot said, suddenly feeling his throat go painfully dry, “I was doing some research last night, and I believe I have a method to complete the final breakthrough we are all looking for.”
The Eminence and the rebel leader exchanged glances, before the rebel leader responded, “We are all very pleased to hear that, Mr Barfoot. How is this hoped-for miracle to be achieved?”
Barfoot slapped an expression of Straightforward Cheerfulness on his face as he said, “A pop concert.”
Ingram laughed nervously, Jethro rumbled something under his breath that sounded quite obscene, and the two opposing leaders couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh, cry, or kick Barfoot out. Barfoot just sat there, grinning cheerily, until the Eminence recovered enough self-control to say, “How exactly will this help our situation?”
“It’s what the people of Earth used to do when they were facing a great crisis,” Barfoot explained. “They would organise a pop concert featuring world-famous musical acts, and highlight the problem through music. It was a great way of bringing people together. I believe it will help your peoples to put aside their differences, and come together in song!”
As Barfoot cringed internally over that last phrase, the Eminence was still struggling with her own internal monologue. It was the rebel leader who stepped in to say, “But Mr Barfoot, this is not Earth and we cannot just stage a concert at a moment’s notice.”
“Oh, we can. The Psycho can provide the equipment, and the technical know-how to broadcast it planetwide.”
“Very well,” The Eminence said. “But what part would we play in all this?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Barfoot said. “You’re going to be one of the acts!”
The rebel leader, who had been sipping his water, promptly spat it across the desk, saturating one of the Eminence’s aides. For one nasty second, Barfoot thought that the war was going to start there and then, but the moment passed and, as the rebel leader mopped himself up, Barfoot pressed home his advantage. “It’s the perfect symbol of your determination to unify. At the end of the concert, after the other acts have gone on, a special beat combo made up of yourselves with some of the Psycho crew to show Federation involvement will perform a number of, er, numbers that will show your world how united they can be if they put their minds to it.”
Desperately seeking a safe subject, the Eminence said, “And which of your crew would be involved?”
“Well, Ensign Jethro here is a demon on the skins…”
“Arr, that be so,” Jethro concurred, glad to find something he actually understood. Barfoot continued smoothly, “I can play a mean bass, and I know our first officer can sing. I’m sure that you have your own unique talents we can utilise in the interests of peace.”
Both sides looked at him with expressions not to be found in any diplomatic textbook, but that could safely be identified as Completely Gobsmacked, and Barfoot knew that he had won this round. Where directness and diplomacy had failed, a tide of insanity would carry the day. All he had to do was keep the pace up.
For the next few hours, Barfoot did exactly that, chivvying both sides into finding musical acts that were politically acceptable to them, booking them, and choosing a venue. From orbit, the Psycho began broadcasting adverts for the concert to the planet as a whole, so that nobody could escape hearing about it. That nearly caused a scene, when the Eminence made a move to limit the publicity for the concert only to discover that the planet already knew. Fortunately, Barfoot’s complete refusal to display any form of cunning got him through, and the planning continued.
The more complicated part began when Barfoot began to assemble his own scratch band. As it turned out, the rebel leader could play guitar, and the Eminence could sing, which was convenient, but persuading them to work together would be a little more complicated. Fortunately, he’d secured permission to increase his diplomatic party by one, and so the official Federation presence on the planet now contained the unusual job title of Backing Vocals (Cmdr D Hill, Starfleet).
With the Counsellor backing him up, rehearsals began. After a few standoffs it was decided that the final act would perform three numbers, one with the rebel leader taking centre stage, one with the Eminence singing, and then a duet between them to close the night off. The Counsellor rather neatly got around the problem of choosing politically acceptable songs by making her own selection, although Barfoot was a little dubious about her choices.
The Psycho had beamed down the equipment Barfoot had requested the previous night, namely amplifiers, microphones, and a smoke machine was Barfoot insisted was important for rehearsing, and once all was in place, and with Ingram allotted the role of roadie (although Olding flatly refused to let him grow a beard, gain twenty kilos in weight, or start smoking interesting herbal substances) the newly formed, but as yet unnamed band began to rehearse.
