Titan, Book One

by Michael A. Martin

  “No, I did not,” Jaza said mildly.

  Dakal frowned. “Then why—?” Dakal stopped, realizing his emotions were taking hold. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  Jaza leaned forward and, resting his elbows on the dining table, steepled his fingers before him. “Permission granted.”

  “If you were not testing me, then why did you single me out as a Cardassian during dinner?”

  “I didn’t, Cadet,” Jaza said calmly. “You’ve singled yourself out by constantly being on your guard against any sign of interest in you as a representative of your species. You deliberately avoid the subject, I believe, because despite Starfleet’s acceptance of you, you keep expecting the other shoe to drop.”

  Dakal was familiar with the human expression; he’d heard it at the Academy. “Respectfully, sir, you should have discussed the matter with me privately rather than ambush me as you did.”

  Jaza smiled. “The point was to have you deal with it publicly, Cadet.” The Bajoran gestured expansively at the rest of the mess hall. “Look around you, Dakal. Do you really think the people who choose this life are inclined to judge you based on your species? They’re more interested in you than in your accidental relationship to a longtime foe of the Federation. And as you saw during the meal, we’re certainly capable of separating whatever lingering ill feelings we may have about the Cardassian Union from our interest in Cardassian culture, or in one Zurin Dakal.

  “But I think you know that, or you’d never have enrolled in Starfleet Academy in the first place. Am I wrong?”

  Dakal considered Jaza’s words, reflecting on the long road he had traveled from the refugee camps on the neutral planet Lejonis, the world to which he, together with his parents and siblings, as well as scores of other families, had fled after they had been perilously smuggled off Cardassia Prime five years prior, during the height of the Dominion occupation there. Raised in a culture that revered duty to the state above all other virtues, even familial devotion, leaving Cardassia behind at such a difficult time, culminating in the carnage that had marked the war’s costly end, had felt conflictingly like both treason and patriotism to the refugees on Lejonis. Treason because they had, in a very real sense, turned their backs on their homeworld during her darkest hour; patriotism because the planet of their birth had been distorted by corrupt opportunists and alien invaders almost beyond recognition. But dissidents and conscientious objectors had never fared well on Prime, even in the best of times, so the refugees on Lejonis had resolved to be patient, to preserve and stay true to the values and ideals that had first made Cardassia strong, in the hope that, one day, they would make her strong again.

  Cardassia’s billion dead at the war’s end had shaken that hope among the refugees, but hadn’t extinguished it. Most of the families soon returned home to help restore their fallen civilization any way they could. But a small number—young Zurin Dakal among them—had reasoned that there was much good that could come from showing the rest of the galaxy a Cardassian face different from the one that had brought so much pain to the Alpha Quadrant. Those individuals—mostly academicians and artisans of one sort or another—had resettled on worlds throughout the Federation, teaching at universities, joining organizations devoted to the arts, or helping with the postwar rebuilding efforts. Dakal alone had elected to join Starfleet, though he had hoped others of his kind would eventually follow. In all but name those self-exiled Cardassians were Prime’s cultural ambassadors, hoping in some small way to begin healing a rift that they believed had grown too wide and too deep for far too long.

  Perhaps Jaza is right, Dakal thought, and these last four years as a solitary Cardassian among all these aliens have made me forget the reasons I chose Starfleet. Perhaps I should not be reluctant to share my heritage with my shipmates, or to celebrate it. How better to prove my fears false? Or to confront any fears I may encounter?

  “No, Commander, you aren’t wrong,” Dakal said. “In fact, you’ve helped me to remember a few things I should not have forgotten. Thank you, not just for your interest, but for inviting me to this evening’s Blue Table.”

  Jaza smiled again. “It’s an open invitation, Cadet. Join us any time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Dakal, suddenly experiencing a sense of home for the first time since separating from his family. Perhaps trust can turn worlds as well.

  As he entered deck seven’s multipurpose mess hall–cum–recreation center, Ranul Keru tried to tamp down his mounting worries. For reasons he had yet to identify, recurring feelings of self-doubt had plagued him during his past few duty shifts. He wondered repeatedly if he was really capable of serving effectively as both chief of security and tactical officer.

