Bretorius. Starfleet Intelligence had missed on that one. Riker had been given a list of likely envoys; Bretorius’s name was at the very bottom. They had turned up precious little about his career. He was a near-total blank. Normally for a Romulan, that would make him a likely member of the Tal Shiar. However, they had sent him in a smaller vessel, not a warbird. That didn’t say much for the senator’s status.
I’m losing respect for myself for just being here, Riker thought. This was not a club he wanted to belong to. But at least he didn’t need to take his selection for the mission personally: Titan happened to have been nearby the nebula when the call came. Lucky me.
Riker took a deep breath and approached Bretorius again. “Well, you called this meeting, Senator. What’s the program?”
Bretorius seemed as if he were about to take a step backward. His eyebrow arched. “Your attempt to confuse me will not succeed.”
“Good to know.”
“You know very well that the Federation called for this meeting.”
“That’s news to me. We got your invitation.”
Bretorius’s eyes narrowed. “It may well be, Admiral Riker, that your government does not tell you everything.”
Riker thought about asking further, only to stop when he decided Bretorius was more likely describing his own situation. Few knew what went on inside the impenetrable black box that was the Romulan political system. The praetor might well have sent this underling without telling him who had called for the meeting.
“It would be wise not to waste my time,” Bretorius said, putting his hand to his chest. “I am a significant person with important responsibilities.”
“Noted.” Whatever gets you through the day, Riker thought. However Romulan senators got their jobs, it wasn’t for their personalities. He looked around the room, slightly amused. “The Cardassian said this is the worst party ever,” Riker said. “Nobody wants to dance.”
“I will not join any conversations until our last ally arrives.”
“Fair enough.”
Seeing that the Tzenkethi and Gorn representatives were keeping their distance, Riker found his mind wandering to his dinner plans back aboard the Titan. Deanna had promised to arrange for something special whenever he returned, assuming—correctly, it seemed—there would be nothing for him at the summit. He now figured he’d be getting back to it sooner than he’d expected. It looked as if his crash-course preparations for the meeting would be for nothing. Food and then bed—and one of the less gripping episodes in the history of galactic diplomacy would come to a close.
Across the room, he saw a door open. A six-legged crablike form, nearly two meters tall, skittered from it. As the new arrival turned, Riker could see a torso above the legs, topped by an opaque helmet. The dark sphere changed color, as if lit by an inner fire—and a second later, Riker could see the glowing, blazing hot skull carapace of a Tholian inside. The suit was necessary, as Tholians required high temperatures and gases poisonous to the humanoids in the room.
The door closed behind the Tholian. Now they were eight—and as if in response, the room began rotating. Riker knew because he felt it, and also because Gul Rodrek fell to the deck, losing his flask. As the Cardassian rose, cursing, Riker saw a hole open in the exact center of the floor of the enormous room. Twisting open like an iris counter to the floor’s rotation, the gap was soon filled by something rising from beneath the deck. It was a second platform, on which sat a large octagonal table surrounded by eight chairs custom-shaped for the visitors’ physiologies.
“Finally,” the Klingon woman said as the new platform locked into place, becoming a raised dais. She helped the Cardassian up the step and into his seat. Riker saw that she had purloined his flask in the process.
Bretorius looked mildly at Riker as the other Typhon representatives headed for their respective seats. “After you, Federation.”
“Thank you,” Riker said. He looked back at the Ferengi, who was still trying—and failing—to get a message out via his communicator. “DaiMon?”
“This is a wholly unprofitable use of our time,” Igel said. “I’m losing a slip of latinum a minute being here.”
“Who knows,” Riker replied. “We sit at the table long enough, maybe something will come of it.” Probably boredom, he did not say. But he would do his best for the Federation—and his best to stifle his yawns. That dinner couldn’t come soon enough.
Six
TITAN
FAR EMBASSY
Deanna Troi was changing from her uniform to her evening clothes when she heard the outer door to the admiral’s chambers opening. “Natasha, is that you?”
