by Dayton Ward
“Did she say I could have more chocolate?”
Moving from the table back to the replicator, Picard replied, “I think we’ve had more than enough chocolate for one evening. It’s time to get ready for bed.”
“Will you read me a story?” René asked as he climbed down from his chair.
“Indeed I will,” Picard said. Retrieving the cup of Earl Grey tea he had ordered from the replicator, he turned to see his son staring expectantly at him. “However, shouldn’t you be reading to me now?”
“No!” the boy replied, smiling again. “Will you read the spaceship story?” Picard considered the book he had left in René’s room the previous evening, a fictionalized account of humanity’s first manned flight to Saturn in the early twenty-first century. While the historical record of the mission made for fascinating reading in its own right and was one of Picard’s favorite eras of human space exploration, the stylized version created for leisure reading had become a guilty pleasure. René seemed to enjoy it as well, though Picard wondered if his son was more enamored by the story itself or the time spent with his father and listening to the words read aloud. René was reading in a rudimentary manner, but he still struggled with larger words and phrases. His enthusiasm was undaunted, and Picard had watched him spend hours on the floor of his room, storybooks and padds scattered about him as he pored over their pages, working without assistance to sound out the words from a favorite passage. Picard eagerly awaited the day when his son read aloud with a verve and passion for the written word he himself had possessed for as long as he could remember.
“Yes, we’ll read the spaceship story,” Picard said, glancing to the chronometer set into the replicator’s control panel. “But there’s something Papa has to do first. Can you wait for me?”
“Okay,” the boy replied.
As he sent René to brush his teeth before bed, Picard heard the door chime sounding for attention. “Come.” The doors parted to reveal Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen standing at the threshold and carrying a padd, her expression one of uncertainty.
“Good evening, Captain,” Chen said. “You asked me to report to you at nineteen hundred hours.”
Picard gestured for her to enter the quarters. “Thank you for coming, Lieutenant. I know this is somewhat unusual, and I’m also aware that you went off duty an hour ago, but I hope you’ll understand my need to be somewhat adaptable while Doctor Crusher is off the ship.” Though he preferred to conduct ship’s business or any other official matters in his ready room or the observation lounge off the bridge, he had little desire to leave René with a sitter or in the Enterprise’s child-care facility any longer than necessary. Duty often could leave little in the way of flexibility so far as personal pursuits and family was concerned, and Picard had come to appreciate those times when he could set aside the numerous demands on his time and concentrate on being a father. He even had made a point to encourage those among his crew with children aboard to seek a greater balance between their responsibilities as Starfleet officers and parents. Beverly still teased him about this, describing it as a monumental shift in his character from that of the man she had known for decades even prior to their joint assignment aboard the Enterprise’s Galaxy-class predecessor. She was right, of course, just as she was about a great many things.
“Not a problem at all, sir,” Chen said as she entered the room and allowed the doors to slide closed behind her. Pausing, she sniffed the air, and her right eyebrow rose. “Does it smell like chocolate pudding in here?”
“Courtesy of my son,” Picard replied, indicating for her to follow him to his work area and to the seat positioned in front of his desk.
Chen asked, “Have you heard from Doctor Crusher, sir?”
“A few hours ago,” Picard replied. “She’s still en route to Deep Space Nine, of course.” He did not like lying to any member of his crew, and even though he was certain he could trust Chen herself to handle such sensitive matters with the proper discretion, there simply was too much at stake with respect to the mission Beverly had undertaken. Therefore, in addition to Worf and La Forge, the Enterprise’s chief of security, Lieutenant Aneta Šmrhová, was the only other person besides himself, his wife, and Lieutenants Konya and Cruzen who knew the truth.
After first asking if Chen wanted something to drink, Picard then settled into the chair behind his desk and nodded to the padd she cradled in her hands. “Is that the draft of our final report to Starfleet Command?”
“Yes, sir. I know you told me to use my best judgment, but I can’t help thinking it doesn’t sound . . . official enough . . . if you understand my meaning.” Chen’s eyebrow arched again. “I don’t think I used enough words to make all those diplomats happy.”
Picard could not help the small smile her remark provoked. Chen’s knack for inserting a casual comment into almost any conversation was a trait with which Picard had first disapproved of in the young officer, in particular during her earliest days aboard the Enterprise. However, he had come to see that when circumstances required it, T’Ryssa Chen could be as professional as any other officer under his command, and there even had been occasions where her unorthodox demeanor had come in handy. In some ways, she reminded him of himself as a younger officer, far too many years ago.
“I suspect those diplomats will never be happy, regardless of your effort.” Setting down his cup and saucer, he took the padd from her and perused the report she had prepared. As they had discussed, his recommendation to Starfleet Command and—ultimately—the Federation Council was that the Ferengi Alliance was in no immediate danger of allying itself in even the slightest way with the Typhon Pact. The problem he had faced since the Enterprise’s arrival at Ferenginar was that such a simple, blunt statement felt inadequate in the face of the undue attention the Council seemed to be paying the matter. “So long as the Pact insists on having representatives here, President Ishan and the Council will want us here to stave off anything unexpected.”