Meanwhile, aboard the Psycho, Olding, Damerell, Stark and Jackson were clustered around a map of Melinar in the briefing room. The location of the concert, a vast sporting arena on the planet’s southern continent, was clearly marked, as were various other sites. “It’s tricky,” Stark was saying. “I don’t know if we can do it.”
“Why not?”
“I have no idea how. I usually let Barfoot take care of the technical stuff.”
Olding gave up on his Chief Engineer and turned to Jackson. “Doctor, you and Mr Damerell will be handlin’ t’ planetside operation. Any questions?”
“One. Why me?”
“I’m runnin’ out of senior officers, Doctor. Unless you think Bleep can handle this…?”
“Fair enough.”
“Mr Damerell?”
Damerell squirmed under the attention, before squeaking, “Can’t I stay here?”
“NO!”
“Oh.” Damerell shuffled his feet whilst Olding glared at him. Then, the Captain widened his glare to encompass the whole senior staff, only to discover that apparently feet-shuffling was contagious. Slowly but surely, the three officers’ feet were sliding leftwards. Olding was about to comment, but instead kept up the glare until Jackson, who was on the end, collided with a bulkhead. A moment later, Stark and Damerell joined the pileup and the three of them collapsed into a heap on the floor.
As they hurriedly picked themselves up, Olding slapped a hand across his eyes and tapped one foot impatiently. “Have we got that out of our systems? Good. Dismissed. And be ready for t’ signal!”
During downtime in their rehearsals, Barfoot remarked to the Counsellor, “You know, even though I say it myself, we’re really rather good.”
“We are?”
“Yeah. Well, we’re keen. Well, Jethro’s keen. Well, Jethro’s noisy…” Barfoot thought for a moment, then said, “We’re awful, aren’t we?”
“Afraid so, Mr Barfoot. The good news is, we don’t have to be awful, we just have to be there.” The Counsellor slapped him on his shoulder, then picked up her songsheet and, in a fair approximation of an operatic solo, began practicing again. Barfoot shrugged and plucked away on his bass.
The day of the concert dawned, and the Psycho crewmembers beamed down to the stadium. All were out of uniform and had chosen garments appropriate for their new role as rock stars. Jethro had turned in wearing a lot of black leather, and was squeaking about behind his drum kit. Ingram, after consulting with the library computer, was selfconsciously wearing the dirty black t-shirt, ripped blue jeans and multicoloured headband that had been roadie standard uniform for four hundred years, and was busy carrying cables across the stage.
The Counsellor had asked why, in the isolinear age, they needed cables, to which Barfoot’s only reply had been, “It’s traditional.”
The Counsellor and the Eminence, on the Counsellor’s insistence, were wearing matching long black dresses, and Barfoot had gone with his own ideas of what rock cool was. Turning down Damerell’s offer to borrow his leather jacket, Barfoot had found himself some black trousers, a white t-shirt and a black jacket. He was also wearing sunglasses. Constantly. Even whilst indoors. That, in addition to his outfit, had generated a few funny looks, but Barfoot was enjoying himself. Despite the insanity of what he was about to try, despite the stakes involved, this was going to be fun.
Around them, dozens of other acts were tuning up and making the monosyllabic conversations traditional to rock bands across the Federation. Barfoot was struck by just how relaxed they all seemed. Other than normal pre-gig nerves, no-one seemed all that fazed by what they were trying to achieve. When he remarked as much to the Counsellor, she responded, “I don’t think that many people on this planet actually want a war. That’s why your scheme is going to work.”
“I hope so.”
“Relax, it’ll be fine.” The Counsellor straightened her dress, did a few breathing exercises and wandered off to find the Eminence with a view to doing just one last practice of one of the more tricky harmonies. Barfoot did a few breathing exercises of his own, although to the disinterested observer they would have appeared to be more like hyperventilating.
In orbit, the Psycho was broadcasting a live feed of the concert to the entire planet. Stark’s engineers and Bleep had worked constantly to refit the ship’s shuttles as relay stations to ensure they could achieve planetary coverage, and right now Stark was sat in the Lecter monitoring the feed to the northern hemisphere. Bleep had been carefully squeezed into the von Bulow, on the opposite side of the planet, and the Bates, the Krueger and the van Helsing were scattered around in varying orbits.