  Of course he still believed, at least intellectually, that he was the right person for this dual job. Though he had served in the far less action-intensive role of stellar cartographer during his first tour of duty aboard the Enterprise, he had also been trained in multiple techniques of unarmed defense, had achieved some of the highest marksmanship scores of his Academy class, and had already proven himself during real-world tactical crises on Trill, Tezwa, and Pelagia.

  When he had returned to the Enterprise two years ago following an extended personal leave on Trill, he had transferred to security, joining the department that was then headed by Christine Vale. Had Lieutenant Commander Worf still been in charge of ship’s security then, Keru knew he couldn’t have worked under him; the Klingon officer was the one who had, albeit out of necessity, shot Keru’s lifemate, Lieutenant Sean Hawk, and then let his corpse drift off into trackless space.

  No, it was the Borg who killed him, he repeated to himself for perhaps the billionth time. Worf was only doing his job, protecting the ship. Sean was infected with nanoprobes, and would have used them to assimilate the rest of us.

  And yet, every time he made that argument to himself, he saw the face of Captain Jean-Luc Picard, who had also once been assimilated by the Borg, only to be rescued later and cured of his nanoprobe infection. More recently, the long-lost U.S.S. Voyager had returned to Earth, bringing along a human woman who had also been successfully deassimilated from the Borg collective. Both Picard and the woman Voyager’s crew had repatriated had been nanoprobe-infected for far longer than Sean had been.

  He could have been saved, too. Worf was too quick to sacrifice a fellow crew member, battle conditions or not.

  It was an ugly doubt to be carrying around, but he had been unable to put it to rest for more than half a decade now. There had to have been another way. Sean Hawk would still be alive today if Worf had simply put forth a better effort to find it.

  He knew that this nagging bitterness, this shard of blame that remained lodged in his soul like old shrapnel, was one of the underlying reasons that Keru had accepted the role of security chief aboard Titan when Captain Riker had extended the invitation. He had not said it aloud, but inside, he’d fairly screamed it: I won’t sacrifice anyone on my team. No one is expendable.

  During the past few weeks, he had worked his security crew hard, probably harder than they’d ever been worked at the Academy. On the physical side, he had them running simulations in the holodeck, training in multiple exotic forms of hand-to-hand combat, including Vulcan V’Shan, Terran Tai Chi, and Klingon Mok’bara, while practicing with a medley of weapons that ranged from standard phasers to Klingon bat’leth s to Capellan kligat s to Ferengi energy whips. On the academic front, he had them immersed in language studies to free them from total dependency on the universal translator, and introduced meditation techniques from several different cultures in order to bring their minds and bodies into closer alignment.

  He knew that some of them resented the extensive training, no doubt feeling they had already “made their bones” serving in their previous postings. He had even heard a few whispered comments about his own previous “cushy” job as a stellar cartographer. So he worked himself hard, right alongside his crew, doing everything they did, as long as his other duties
didn’t call him away. Lately, even with the Romulan talks looming, he hadn’t had a lot to do other than continue drilling.

  Now, even though he was off duty, he had decided to wear his uniform into the mess hall. Relaxed dress code or no, he felt he ought to at least set an example. Besides, he hadn’t really wanted to take the time to change clothes after the beta shift crew had assumed their stations on the bridge.

  As he headed toward the mess hall’s food-service area, he surveyed the entire room quickly. The dining area had attracted a few small clusters of people, three to four per table. At one table, he saw flight controller Axel Bolaji and his very pregnant wife, Olivia, seated with two of his security guards, Rriarr and Hutchinson. He smiled and nodded, and Axel Bolaji smiled back. Keru noted that Rriarr and Hutchinson looked decidedly unhappy.

  They must be self-conscious about my seeing them out of uniform, he thought, noting their civvies, which were perfectly acceptable in the mess. Guess I’ve given them good reason to see me as a hard-ass.