Picard shook his head, considering the absurdity of the situation. Grand Nagus Rom—in a private meeting held soon after the Enterprise’s arrival—had assured him that the Ferengi had no interests in doing anything to undermine their relationship with the Federation, and even Rom had expressed confusion and dissatisfaction with how his own diplomatic representatives were handling the so-called “negotiations” via subspace in the lead-up to the formal discussions now taking place on Ferenginar.
“I’ve reviewed transcripts from the previous two days’ worth of talks, sir,” Chen said. “The Ferengi diplomatic cadre, though they’ve been very good at not conceding anything, look to be working some angles during these discussions. I don’t know that I’d call it outright defiance of Grand Nagus Rom’s wishes, but they’re definitely looking for an upside to all of this.” She shrugged. “I guess they wouldn’t be Ferengi if they didn’t at least try to find a way to profit from any sort of agreement, with anyone.”
Picard replied, “Many of those diplomats are holdovers from the previous Nagus, before the reforms Rom enacted. It’s hard to undo generations of cultural and societal inertia. The Nagus is fully aware of what his representatives are up to, and to a point, I can even agree with what they’re trying to do. What I don’t understand is why we’re needed to babysit the situation. All sides know each other’s positions. No one will be shifting their stance to any appreciable degree. It’s all such a waste of time.”
A very deliberate waste of time, he knew, but this was something he could not share with Chen, at least for the moment. So long as the Enterprise was here at Ferenginar, acting on orders handed down by Ishan Anjar himself, there was little he could do that might earn him the interim president’s ire. In truth, he was unconcerned about such things, but he also knew that the longer he played his role in Ishan’s game—whatever that might be—the longer Beverly and her team could operate in relative obscurity as she traveled to learn whatever secrets her friend had discovered. He had not heard from her since her departure, and whi
le that was by design as part of their plan to keep hidden her activities, it still concerned him that he did not know into what situation his wife might be venturing.
The chirp of the ship’s intercom system caught Picard before he could continue his conversation with Chen.
“Bridge to Captain Picard.”
“Picard here.”
“Commander Havers, sir,” replied the voice of the Enterprise’s Beta Shift watch officer. “Sorry to disturb you, but we’ve received a hail from the planet’s surface. Ambassador Sherwood wishes to speak with you.”
Releasing a sigh that made Chen cover her mouth to stifle a giggle, Picard first took a sip of his tea before answering. “Patch it through down here, Commander.”
“Aye, sir,” Havers replied.
To Chen, Picard said, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Lieutenant.” Given his previous exchanges with the ambassador, he had no desire to subject the junior officer to whatever verbal skirmish might be forthcoming.
“No problem whatsoever, sir,” Chen said, rising from her seat. “Is there anything I can do for you while I wait? Maybe get you transport to Deep Space Nine?”
Chen left the room, not even bothering to rein in her chuckling, and Picard turned his attention to his desktop computer interface terminal as it activated, its momentary display of the Federation seal and a current date-time stamp quickly replaced by the image of a displeased human, Anthony Sherwood.
“Ambassador,” Picard said, schooling his features to remain impassive. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Despite his best effort, Picard still heard the hint of sarcasm lacing his words, which was not lost on the diplomat.
“Captain Picard,” Sherwood snapped, “I’ve just been informed that you will not be present tomorrow during our session with the Typhon Pact delegation.” The ambassador was a slender man with pale skin and receding brown hair. His blue eyes were set beneath dark eyebrows that were in dire need of grooming. He looked gaunt, no doubt the result of a career spent sitting behind a desk and exuding stress over all manner of crises both real and imagined. His default expression seemed to be one of annoyance, in keeping with his typical behavior when interacting with anyone he felt was beneath him, which seemed to be everyone. Picard had disliked him from their first meeting, and that was before the other man even had opened his mouth.
Leaning back in his chair, Picard replied, “That’s correct, sir. I have several shipboard matters requiring my attention before I can return to the conference.” In truth, his morning schedule was free, and he had planned to spend it with René before delivering the boy to the ship’s child-care center and beaming down to the planet’s surface. He saw no reason to provide this portion of his itinerary to the ambassador.
“It’s been my experience that starships are stuffed to overflowing with officers capable of carrying on in their captain’s stead while he’s away,” Sherwood remarked. “Is this not the case on the Enterprise?”
Allowing the man a few seconds to be pleased with himself and his deftly worded and doubtless well-practiced accusation, Picard replied, “And I’m given to understand that a Starfleet presence at a diplomatic negotiation is often a sign that discourse has come to an end, usually as a product of unsatisfactory effort on the part of all participants and that direct measures now are required in order to further a given agenda. Since you’re calling me at this hour, I can only presume that you’ve assembled a list of targets for our forthcoming orbital bombardment. Should this take place immediately, or might I first be allowed to finish my dinner?”
In his brief encounters with Sherwood, Picard had found him to be a competent if unimaginative diplomat. Though he prided himself on his ability to maintain a composed demeanor when faced even with the most insufferable individuals, the captain found his normal steadfast poise reaching its limits with the ambassador. For his part, Sherwood seemed to take delight in the effect his deportment had on those around him, which only served to further irritate Picard, resulting in his part in the current exchange.
