Summary: As war with the Romulans looms, the Enterprise is on a mission to gather as many allies as possible. But during a successful First Contact, one indulgent act sets a devastating plot in motion. Can the crew discover the truth in time to stop a genocide?

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Enterprise and its characters are the property of Paramount.

Diplomacy and Other Lies,

by bluedana

Chapter One - In the Heat of the Night

It was freaking hot. Not just Vulcan sun beating down on you in the Forge hot; not even just drag yourself through jungle air so humid that it felt like pumpkin soup hot; but a soul-sapping, head-pounding, this is what hell feels like for real hot that made survival training in the Australian desert on Earth feel like a balmy spring day.

Captain Jonathan Archer surreptitiously pressed his fingertips against the throbbing vein in his temple. He couldn't have been the only one in the entourage who felt seconds away from melting into a puddle on the flagstones of the museum courtyard. He sneaked a glance at his First Officer, Commander T'Pol, who appeared way too interested in the architecture for someone who'd been traipsing through monuments and historical sites for the past sixteen hours. She still looked, as his mother would have said, "fresh as a daisy," while he felt more like wilted spinach.

He wished Carah Shon's sun would set already. Dusk would bring with it the beautiful, cooling nightly rain, and a drop in temperature of about forty degrees. He wished he'd had the foresight to have T'Pol declare the planet's environment inhospitable to humans; he would gladly have traded this miserable combination of oppressive heat and unbearable humidity for a heavy, clunky EVA suit.

He knew he really shouldn't complain since, aside from the weather, this first contact was, so far, a resounding success. The invitation to visit Carah Shon, the main world of the five-planet system, had come with all sorts of benefits. The Carah Shon L'os, literally translated as The People of the World (the capital letters being both appropriate and necessary), were technologically advanced; they had discovered warp travel more than a century, relatively speaking, before humans had. By now, their developmental pendulum had swung the other way, and their scientific community was focused inward, on medicine and environmental issues, such as terra forming within their own system. They had a lot to offer, and didn't mind sharing. It also didn't hurt that they had no notion of Starfleet's ulterior motives for opening a diplomatic dialogue.

Geren Obot Liaison, the high-ranking dignitary who had greeted them upon their arrival, walked by Archer's side. He looked around with mild interest, having confided that he himself had little aptitude for art or history. "Darala Tam Ov is quite eager to meet you and Commander T'Pol at tonight's reception. She conveys her regrets that she will not be able to greet you before then."

Archer forced a smile. "Oh, I understand. I'm sure Darala is extremely busy, given all her duties. In any event, she's certainly rolled out the red carpet for us." After coming into contact with Enterprise, The People had quickly convened a conference of their most important scientists and cultural leaders. Archer had authorized his department heads to rotate through the conference, to get as much exposure as they could to this remarkably open culture.

"Your language is very … colourful, Captain Archer," Geren said, blinking in amusement.

Archer winced. "Well, normally I'd have my Communications Officer, Ensign Hoshi Sato, accompany me on first contacts. She has this extraordinary gift for learning languages almost instantly. I've never seen anything like it. But I couldn't pass up an opportunity to let her study at the Hall of Cultures while we're here, so I'm afraid I'm at the mercy of my universal translator. It isn't as proficient at conveying nuances."

"The language of The People is more literal than yours, I think," said Geren. "We don't use very many word-pictures."

"Then I imagine my Chief Engineer's translator must be having a nervous breakdown by now," Archer commented with a smile. Commander Trip Tucker had begun chomping at the bit to explore some of The People's prototype shipyards the minute he had seen mention of them in the briefing packet. Archer hadn't seen Trip for more than a few minutes since they'd made planetfall three days ago.

As for Archer, he and T'Pol were treated as heads of state. Every waking moment was scheduled to the second, and their guide seemed to be under strict orders to show them absolutely everything of interest anywhere on the planet. Almost since dawn, they had been traveling from site to site, in a series of airborne hops over the three large continents, and pummeled with historical and cultural information.

Geren quietly excused himself and left the tourist party as their guide, a ruthlessly efficient little being named Arat Atanoma, gestured to the intricate pattern of the stonework on the arch of the museum above them. Arat's voice poured in a constant stream from the translating device clipped to Archer's ear. T'Pol hung back slightly and studied Archer's face. "We should return to our rooms," she observed quietly. "You're exhausted."

"Can't be much longer," Archer answered, unwilling to be the weak link in the landing party, "it's getting late." He gestured toward the darkening horizon. "Rain's almost here. You can already see the clouds forming. This must be the last stop."