On the bridge, Olding was in the centre seat, completely surrounded by unknowns manning the bridge positions. With the entire senior staff off the bridge, he’d had to call on the crew he mentally termed ‘ensigns of the week’ to come and take over, and he was damned if he knew the names of any of them. Hopefully they’d be able to do their jobs, although given the average level of competence of this crew nothing was certain.
Down in the transporter room, Damerell and Jackson were waiting for the signal. Jackson was reading an autopsy report, whilst Damerell was shivering nervously. The transporter operator, after having watched Damerell for a while, decided the room must be cool, and was steadily advancing the temperature in an attempt to make the Ops officer feel warmer.
Jackson mopped the first beads of sweat from his forehead, and asked, “Is it warm in here?”
“Eh?” Damerell looked at him blankly, his mind off in its own miserable world.
“Nothing.” Jackson returned to his report.
Finally, with a roar from the capacity crowd and a triumphant fanfare, the concert began. Safely backstage, Barfoot watched the first act with approval. They were maybe a little folksy for his tastes, but they had a definite beat and there was no denying they could play. And, he was pleased to note, both the rebel leader and the Eminence were swaying in time to the music and tapping their feet.
“Not bad,” the Counsellor said. “Relax. We’ll do fine.”
“I’m not worried about the diplomacy any more,” Barfoot admitted.
“Really?”
“No. It’s the playing that’s scaring the hell out of me now.”
As the concert went on, Barfoot relaxed a little. Act after act came and went, and the crowd seemed to be loving the show. Viewing figures gathered from the Psycho suggested that a large proportion of Melinar’s population were watching from home, a fact which Barfoot had carefully concealed from the two leaders. He needed that to spring his surprise at the end of the concert.
Finally, though, it was time for their scratch band to take the stage. Barfoot picked up his bass, played a quick experimental riff, and waited for the MC to give them their introductions.
At the front of the stage, the rebel leader was stood legs akimbo, guitar round his neck, in a traditional rock pose. Barfoot was off to one side, with a local playing rhythm guitar. Opposite him were the Eminence and the Counsellor standing behind two microphones, ready to provide backing singing, and at the back of the stage Jethro was almost completely concealed behind a mammoth drumkit. They were ready.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC boomed, “We now present the highlight of our Concert for Peace. A special, one off performance by a specially assembled band, to highlight unity for our world. Please put your hands together and give a big Melinar welcome to… Peace and Harmony!”
Once again, Barfoot winced at the unnecessarily cheesy title he’d given his band, but it was too late now. The rebel leader’s hand crashed down in a noisy power chord, Jethro began pounding his drums, and the first chords of Queen’s ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’ echoed out across the stadium.
The concert was playing on the main viewer on the Psycho bridge. Whilst the rest of the bridge crew was listening to the music, Olding was waiting for the signal. It came the moment the Eminence and Hill began their “Oohs” for the background vocals. Barfoot lifted his guitar neck high in the air, then jumped up, his hand plunging down across the strings simultaneously as he came back down onto the stage. As covert signals went, Olding considered, this one was certainly different.
“Olding to transporter rooms, start the operation.”
Jackson and Damerell took their places in Transporter Room Three, and the transporter chief, who was down to her undershirt now and sweating profusely, began the energising sequence. As they beamed down, in every other transporter room on the ship the reverse procedure was taking place.
Back on the bridge, Olding gave the order, “Yellow Alert. Keep t’shields down, but full standby power to phasers and photon torpedoes. If this turns nasty, I want to be ready to respond.”
The Queen number came to an end, and Barfoot glanced anxiously towards the back of the stage where the rebel leader’s followers and the Eminence’s aides were clustered. If they’d heard anything, he could expect them to rush the stage any second now. So far, though, they weren’t moving.
The Eminence took her place at the front of the stage to sing her song, a cover of the Earth classic ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’, and Barfoot tried to cross his fingers, a manoeuvre he discovered didn’t sit well with playing bass.