Be the better man, Jean-Luc.
He knew it was a petty exercise to respond to Sherwood as he had, but it still offered him a small morsel of satisfaction, which heightened a bit as he watched the ambassador’s face redden and his jaw clench. Still, he managed to keep his tone level as he leaned closer to his own terminal’s visual pickup.
“These negotiations are important, Captain. President Ishan is very concerned about them, and it’s my job to see to it that Federation interests are protected.”
“And a fine job you’re doing, Ambassador, if I do say so myself. However, it’s my contention that the Enterprise’s presence here does not bring anything to the Federation’s side of the table, and in fact may even prove a hindrance to any continued negotiation. I do not wish to undermine the diplomatic effort with any undue show of force, even if such a display is implied and seemingly benign.”
Sherwood seemed to mull this over for a moment, as though unsure whether Picard might be setting another verbal trap, but—predictably—he forged ahead. “Your concern is noted and commendable, Captain, but your place is where your president says it is. The Enterprise will remain on station until ordered otherwise, and you will continue to attend the conference sessions.”
Picard said nothing, though he did count off to himself the seconds that passed before the ambassador spoke again.
“Once you’ve concluded whatever ship’s business demands your immediate attention, of course.”
“Understood, Ambassador.” Picard knew that whatever authority Sherwood had been granted so far as the Enterprise was concerned, it did not extend toward any overt interference in the starship’s operation, which included those matters Picard felt took precedence over anything currently taking place on the planet’s surface. He knew also that the diplomat was aware of this but chose not to push the point any further than necessary. Ship captains in general were given wide latitude with respect to such decisions and employing sound judgment, and Picard’s position as one of Starfleet’s senior starship commanders gave him an even greater level of flexibility and autonomy. This had served him well in the years since the final Borg invasion as well as the vital role he and the Enterprise had played in the aftermath of that conflict and the rebuilding that been done across the Federation. President Bacco and Admiral Akaar had given him that authority and he had wielded it with discretion to great effect, and Picard believed that President Ishan was displeased with the status quo while having no justifiable reason to do anything about it without attracting undue attention. The captain further suspected that Sherwood’s haranguing of him was a product of Ishan wanting constant updates about his and the Enterprise’s activities.
“I must say that I find your attitude most concerning, Captain,” Sherwood said, “particularly given the Typhon Pact’s continuing attempts to undermine Federation alliances and interests. Several of your peers seem to grasp this, while you, one of Starfleet’s most celebrated officers, appear ambivalent.”
Knowing he was being baited, Picard folded his hands in his lap and willed himself to remain still in his chair. “Ambivalent? I respectfully disagree with that assessment, sir. Yes, the Pact has demonstrated the ability to be disruptive, but it seems obvious that its own internal squabbles will be its ultimate undoing. The direct attacks on Federation targets have been the result of rogue factions within the Pact, not a cohesive strategy agreed upon by the member states and their governments.” It sometimes was hard to make that distinction, Picard knew, but it was this odd, uncertain reality that likely had kept the Federation and the Typhon Pact from descending into an all-out shooting war. “This negotiation between the Pact and Ferenginar is but the latest example of a crude tactic designed to gauge our reactions. The Ferengi have no intention of jeopardizing in any way their alliance with us.”
Sherwood’s features, already darkened by the irritation that had greeted Picard at the beginning of the conversation, now seemed to harden even further. “It�
�s important for us to show a united front, Captain, particularly now, with the Typhon Pact looking for any weakness in our resolve that they can exploit. You of all people should understand the perils of not respecting the threat they represent. Or have you forgotten what you allowed to happen at Andor?”
Now it was Picard’s turn to be annoyed. “I beg your pardon, Ambassador, but the situation at Andor was not at all similar to this one. That was an internal matter in which the Typhon Pact covertly interfered, and the Andorian government made its own decision, for better or worse. As for your implication that I am responsible for their secession, either through action or failure of action, given that you were not even holding an elected or appointed political office at the time of the affair in question, you’ll forgive me if I place little value in your take on the situation.”
At last, Sherwood’s emotions seized hold of whatever control he may have been exerting over them. “How dare you talk to me in this manner? Rest assured your conduct will factor prominently in my next report to the council.”
“I trust you’ll do me the courtesy of correctly spelling my name this time. Please contact Starfleet Command and ask Admiral Akaar for assistance, if you feel you require it. Picard out.” Reaching for the terminal, Picard pressed the control to sever the communication with far more force than was necessary, and Sherwood’s face was replaced by the Federation seal and the caption COMMUNICATION ENDED. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths in a bid to calm himself and push away the irritation he had allowed the ambassador to stir within him.
“Lieutenant Chen,” he called out after a moment, and the young officer appeared from the other room where she had been maintaining a discreet distance during the conversation. “I apologize for you having to listen to that. I’m afraid Ambassador Sherwood does not bring out my best behavior.” Was he getting too old for this sort of thing, or was his tolerance for such people simply waning?