Sure enough, a few moments later, Arat ushered Archer, T'Pol, and their security escort into the luxurious - and wonderfully cool – vehicle, a flying tube not unlike an old-style jetliner, which had been placed at their disposal for the duration of their visit. T'Pol perched on the edge of her seat, neck craning to take in the lush green and yellow vegetation of the rainforest as it sped beneath them. Archer leaned back, his long legs stretched out and vibrating with fatigue from the kilometers they had walked during their last cultural tour. They flew at low altitude to the Regent's Palace, the lavish home of the ceremonial ruler, where they had been given guest quarters.

"Crewman," Archer said to his security escort as they walked down the well-appointed corridor to their suites, past extravagant, six meter high tapestries covering every wall, "you look like I feel. Why don't you take the evening off? I'm sure you'd rather rest than play bodyguard through a four and a half hour dinner."

Crewman James Egawa eyed his captain. They'd had this same conversation the previous night. "That's very kind of you, sir," Egawa answered, exactly as he had the evening before, "but my orders are to stay with you and Commander T'Pol whenever you are in public." He opened T'Pol's door and checked inside the rooms briefly but thoroughly, then did the same in Archer's suite across the wide hall.

Archer half-smiled and shook his head. It had been worth a try, anyway. He couldn't exactly order the guy not to do his job. "I'll have to let Lieutenant Reed know how . . . diligent you are, Crewman."

"Thank you, sir," Egawa responded sincerely. "Shall I meet you and the commander back here in an hour?"

At T'Pol's nod, Archer agreed. "And, Crewman," he added, as the security escort began to walk toward his own room, one door down from T'Pol's, "you wouldn't mind if I called you 'James,' would you? We've been off-ship for two days now, and 'Crewman' is starting to sound a little formal. Or do you prefer 'Jim?'"

That produced the first real smile Archer had seen from the serious young man. His grin was endearing and eager, and lit his entire face. "Actually, I go by 'Jamey,' sir," he said.

"Then I'll see you back here in an hour, Jamey," Archer replied. He and T'Pol watched as Egawa ducked into his own suite.

T'Pol turned to the captain. "I don't understand. Why would you pretend not to know Mr. Egawa's preferred form of address?"

Archer shrugged. "Ever seen the kid smile before? No, me neither. This is the kid's first off-ship assignment, doing bodyguard duty, of all things. Maybe if I call him by his first name, make a little conversation, he'll unbend a little, relax, take in some of the sights on these tours, instead of playing stiff tin soldier. Did you know he has a Master's in Ancient Civilizations from the University of Cairo?"

"I did not know that."

"And Malcolm has him babysitting me. What a waste."

"It's not a waste if Mr. Egawa is able to keep you safe while off-ship," T'Pol pointed out, "which is of course Lieutenant Reed's main concern. If –"

"T'Pol," Archer interrupted tiredly, "I've already gotten the lecture from Malcolm – several times." He stepped into his own room, tossing over his shoulder, "See you in an hour."

Those sixty minutes gave him just enough time to drink the entire pitcher of juice left over from this morning's breakfast, take a quick but well-needed cool shower, and change into a fresh uniform. Nobody at Starfleet had had the foresight to design a dress uniform able to withstand the constant ninety-five percent humidity of Carah Shon. His serviceable blue jumpsuit, while mundane, held up much better.

He fingered the data badge he had worn clipped to his uniform the entire time he'd been on planet. The Law of The People required all off-worlders to submit a detailed genetic and physical history, which was stored on a disk the size of shirt button. Before any food could be consumed by a visitor, the server had to determine that no ingredient in the dish would be harmful to the guest. Each and every time a plate or glass was placed before a guest, the server waved a wand over the data badge and waited to see whether an alarm sounded. Failure to do so was punishable by death. Arat had been adamant about this throughout their stay, and after learning that The People had endured a devastating war when a visiting alien from another system had died after an allergic reaction to a native food ingredient, Archer couldn't argue with their vigilance.

Archer checked his wristwatch and calculated for local time. He had a few minutes to call the ship – not that he was worried or anything, he just wanted to check in – before this evening's sumptuous dinner and its after-entertainment, some sort of dance concert showcasing the best talents from around The World. Arat had already warned the humans – a number of times – of the importance Darala placed on punctuality. Archer had made every effort to stay a few minutes ahead of the established agenda, in order to avoid offending the Carah Shon L'os leader.

"Archer to Enterprise," he said into his communicator.

"Sato here, Captain," came the dulcet tones of his Communications Officer.

Archer frowned. By ship's time, Hoshi should have been off-duty. "What are you doing on the Bridge? Something wrong?"