Jackson and Damerell appeared in the control room that was their target, phasers drawn. Around them, startled Melinarians jumped out of their seats and began a move towards the doors, but were stopped by Damerell’s phaser rifle, which swung to cover them. Although Damerell was still shaking, he looked menacing enough to halt them in their tracks.
“Drop the shields, please,” Jackson said, waving his own rifle at a likely-looking technician.
“Okay,” the technician quavered, moving to a console.
“And no funny business,” Jackson snarled, “Or there will be trouble.”
“Shields dropping, Captain,” a random ensign at Bleep’s station reported.
“Bluidy hell, it’s working,” Olding muttered. “Cargo Transporters, lock on and energise.”
Barfoot was playing hard, whilst the Eminence was doing her best to hit the high notes over the top of Jethro’s very enthusiastic drumming. The Counsellor had just revealed hitherto unsuspected talents at hitting spectacularly high notes for the backing vocals, and the rebel leader was giving it all he had on guitar. It certainly looked like he was enjoying himself, and Barfoot prayed his good mood would last beyond the final song.
“Transport operations complete, sir,” another ensign said.
Olding allowed himself a moment of shock that they’d got this far. “Transporter rooms, re-energise, maximum dispersion.”
The moment for the final song, the duet, had come. Barfoot checked the aides, and they still weren’t doing anything. Obviously the message hadn’t come through yet.
The rebel leader came to join the Eminence at the front of the stage, and the Counsellor unobtrusively moved back to join Ingram, who had picked up the padd he needed and was waiting expectantly.
Jethro gave a lavish drum roll, the rhythm guitarist started to play, and the Melinarian version of Elton John and Kiki Dee’s duet ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ swept out across the auditorium.
“Olding to Jackson, your job’s done. Get back here.”
“Acknowledged. Energise,” Jackson said, and he and Damerell disappeared in the transporter beams. The Melinarian technicians watched them go, then scuttled back to their positions. The duty controller, who hadn’t been the one threatened by Jackson, and had somewhat unheroically failed to identify himself to the intruders, said, “Get the shields back up now!”
“Too late,” another technician said. “They’re all gone.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, sir. They got everything.”
“Notify the Eminence immediately!”
An aide lifted a communicator to her ear, frowned, then her eyes widened in shock. She started forwards to the stage, where the Eminence was doing a good job of showing affection towards the rebel leader. However, her progress was interrupted by the Counsellor, flanked by Ingram.
“Problem?” the Counsellor enquired sweetly.
“I have to notify the Eminence! The rebels have attacked us! The… wait a second,” the aide looked suspiciously at the Counsellor, who nodded.
“Yup. Not the rebels.” A type II phaser appeared from apparently nowhere, and the Counsellor pointed it at the aide. “You wouldn’t want to interrupt the final number, would you?”
Olding strode into Transporter Room Three, before stopping dead in his tracks in the doorway. “Bluidy hell, it’s hot in here,” he said, and looked across at the transporter operator. She was down to her underwear now, and was leaning weakly against the console. Jackson and Damerell, although better dressed, were lying on the transporter pads, the sweat running free. Olding’s eyes blazed.
“What the hell is goin’ on here?!” he demanded.
“I turned… the heat up, sir… Can’t get it back down again.” The transporter operator said faintly.
“Oh for cryin’ out aloud,” Olding said to himself. “Just get ready to beam us down there. And will you two pick yourselves up!”
Jackson and Damerell reluctantly hauled themselves upright and took their positions on the pads. Olding checked his phaser charge and stood at the front of the group, arms clasped behind his back, fighting the urge to mop his brow and undo his collar a bit.
The song came to an end, and the crowd went wild. The applause swept across the auditorium, getting louder as it went. There was cheering. Underwear in many unfamiliar configurations was flung at the stage. Shouts of “Encore” could be heard over the general din. Completely impulsively, the Eminence flung her arms around the rebel leader, who punched the air in triumph.
