Bartok - Lion's Den

"If I wanted to contact someone in the manner you're suggesting, Korishma, I would have, already.  In fact I wouldn't be here."

Detecting the chill in the Bartokian's tone, and determined not to dig his own grave any further, he decided it best to shut his mouth.  Say no more.  Except he had his orders.  "I may have information of personal value to your commander," he said.  "But I can't confirm it until I contact my people.  I'm not asking you to trust me.  Let her decide."  He got comfortable on the floor again.  "Or don't."

After she left, he shook his head.  What was he doing with these people?  He was trying to help them, and this was how he got treated in response.  Bad case of misjudgment, Paul.  How she and the other Bartokians were acting towards him justified the Humanist attitude.

If she was authorized to decide what her commander would or would not hear, so be it.  They would grant him comms access, or they wouldn't.  If she was reasonable, and worth her stripes as an XO, she would consider it.  It might be in their interests, but he saw how far trying to look out for their interests got him.

The Bartokian didn't get it when he warned of bioweapons.  Starfleet had their own transporters; their own biofilters – much more advanced than anything the Bartokians had come up with.  They had viruses capable of eluding biofilters.  It was only the tip of the iceberg of their capabilities.  The Federation was the uncontested superpower of the Alpha/Beta Quadrant.  If the UFP wanted to wipe out Bartok, they didn't need ships, the most obvious means, to do it.

Everything a person said, or did, mattered to some extent.  Aliens and humans were incapable of living together in peace and so-called harmony.

He should have had his head checked, requesting asylum with this group.  He was always annoyed when he tried to help others by offering fair warning and no one wanted to listen.  It was bad enough some humans wouldn't take heed.  It was fair warning he offered, more than he was obliged to give.  He was willing to do it again, before things went sour.  What kind of inverted justice was it, that he, a lieutenant, was older than mere children who, by comparison, outranked him?  It should have been the other way around.  That young, they were like teenagers: Thought they knew it all.  Too dumb to see beyond the ends of their noses.  Couldn't teach 'em a thing.  That ignorance displayed itself repeatedly.

Fine, he thought.  If they wanted to learn the hard way, then perhaps it was the only way – if they were capable of adapting.  If they sought to damn themselves, let them be damned.  It cut right to the heart of the situation, and summed it up.

Maybe it was better not to warn them.  Maybe it would be better to let the Federation demolish them, if that was the Federation's goal.  His compassionate side wanted to stop, apologize, explain, before the realistic part kicked in.  She might have loved that: For him to bow down, all polite and apologetic... a human being, debasing himself for the alien.  You're never going to stop being who you are, he once told someone.  So be proud of who you are.  And don't let others push you around.

Viewed in that light, he couldn't do it.  He wouldn't lower himself.  He offered what he offered.  They could take it or leave it.

What are you doing here, Paul? he asked himself, not for the first time.

The voice of conscience kicked in, full of reproach: What did you expect?  You threw yourself into the lion's den.  You won't bend over and kiss their asses.  Is it a surprise they don't like you?  This is why they're the enemy.

Thunder.  He lived up to his name.  He had a habit of going off with a boom.

It was no place for a Humanist.  He missed his sister.  He wanted to go home... back to the safety, sanctity and simplicity of Arcadia.  Problem was, not even home was safe anymore.  They couldn't live like ostriches, with their heads in the sand.  Not with enemies all around, breathing down their necks every day, out to destroy them.

He might not make it out of this alive.  But, he had orders, and went where he was ordered to go.  Like a good soldier.  He only had to survive long enough to reach Bartok.

He kept reminding himself why he was here.  Orders were orders.  His were simple, and yet not so simple: Exploit the opposition.  The Federation did.  That was how they turned the Klingons and the Romulans against each other, long ago.  Roms versus Cardassians, Cardies versus Klingons... the Bartokians against the Khalindarians.  A vicious circle, in every instance of a similar situation.

But his orders as an Arcadian carried a different caveat.  He didn't know for sure if he was doing the right thing.  He didn't know for sure that he even knew what he was doing.  You don't have to understand, someone once said.  The politics were beyond him, and it made his head hurt trying to figure it out.  So he didn't try.  It was best to leave politics to the politicians.  He just looked for opportunities, and this Bartokian situation presented itself.