Hoshi sounded amused. "No, sir. I've just gotten back from the symposium – it ran a little long – and I couldn't wait to start processing some of the data I gathered. I guess I'm too wired to sleep."

"Uh-huh, well, tomorrow is another day, Hoshi. Don't wear yourself out. Where's Commander Tucker?" Archer hoped Trip was getting some rest, but suspected he was holed up in his second home on board Enterprise.

He was right. "He's down in Engineering, sir. Would you like me to comm him?"

Archer sighed. He really didn't have anything urgent to report; he just wanted to talk to somebody familiar - and human - for a minute, to bitch about the heat and maybe get a little sympathy. But it wasn't important enough to pull Trip from whatever he was doing. "No," he replied, a little deflated. "I'll touch base with him in the morning. Archer out." He closed the communicator and stashed it back in his sleeve pocket. Time to go.

By the dinner's sixth course, Archer was beginning to envy T'Pol's vegetarian preference, and was mentally kicking himself for not claiming to be one as well. While she could skip whole courses because they were made with animal products (the servers were as vigilant about this as they were about any physical restrictions), Archer had no such out. Under Arat's slightly disapproving gaze, he politely ate at least a few bites of every dish placed before him, and took a few sips of each accompanying glass of juice, wine, or ale, depending on the course. Between the amount of unfamiliar food and the lingering, still uncomfortable heat, he was beginning to feel a little ill. He wished he could duck outside for some fresh air, but the nightly rain was just reaching its peak, and the whipping wind made it sound like a monsoon. By morning, though, the downpour would end, and the sun and humidity would rise to steam Carah Shon all over again.

On his left side, Egawa also ate only the vegetarian dishes and, like his First Officer, substituted water for the alcoholic beverages. Archer leaned over and questioned whether there was a problem with his food.

"No, sir," Egawa answered in a low voice. "I was raised in a Muslim home. I doubt if any of the meat here was prepared by halal rules." He grimaced. "I'm sorry, sir. I hope I'm not offending anyone."

Archer shook his head, now envying Egawa as well. "I'm sure our hosts have taken it in stride, Jamey. They don't seem to have any issue with T'Pol's preferences either." He noticed that throughout their conversation, Egawa had remained alert, taking in every movement of anyone in the vicinity. "No need to apologize." He stabbed a piece of what looked like fish, and popped it into his mouth. It was tasty, but he was beyond full and looking forward to the end of the meal.

He was pushing pieces of what looked like pudding-filled pastry around his plate, trying to make a good show of it without actually eating any, when Arat appeared stiffly at his left shoulder. "Captain Archer, the evening's entertainment will begin shortly. May I escort you to your seat?" Archer rose gratefully, dabbing at his mouth with the immaculate napkin. He was anticipating meeting Darala at last, almost as much as he was anxious to get away from all this food.

The Great Auditorium was empty, save for Darala, Her Serenity in Repose, who occupied an enormous, ornate seat against the wall at the front of the room. She was a stately beauty who was robed in the richest, most sumptuous attire Archer had ever seen. Her hair, so black it seemed almost blue, was twisted into an intricate knot, topped by a royal-looking head piece. Although she probably was only a few centimeters shorter than himself, he decided that there was nothing matronly about her. Her deeply tanned face was expressive and mobile; if she were human, Archer would have placed her age at anywhere from twenty-five to forty years old.

Darala addressed the Starfleet officers warmly, grasping first Archer's hand and then Egawa's in a firm grip. "Captain, I have heard many wonderful things about you and your crew. I am very pleased – finally – to meet you."

"Darala," Archer responded, for that was both her name and her title, "may I present my First Officer, Commander T'Pol of Vulcan, and my escort, Crewman James Egawa of Earth."

Smiling ruefully, Darala attempted, but didn't quite master, the Vulcan ta'al. T'Pol returned the gesture. "Thank you for your indulgence, Captain. Affairs of state have kept me from receiving you earlier."

"We've been well taken care of, I assure you," Archer replied. "Your people have been very generous with their time. I have been receiving reports from my officers who have returned to Enterprise. It sounds like it'll take months to absorb all of the research and information The People have provided. And I think we'll all have to go on a strict diet, after all of this amazing food."

Darala approximated a smile and gestured for her guests to be seated. The performers began to filter out onto the stage and take their places. The lights dimmed and the music began. In Archer's culture, it might be considered rude to talk through a performance, especially as they were the only audience. Not so with the Carah Shon L'os. The captain found it a bit difficult to concentrate on the performances while simultaneously holding a conversation with Darala.

"I understand that your people dance for pleasure," Darala said. "Are you skilled?"