Hearing no answer, she quickly finished dressing. Natasha was staying over with friends tonight; it had seemed like a good idea, given the uncertainty over the timing of her husband’s return from the Far Embassy. Had Natasha forgotten something? It was hard to believe: she’d packed every toy in sight.
Troi walked into the antechamber—and was both startled and delighted to see Will Riker back at his desk in the sitting room.
“You’re back early,” she said, smiling. “No peace for the galaxy?”
Riker looked up at her from behind a terminal and rolled his eyes. “I’ve been to livelier funerals.”
“No one wanted to talk?”
“There was a Ferengi who wanted to sell us some seashore property—probably on a desert planet, I’d have to check. That was about it.”
She approached the desk, disappointed for him. “I’m sorry, Will. I guess they weren’t serious after all.” Deanna walked to the quarters’ replicator. “Can I order you dinner?”
“I don’t know that I’m hungry,” Riker said, eyes scanning the screen in front of him.
She chuckled. “They had a buffet?”
“No.” Riker shook his head. “I’m just not hungry.” He looked up at her. “Stress, I guess. But you should go ahead and eat. I need to file my report.”
She walked back to where he was sitting and slipped behind the desk, embracing him from behind. “If it really was a waste of time,” she said in a soft voice, “maybe you could leave the report until tomorrow.”
“No, I should turn it in now. No peace for the galaxy—and no rest for the weary.” He gave her arm a patient pat that seemed to suggest he wanted to be left alone.
Troi pulled her arms back. Her husband was focused on his work, yes, but he didn’t really seem that tired to her. “I thought you’d be exhausted,” Troi said. “You were already worn out before you went over there.”
“I do what I have to do,” he said. He looked back at her and flashed a smile. “You should have dinner.”
She stepped away and walked toward their living room, pausing just for a moment to look back and marvel at his diligence. Starfleet was definitely getting a bargain in William T. Riker.
ROMULAN FRIGATE ACCIPITER
DEPARTING THE FAR EMBASSY
Nerla hadn’t greeted Bretorius when he returned to Accipiter, and for a change, it hadn’t mattered to the senator at all. He had things to do—and he had been doing them, bustling from one console on the bridge to another, frequently brushing aside whatever Romulan officer was stationed there.
“Not good,” Bretorius said, poring over an operations terminal. “Not good at all.”
The captain, a one-armed man older than Bretorius’s mother, looked at him with aggravation. “What is it, Senator?”
“This vessel is unequal to our needs.”
“Needs? What needs? I was instructed to deliver you to the conference and then to return.”
“The vessel’s top speed,” Bretorius said, gesturing to the panel before him. “This won’t do at all.”
“I don’t know what you’re going on about. If there were a hurry to get you back, they’d have sent another ship!”
Bretorius looked up at the captain, accusatory. “And these armaments. You call this a warship of the Grand Fleet?”
“I call this a ship with a number of sy
stems not worth repairing—which is why it gets such choice assignments.” Disgusted with the senator’s meddling, the captain looked over to Nerla. “Can you do something here?”
Nerla set down the padd she was using and sighed. “What is it now, Bret?” She rose to face him. “Did meeting a real, live Klingon send you into a fit of terror?”
Bretorius ignored her. There was nothing to tell about the summit meeting, of course: they’d all sat at the table for a few minutes before it became a race to see who would get up and leave first. He had other concerns now. And scanning a grid depicting vessels within range of the sector, he saw something that might help with them. “Ah,” he said. “The D’varian.”
“It was your old command,” Nerla said. “So?”
“She’s not far from here,” he said. D’varian was a D’deridex-class warbird—and while there were stronger and faster vessels in the fleet, it certainly trumped Accipiter on all scores. And it had other assets that might come in handy. “Call her commander.”
The captain looked at Nerla, who made little effort to hide her “just humor him” expression. Grumbling, the senior officer complied.