  He neared the buffet area, and smiled as the various smells wafted toward him. Ebriscentil, Titan’s civilian Ktarian cook, had prepared another fabulous repast, as he had been doing since the ship launched. Keru was glad that Riker had requested a combined galley, bar, and recreational area aboard Titan; not only did it give the crew more encouragement to socialize, but it also allowed them a respite from replicated foods. Riker had apparently learned the value of such a venue in the Enterprise’s crew lounge.

  Keru served himself some Kaferian apple-glazed Maporian rib-eye, a salad of Denuvian sprigs, and a breadlike Bolian pastry that came with a spicy dipping sauce. Hefting his tray, he remembered to snatch a handful of extra napkins; while eating, he always had a napkin handy to keep his bushy mustache clean.

  Before looking for a seat, he sidled up to the bar. The bartender, a Mars-born human named Scot Bishop-Walker, was his favorite of those aboard who dispensed drinks. Not only was he one of the few humans who was almost as tall as he was, but he was easy on the eyes as well, with high cheekbones and a dark, neatly trimmed goatee.

  “Ranul! What can I get you?” Bishop-Walker asked, a bright smile on his face.

  “I’m feeling a little adventurous tonight,” Keru said, smiling back. “Give me a tankard of that dark Orion beer.”

  The bartender raised an eyebrow. “One tankard coming up. But you’d better handle it with care.”

  Keru laughed. “You ought to know by now how tough it is to get me drunk.”

  “Someday I’m sure one of my concoctions will defeat that stout Trill constitution,” Bishop-Walker said, sliding a large, foamy drinking vessel across the counter toward Keru. “Enjoy. You can work it off with me on the velocity court tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” Keru said. “You still owe me a rematch.” The bartender had trounced him at velocity three days earlier.

  “Some people can never get enough punishment,” Bishop-Walker said over his shoulder as he moved to help another crew member farther down the bar.

  Keru turned away with his tray of food and drink, scanning the crowd for an appropriate place to sit. He saw Ensign Norellis beckoning to him from a table next to one of the large observation windows. As he neared the table, he saw that Ledrah and Bralik were seated with him.

  “Hi, Commander,” Norellis said, moving up and gesturing toward the sleekly curved window. “Why don’t you sit on the inside? The view there is lots better.”

  Odd offer, but nice, Keru thought. He took a seat beside the bulkhead, lifting his tray over Norellis’s food. “Thank you, Ensign.”

  “Please, call me Kent,” Norellis said, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

  “Oh, yes, please call him Kent,” Bralik said. She chortled until a look of pain abruptly crossed her face. “Ow! Watch those boots, kid!”

  Keru realized that Norellis had indeed kicked Bralik under the table, but couldn’t imagine why. Ledrah was pointedly looking out at the stars, apparently trying to stifle a grin.

  “Am I missing something here?” Keru asked.

  “No,” Norellis said quickly. “It’s Bralik that’s missing her manners.”

  “Manners are just another form of societal domination intended to crush all individuality,” Bralik declared.

  Ledrah made a mock-shocked face. “Is that a new Rule of Acquisition?”

  “Just a cutting social observation,” Bralik said. “Listen, and grow wise.”

  “Oh, come on, Bralik,” Ledrah said, idly fingering one of her outsize wrinkled ears. “Just because you’ve spent your whole life rebelling against Ferengi society doesn’t mean you have to rebel against everybody else’s.”

  “Why not? We live in a galaxy that supports thousands of sentient species. Here aboard the U.S.S. Melting Pot, we’ve built a sort of cultural atom-smasher—a laboratory designed to create clashes of customs and manners, if you really think about it.”

  Keru found himself troubled and intrigued at the same time. Bralik may have been loud and coarse, but he had to concede that she had a point. There’s no shortage of opportunities for conflict with a crew this diverse. But he still tended to think of Titan’s diversity as a strength rather than a weakness.

  “So, what are you saying, then?” Norellis asked.

  Bralik set down her drink and said, “If we’re supposed to be out here looking for new life and new civilizations, then what are we learning if we don’t take parts of their customs away with us? Isn’t the best aspect of exploring the chance to take away the knowledge that things can not only be different, but also that those differences can be celebrated?”