One side of Archer's mouth tipped up. "Skilled? No, I can't dance to save my life."

Darala seemed to perk up. One of her eye ridges moved slightly, indicating, if Archer was reading it right, that she was intrigued. "Dancing is a combat sport on your world?"

Archer shook his head as if to clear it; had he lost the thread of the conversation that quickly? Then he smiled. "Oh – right, no, that's an expression. We don't actually dance to the death or anything. I just mean that I'm not very good at it." Talking to these literal minded people gave him a bit of sympathy for Trip, who seemed to spend half his time explaining common Southern figures of speech to aliens.

"Then it is an enjoyment," she prodded. It was easier to agree with her than to convey how much he loathed dancing, so he gave her a cross between a nod and a shrug. It seemed to satisfy her, and she settled back in her seat to watch the next presentation.

Being stuffed to the gills didn't make it easy to stay awake during the dance concert. The music was loud and booming, though, with a lot of drums and flutes. To Archer, it was reminiscent of ancient Native American dance, with vivid colors and energetic, abandoned performances. He was surprised at the naked emotion displayed there; the lively dances, with their pounding, driving beats, made his blood throb in response. The next piece, with its slower, almost melancholy, choreography left him feeling wistful and lonely. That he could be so easily manipulated through music and movement made him a bit uneasy. He was acutely aware of the glances Darala shot his way from time to time; she seemed more interested in watching him than following the dancers.

Ayn-ha deri lyada
Si vaniati-kwa do vay-yat ido
Deri lyada soomi-tevat

He sneaked a peek at T'Pol, seated on his other side. She had an expression of polite interest on her face, but he suspected that she felt none of the rawness of the performances, that she was not viscerally moved. He felt both a little bit sorry for her, and a little bit envious that her mastery of emotions was stronger than the power of suggestion.

Si vaniati-kwa eratio-anut
Sayn to yish-vaha

He fidgeted in his seat and unfastened the top two buttons of his jersey. The chilly air conditioning suddenly seemed inadequate against the oppressive atmosphere.

After the two hour performance was over, it was time for a post-performance reception – more food, more wine, more conversation. Archer pinned a pleasant expression on his face as Arat ushered him and T'Pol into yet another grand ballroom, with Egawa bringing up the rear. This time, buffet tables lined the walls (Archer could have sworn he heard the sideboards creaking with the strain of all the platters), while a large space which looked suspiciously like a dance floor lay empty in the middle of the room.

To elaborate fanfare, Darala entered. She was dressed in a completely different outfit than she had worn at the concert just half an hour before. A tall, graceful woman, she was draped in a robe made of a stiff silky material the color of the Caribbean, with an under-dress of coral. Both pieces were covered with green embroidery, delicate and intricate, which Archer suspected must have taken a hundred seamstresses a thousand hours to accomplish. Tonight, her headdress was a cap made of filigreed gold, a symbol, their guide had told them, that Darala was "in Repose," meaning that The People were not at war with anyone.

Gone, too, was the informal flirtation of their first meeting. She made one circuit of the enormous room, now bearing all of the solemnity of her office, allowing her subjects to bow deeply to her, and stopped in front of Archer. He nodded his head once, as Starfleet protocol forbade him to genuflect to a foreign sovereign. Darala expected this, and held out her hand for him to kiss. That he could do, and charmingly.

"Commander T'Pol," Darala greeted formally, her sonorous voice projecting to the far corners of the room, "I am trusting that your visit with us has been enjoyable."

"It has, Serenity," T'Pol answered. "I don't believe I have ever visited a planet so fascinating in its history, nor so breathtaking in its beauty as this one."

Archer stared at his First Officer. Vulcan diplomacy wasn't usually this poetic. But it did the job, as Darala blinked slowly, The People's version of a delighted smile, and murmured a thanks. She hadn't let go of Archer's hand, however, and now turned to him. "I will allow a moment for you to refresh yourself, Captain, and then we will dance." She blinked again, and moved off, like a luxury liner in calm water.

Dance? Archer felt beads of perspiration break out on his forehead, and this time it had nothing to do with the heat. He looked around for Arat, but for once the obsequious little man was nowhere to be found. "She expects me to dance with her? I don't recall reading anything about dancing in any of the briefings . . ." Maybe he had missed some critical piece of information during one of those cultural tours he hadn't paid complete attention to.

T'Pol's expression did not change. "There is no reason to panic, Captain."

"Sure there is," he retorted. "I'm a terrible dancer. And I certainly don't have any alien dances in my repertoire." He snagged a glass of something from a passing tray, waited impatiently until the server confirmed his bio-data badge with the ubiquitous wand, then gulped half of it down in one swallow.