A few moments later, a subspace connection had been achieved. A brown-haired Romulan captain with a scar over one eye appeared on-screen. “This is Commander Yalok of D’varian.”
Bretorius recognized the man who had succeeded him aboard his former warship. “You know who this is, Yalok. I’m on an urgent mission for the Empire—and I need your ship to meet me.” He typed something at the tactical console. “I’m sending coordinates of a location partway between us. Make all speed for it, right away.”
Yalok looked amused. “We’re on an important mission ourselves, Bret—excuse me, Senator Bretorius—patrolling the frontier. I’m sure you can do what you need to do in whatever you’re aboard now.”
“You didn’t hear me, Yalok. I require D’varian. You will make all speed this instant to rendezvous with Accipiter. I will transfer my flag then.”
“Your flag?” Yalok made no effort to stifle his guffaw. “I don’t know if you’re homesick for the fleet or not, but you ought to at least remember the rules. You’re a civilian now, and you don’t have any right to—”
“You are relieved,” Bretorius barked. He had never liked Yalok anyway. “I hereby commandeer D’varian under Article Twelve of the Imperial Senate Emergency Reestablishment Act. D’varian subcommander!”
The woman to Yalok’s side, as surprised as her captain was, looked up. “Yes?”
“You are now acting commander,” the senator said. “You will deliver D’varian to me immediately—and you will place Commander Yalok in custody until I arrive and give further orders. Is that understood?”
The subcommander looked nervously at her superior aboard ship before saluting. “Yes, Senator!”
“Now stop talking and move. Accipiter out.”
Nerla looked at him in amazement. “Where did that come from?”
Bretorius’s attention was back on the star map. “Where did what come from?”
“That sudden burst of—of whatever,” Nerla said. “Did the Tzenkethi give you a pep talk?”
Bretorius’s lip curled slightly. “Nerla, you have always underestimated me.”
“And what’s this Article Twelve?” She shook her head, bewildered. “Where did you come up with that?”
“It was in the senatorial orientation files. ‘Where matters of transport are concerned, the Imperial Fleet may not obstruct a Senate-level agent on special diplomatic assignment for the praetor,’ ” he cited from memory. “The rule is little used in recent years, but it happens to still be in effect.”
“How did you remember it?”
Bretorius looked up for a moment. “It just came back to me.”
Nerla smirked. “Whatever you want, Bret. It gets us home faster, I guess.”
She kept talking after that, but the senator had already returned to poring over the starmap. It was a nice feeling, him being the one to ignore her for a change.
TITAN
FAR EMBASSY
Yawning, Deanna Troi emerged from the bedroom she shared with Will. Stretching, she saw the meal she had brought him sitting untouched—and the man himself still behind his terminal.
She was incredulous. “Don’t tell me you worked through the night? I thought there was nothing to say about the summit.”
“Well, the higher-ups don’t see it that way.” Riker looked up—and scratched his cheek where his beard had attempted to colonize the rest of his face overnight. “In fact,” he added, “they want me back at Command right away.”
Troi rolled her eyes. “You can’t catch a break.”
He rose and took her hands. “You needn’t worry about me. Titan will be rendezvousing with Aventine. They’ll take me to Earth.”
“Aventine? They’re in the area?”
“For a ship that fast, everything’s in the area. I’ve just ordered Aventine diverted.” He looked at her, his eyes asking forgiveness. “I won’t be long. Give my regards to the Genovous Pulsar.”
Realizing what he was suggesting, Troi sighed. “Federation widow again.” She embraced him. “You’d better catch a shave first.”
“And a shower,” he said.
She whispered in his ear. “I could join you.”
Riker smiled. “I know I don’t have time for that.”
She pulled away from him and laughed. “Now I know you’re taking this promotion too seriously. Are you looking to become president of the Federation or something?”
Riker chuckled. “Of course not,” he said. But she noticed that it took him a moment to think about it.
