by Peter David
“We could have been here far more quickly, Admiral,” Picard said, unflappable. “However, that would have required abandoning the vessels which we were requested to escort. Since we are supposed to be providing humanitarian aid, we could hardly do so by leaving behind those to whom the aid is to be provided.”
Jellico gestured impatiently. “Fine. Whatever. Ready the main meeting room, and prepare to beam us over.”
“Here on the Enterprise, sir?” Picard asked.
“I thought my orders fairly clear.”
“We had been told that the meeting would occur on Deep Space Five. . . .”
“I’m telling you differently. This place is a mad-house. Thallonian refugees everywhere, station facilities stretched to the limit. There are people camping out in the conference rooms, for God’s sake.”
Riker said in a low voice, “Ah, those irritating needy people.”
He thought he’d said it quietly enough that Jellico didn’t hear, but Jellico’s gaze quickly shifted and homed in on Riker with daggerlike efficiency. Realizing that possible vituperation would hardly smooth matters over, Picard said, “There will not be a problem, Admiral. We can be ready for you by thirteen hundred hours, if that will be sufficient.”
Jellico grimaced slightly, which was about as close to a nod of approval as he ever came. “Fine,” he said, and blinked out.
“Perfect,” said Riker. “Just who we needed to make a difficult situation just that more difficult.”
Picard considered the matter for a moment, and then said, “I shall brief our guest on the change of plans.” As he headed for the elevator, he called over his shoulder.
“Be of stout heart, Number One. We’ve handled the Borg. We can certainly handle Admiral Jellico.” He walked out the door.
Riker turned to Troi and noted, “We aren’t allowed to blow up Admiral Jellico.”
“Regulations can be a nuisance,” Troi said sympathetically. Then she seemed to brighten. “Don’t worry. Perhaps he’ll be sufficiently intimidated by your confident swagger.”
Riker caught himself before he let his reply come out of his mouth, but he couldn’t stop the thought, Some of us have reason to be confident, Counselor. Others of us, who—for example—were unable to helm the Enterprise for more than two minutes without crashing her, have far less reason to be confident.
As she sensed his feelings if not his words, Troi’s mouth fell into a disapproving frown.
“I sense great sarcasm,” she said.
• • •
Picard sounded the door chime, and a voice from within said, “Come.” The door slid open and he entered the guest quarters. The room was mostly dark, with illumination being provided by a few choice sources of light including a lit mirror and a candle. To one side of the room, a man was seated in a most contemplative manner.
“Ambassador Spock,” said Picard. “We have arrived.”
Spock looked up at him, seeming to pull himself from his devotions with eflfort. He stared at Picard but said nothing.
“Admiral Jellico desired that the meeting be held on the Enterprise,” Picard continued, “Apparently there is an overabundance of activity on Deep Space Five.”
“Indeed,” Spock said after a moment. ’The place is irrelevant.”
Picard felt, ever so slightly, a chill in the base of his spine. Morbidly, he wondered . . . if the Borg ever assimilated the Vulcans, would anyone be able to tell?
“Will you require anything before the meeting?” Picard asked.
“No.”
“Very well. I will have one of my officers bring you when the time has come.”
Spock inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.
No one had been more surprised than Picard when he had rendezvoused with the transport that had brought Spock to the Enterprise. Spock had been on assignment on Romulus. It was a measure of how seriously the Federation took the fall of the Thallonian Empire that they had requested Spock attend the Thallonian Summit. It had taken Spock no small effort to quietly extricate himself from Romulus. Still, Spock was one of the only people Picard knew of who had any familiarity at all with the Thallonians. It was only natural that his presence was desired at the summit.
He continued to gaze levelly at Picard. This was ridiculous. After everything that Picard had been through in his life, one would think that it would take a hell of a lot more than the stare of a Vulcan to leave him discomforted. Nonetheless, Picard felt as if he should say . . . something . . . but he had no idea what. “We certainly have our work cut out for us,” he ventured.
Spock was silent a moment more, and then he said, “Captain . . .”
“Yes, Ambassador.”
“Vulcans do not engage in small talk.”