  Everyone at the table sat quietly for a moment. Keru realized he had forgotten to chew his last bite of salad, and resumed. Ledrah finally looked his way, then gestured toward Bralik. “Before you ask, yes, she is always like this.”

  Norellis scooted out of his seat. “I’m off for another round. Would you like another drink, Commander?”

  Keru smiled, gesturing toward his still mostly full tankard. “Not just yet, thanks.”

  “Get me a Core Breach,” Ledrah said.

  As Norellis wandered toward the bar, Keru looked back at Bralik. “That’s a very progressive way of thinking for a Feren—”

  “He likes you,” Bralik said, interrupting. “He’s too shy to say it himself, so I figure I’d better tell you before he gets back to the table.”

  “Excuse me?” Keru asked, confused.

  Bralik tilted her head to one side. “For someone who came out of stellar cartography, you’re surprisingly inept at connecting the dots, Ranul,” she said, speaking slowly as though addressing a willfully obtuse child. “He wants to court you.”

  “Court me?”

  Ledrah put her hand over Bralik’s mouth, stifling whatever her next comment was. “Bralik shouldn’t have said anything, Commander. Just forget it.”

  Keru’s mind whirled. The last thing he expected during dinner was to be told that a junior officer wanted to “court” him. Much less one in whom he had zero romantic interest.

  “Okay,” he sighed. “Let me just say that I appreciate your efforts at matchmaking, however unorthodox they might be. But Ensign Norellis and I are not, and will not, be involved in anything other than a professional relationship.” He stared intently at Bralik. “And if you’re his friends, you’ll find a way to tell him that, without being so unmannerly as to hurt his feelings.”

  Bralik’s eyes locked with Keru’s, then moved over to Ledrah. The engineer finally removed her hand from Bralik’s mouth—whereupon the Ferengi woman began speaking immediately. “Sorry if we misjudged your preferences, Commander. Nidani is single, too, if she’s more to your liking. She also—”

  Ledrah clapped her hand back over Bralik’s mouth, a look of murder flashing in her eyes.

  Norellis reappeared, holding a tray with drinks for himself and Ledrah, as well as a second hefty tankard that appeared to be intended for Keru.

  “Hey. What did I miss?”

  “You are
rarely exasperating, Will Riker, but when you are, you are in a very big way.”

  Troi plopped down on the settee in a huff.

  “What?” Will asked, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m just not sure it’s such a good idea.”

  Troi was glad that they were meeting in the senior counselor’s office rather than in their quarters. At least here, where her spirits were buoyed by the room’s soothing light-blue color scheme, an aquarium stocked with freshwater fish from a dozen worlds, and shelves crowded with hardcopy books and Betazoid art objects, she felt far more comfortable adopting a professional tone with her husband. She took a deep, cleansing breath through her nose, then exhaled through her mouth before continuing.

  “Look, Will, you were the one who pushed for the inclusion of the mess hall, and you did so for all the right reasons. Chief among those reasons was that it would provide a social atmosphere on a ship that had not been designed with social interaction as one of its top priorities. But how can you expect the crew to develop an appropriate relationship with their captain if you won’t even eat with them?”

  “I’m just concerned about it looking wrong,” Riker said, sitting down next to Troi. “I don’t want Akaar, or anyone else, to accuse me of being too familiar with my staff.”

  Troi’s eyes widened as she released another puff of air. “I promise not to ask you to sleep with any crew members other than me, Captain.”

  “Very funny. You know perfectly well what I mean about propriety. Besides, I thought we were talking about socializing in the mess hall.”

  Troi softened her tone. “Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t. What’s this really about, Will? Akaar? You can’t allow his presence to undermine your command. He is on this ship for one mission, and one mission alone.”

  “Sure,” Will said, his expression sour. “It just happens to be my very first mission.”

  “True. But once it’s over, he’ll be gone and you’ll have to live and work with everyone else on board for all the other missions that will follow. By then you and the crew need to have done some…bonding.”