Seven
U.S.S. AVENTINE
BETA QUADRANT
The dark-haired woman identified herself as she approached the security officer outside the brig. It was obvious who she was—every being on Aventine knew the captain. But stopping at the checkpoint was regulation, and it was good for Ezri Dax to show that she could do things by the book. Everyone on board was certainly aware of the times when she’d thrown the book away.
The security officer allowed her to pass. The brig aboard the Vesta-class starship wasn’t large, and often it wasn’t occupied at all, but it still had to be crewed. Regulations, again. Dax walked to where Ensign Wilson Englehorn, a bearded young human, met her with a smile. “Captain.”
Dax said. “What have we got?”
Englehorn chuckled. “Just one customer today.” He checked to see that his phaser was in its holster—that was regulation too—although nothing about his manner suggested that they were heading to see a dangerous criminal.
Dax approached the cell. Through its protective force field, she saw a human form on the top rack inside, huddled and facing the wall. The figure let out a low moan when Englehorn cleared his throat. “Leave me alone, Wilson,” said a high-pitched voice. “I had enough of your sarcasm.”
“How about some of mine?” Dax said, leaning against the cell’s door frame. She knew who it was now.
Hearing the captain’s voice, the startled prisoner sat up abruptly, clocking his spiky white-haired head against the bulkhead above. Dazed and bewildered, the young human shook off the shock—and Dax saw Nevin Riordan gawking at her. She smiled primly and gave a gentle nod. Realizing he needed to come to attention, the twenty-something ensign moved quickly to shuffle off the bunk. Hitting the deck, Riordan quickly composed himself and stood ramrod straight.
“Captain,” Riordan said, uniform unfastened.
Dax stared at him. Blue eyes glanced down at his feet.
“Sir?” Riordan asked, defensively. Then he looked down and realized his bedsheet still had hold of his right ankle, forming a cloth umbilical connecting him to the rack. For several moments, the slender man stood, evidently weighing whether or not to do something about it. Finally, Riordan knelt, working to free his foot.
Englehorn crossed his arms. “Typical.”
Dax waited with bemused patience. Rio
rdan had been an ensign more than five years, unable to advance in part because of his mouth. The computer specialist had a habit of contradicting his superiors, even his captain on occasion.
“What brings you here, Ensign?” she asked as he returned to attention. “I’m doubting it’s the accommodations.”
“Stupidity,” Englehorn said.
Sullen, Riordan snapped at the security officer. “Shut it.”
“Ensign,” Dax said, the slight raise in the petite woman’s voice enough to command the prisoner’s attention. “Lieutenant Englehorn’s a superior officer. Is that mouth what you’re in for?”
“Sorry, sir,” Riordan said, only slightly chastened. “Familiarity breeds contempt.”
Englehorn explained, “Nevin and I bunked together at the Academy, Captain. It was an experience. I guess we’re roommates again, sort of.”
“With a force field between,” Dax said. “What did you do, Ensign?” She nodded to the padd sitting on the guard’s station. “I could always look it up . . .”
“No, no,” Riordan said, raising his hands and looking away. “Captain, it’s really not important why—”
The lieutenant spoke up. “He programmed all the food replicators on deck seven to replace tomato paste with hot sauce.”
“Ah, a classic,” Dax said. She rolled her eyes. “What are you, twelve?”
Riordan continued to wave his hands defensively. “It was just a harmless joke.”
“It would’ve been,” Englehorn said, “had it not been for Ensign Altoss and her habanero pepper allergy. She only got out of sickbay today.”
Dax eyed Riordan, her mien serious. “Stupidity’s one thing, but an attack on the digestive tract of a fellow officer is a major offense.” Then her expression softened. So it was the food that had brought him here, after all.
Forgetting any need to stand at attention, Riordan started wandering the little cell, speaking to the overhead. “It started out small . . . a game of one-upmanship between engineering and security.”
“A game?” she asked.
“Yes, sir.”
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