"Captain," T'Pol said, and he could have sworn there was an amused glint in her eye, "you are a seasoned explorer and a trained diplomat. I am quite confident that whatever Darala intends will not be beyond your considerable skills."

"You know, whenever someone reminds me that I'm a trained diplomat," Archer muttered irritably under his breath, "I end up half-naked and tattooed, with a chain saw in my hand." He sent a mock-glare over his shoulder as Egawa choked back a laugh.

"I don't see any power tools in the vicinity," T'Pol observed. Archer downed the rest of his drink.

The orchestra started into its first piece, a strange, lilting melody played on instruments vaguely analogous to stringed and wind instruments found on Earth. They evoked the sound of rain, of wind sighing through branches heavy with leaves, of surf hitting the shore. Six costumed dancers took the floor, male and female, gliding as if on rails, their bodies sensuously contorting around each other, making love without touching. Archer swore quietly. No way he could do that, nor was he even going to try.

The dancers moved with their eyes closed, as if psychically aware of every other person on the dance floor, whispering past each other, a feather's width apart.

Archer found himself mesmerized, unable to take his eyes off of the undulating bodies. He almost didn't notice when the music changed, sounding vaguely familiar, and Darala, sans robe, stood before him. She skimmed a warm hand down his face, barely touching him, and drew him into the open circle of the dance floor as if he were pulled by a string.

Si vaniati-kwa do vay-yat ido
Deri lyada soomi-tevat

His feet moved without his conscious will having anything to do with it. Darala locked eyes with him, her mouth a straight, concentrated line. He mirrored her languid moves as if drugged, yet his body buzzed with a million bees. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked the drops away, unaware that the motion translated to a sensual smile for Darala.

The movements were erotic, but not sexual, and he hadn't thought such a thing possible before this moment. He was vaguely aware of the faces as they passed, all of them fading into the background: awed members of Darala's court, unreadable politicians, a now slightly worried-looking T'Pol.

The cadence of his heartbeat kept pace with the rhythm of the music, his pulse throbbing at his temple, in his chest, in his fingertips. Darala's sleeve brushed past his face, and he breathed in the sweet perfumey scent of her. He felt at once lightheaded, breathless, and totally grounded in the moment.

Sayn to yish-vaha
Sayn to yish-vaha

He was almost disappointed when the music stopped, felt lost for a moment before re-orienting himself. He stared at Darala, knowing his face must be flushed and wide open. Darala lived up to her title; she was Serenity personified, her expression satisfied and peaceful. She held her hand out once again, and he kissed it again. After a small hesitation, a low sound arose, as the watchers applauded by politely tapping their forearms with their palms. It had the cautious quality of an act that was expected, not inspired.

Released, Archer walked back to where T'Pol and Egawa were standing. He hoped he hadn't just made a giant fool of himself. A server scanned his badge and handed him a glass. Only after draining it did he dare look at his First Officer.

She nodded briefly, saying nothing, but the anxious look didn't leave her eyes.

After several moments, their guide, Arat, appeared at his elbow and offered to escort him to his room. Archer immediately accepted, quietly ordering Egawa to stay at the reception with T'Pol. The guide said nothing during the ten-minute walk to the guest suites. Archer was no expert in Carah Shon facial expressions, but he got the distinct impression that Arat was angry, or perhaps upset. His puzzled "Thanks," was met with stony silence and a curt nod before the ornate door slammed shut, leaving him in the darkness of his suite.

The water pitcher had been refilled, and he gulped down two glasses of the cold liquid in quick succession.

Archer gratefully fell into his sumptuously soft bed, exhausted to his very bones, and quite aware that he was in store for even more cultural and historical education the next day, before he returned to Enterprise. He resolved to pay closer attention to the lectures, lest The People throw any more surprises his way.

But the balance of the night held no restful sleep for him. Over and over, his consciousness floated to the surface, never quite breaking through, only to be dragged back down into a warm, alien world. In his dreams there were caressing hands, soft whispers, haunting notes. He felt aroused and unfulfilled, heavy and liquid in the dark. When the sun rose, filtering wetly through the windows, he could barely drag his eyelids open. The pounding of the rain, or maybe the pounding of the drums, echoed in his head as sleep left him. It must have been the combination of the heavy, moist air, the evocative music and dancing, and the semi-alcoholic beverages he'd been sipping all night. That was it, he decided sleepily, untangling himself from the damp, tousled sheets; it was only an exotic hangover causing this strange yearning he could not place.

Si vaniati-kwa eratio-anut
Sayn to yish-vaha