Now, Barfoot thought. He signalled to Ingram, who scuttled forward to join him. Taking the padd Ingram was clutching, Barfoot walked forwards to the front of the stage, and took the microphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, but was drowned out by the noise of the crowd. He tried again. “Ladies and Gentlemen, did you enjoy that?”
“YEEEESSS!!” the crowd roared back.
“Do you want to give peace a chance?”
“YEEEESSS!!” the crowd yelled. Barfoot felt the adrenalin pumping. He had them on a roll now. Behind him the Eminence and the rebel leader exchanged glances and began to move towards him. Barfoot carried on desperately.
“I have here in my hand,” he waved the padd above his head, “A guarantee of peace in our time! This concert has been the culmination of many hours of patient negotiation which has resulted in… PEACE!”
The crowd went wild. The Eminence lunged forwards, but was interrupted by a transporter beam. Olding appeared right in her path. “Don’t even think about it, lass,” he warned.
Barfoot kept going. “Your leaders have agreed to disarm, and work together for the betterment of your society. This day will become a great one in Melinarian history!”
Anything more he may have tried to say was lost as the crowd went utterly berserk. Barfoot gave up on the diplomat-speak, and thrust his fist in the air, first and last fingers pointing upwards. “Rock on!” he yelled, deliriously happy.
“That’s enough, Mr Barfoot,” Olding growled from behind him, and Barfoot dropped his hand guiltily. He turned round, and said, “Sorry, sir.”
“You can’t make us disarm,” the rebel leader said, and the Eminence nodded. Behind them, the aide arrived with the Counsellor. “Eminence, these Starfleeters have confiscated our weapons!”
“What?!” the Eminence exclaimed, and Olding said, “We’ve already made you disarm.”
“Where are our weapons?” the rebel leader said.
“Their molecules are floatin’ in orbit of this planet,” Olding replied. “We beamed ’em out o’ their warehouses.”
“You can’t have got all of them,” the rebel leader said.
“No, probably not,” the Counsellor agreed. “But we’ve got more than enough. We’ve been scanning your planet for them since we arrived here.”
“We have hidden caches, up in the hills!”
“Not any more,” the Counsellor said, a tad smugly. “You couldn’t fight now if you tried.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?!� The Eminence wailed.
“You could try this treaty,” Barfoot said, and proffered her the padd. The Eminence gave him a long, searching look, then reluctantly took the padd. “It seems we don’t have a choice, do we?”
“Nope,” Barfoot agreed. “Gotta love diplomacy.”
The Eminence stepped forwards to the microphone, with the rebel leader next to her, and addressed the cheering crowd.
“Right,” Olding said. “That’s that. Time we left. Mr Barfoot, collect your gear and get ready to beam up. I want to be away from here in less than an hour.”
“Sir,” Barfoot nodded and began to pack up his kit. Olding tapped his commbadge and said, “Olding to Psycho, one to beam up.” He vanished in the transporter effect.
Jackson and Damerell gave the erstwhile rock band a helping hand in dismantling their equipment and assembling it for transport. Whilst they were working, the Eminence approached Barfoot, and said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure?”
“How did you get this to work? It’s insane?”
Barfoot put down the amplifier he was holding, and said, “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes,” the Eminence nodded.
“Okay,” Barfoot began. “It’s simple really. We worked out that you wanted to fight, but neither of you wanted to lose Federation support. So, whilst you were going to do your damndest to scupper the negotiations, you wouldn’t do anything to harm your relations. Kicking out Captain Olding was one thing, but as long as I was polite and diplomatic you couldn’t touch me, and you had to agree to everything I suggested.”
“And this was your educated diplomatic technique?”
“Worked, didn’t it?” Barfoot gave her a lopsided smile, and the Eminence considered him for a moment. “Return to your ship, Mr Barfoot. You are a dangerous man.”
“Thanks,” Barfoot responded, and picked up his amplifier.
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 512351.736. T’Psycho has left Melinar, and our diplomat has returned to moppin’ t’ floor in Engineerin’. We have been ordered to make a transport run to the New Canberra colony. A nice, routine mission. Shift some colonists from one planet to another. Much better than bluidy diplomacy. End log entry.”
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