“Ah” was all Picard could think of to say. Then he nodded, turned, and started to walk out. And then, before he could exit the room, Spock stopped him with a word.
“Captain . . .”
Picard turned, waited with a raised eyebrow.
“I find,” Spock said with introspection and not a little bemusement, “that I am experiencing a degree of . . . anticipation . . . in working with you again. The human phrase would be that I am ’looking forward to it.’ “He paused, contemplating it. “Fascinating.”
“The galaxy is infinitely fascinating, Ambassador,” observed Picard.
“So it would appear.”
“You know, Ambassador,” Picard said after a moment, “Mr. Data—who was once even more removed from emotions than you—has recently acquired them. You might wish to take the opportunity to talk with him about his newly refined perceptions. You may find them . . . equally fascinating.”
“I shall consider it, should the opportunity present itself.”
“I’ll see that it does. Oh, and Ambassador . . .” He paused in the door.
“Yes?”
“This,” and he waggled a finger between the two of them, “was small talk.”
Then he grinned and walked out the door, leaving the ambassador alone in his darkness.
II.
RIKER REMEMBERED A TIME when he had gone mountain climbing at the age of fourteen, explicitly against his father’s orders . . . or perhaps, if truth be known, precisely because his father had forbidden it. He’d been halfway up a particularly hazardous peak when his pitons had ripped loose from where they’d been wedged into the rock surface. Riker had swung outward, dangling, one thin rope preventing him from plunging to his death. The moments until his climbing partner had been able to reel Riker in and help him get re-anchored had been fraught with tension.
It was that exact sort of tension that Riker now felt when he walked into the main conference lounge. The sensation that a vast drop loomed beneath all of them, and they were all hanging by one single rope, Picard was already there, talking with Ambassador Spock and a woman whom Riker immediately recognized as Admiral Alynna Nechayev. Nechayev was some piece of work. She and Picard had first butted heads back when the member of the Borg collective known as “Hugh” was aboard the Enterprise. Picard had refused to infest Hugh with a virus which would have effectively obliterated the Borg, and Nechayev had raked him over the coals about it. And they had had any number of fiery clashes since then. Yet now there she was, in the flesh, and she seemed to be perfectly happy to chat things up with the officer she had so mercilessly dressed down before.
Riker watched the dynamics of the Picard/Spock/Nechayev discussion, and it took him no time at all to discern what was really going on. He noticed that Spock was delivering most of his remarks or comments to Picard, treating him with respect and deference. It was only natural—or, if you will, logical—that Spock should do so. After all, Picard had put his own mind on the line to try and help Sarek, Spock’s late father. Nechayev, by her rapt attention on the Vulcan, was clearly a major admirer of Spock’s. That was understandable. The term “living legend” was overblown and pompous, but in the case of Ambassador Spock, it was also bang-on accurate. The fact that the living legend clearly regarde
d Picard so highly was obviously raising Picard in Nechayev’s own estimation. She actually laughed in delight at some remark Picard made, and although it was obviously supposed to be something amusing, Picard nevertheless looked surprised at Nechayev’s reaction.
Well, good. Picard had accomplished so much, and yet sometimes it seemed as if Starfleet regarded him with suspicion. Indeed, that they were suspicious because of everything Picard had accomplished. As if it were impossible to imagine that one mere mortal could have done so much. That it was . . . unnatural somehow.
In short, Picard could use all the support that he could get. If that support stemmed from Nechayev being a fan of Ambassador Spock, then fine.
That was when Riker noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
Riker couldn’t believe he’d missed him before. There was a Thallonian standing over to one side in the conference room. He was tall, remarkably so. What was even more remarkable was that, even though the room was brightly lit, it seemed as if the Thallonian had managed to find darkness hiding in corners, behind chairs, under the table. Find that darkness and gather it around him, like a shroud, cloaking himself in the shadows as if he were part of them, and they part of him. For that matter, Riker wasn’t sure even now whether he had spotted the Thallonian because he was sharp-eyed . . . or because the Thallonian had allowed Riker to see him.
He was tall and mustached, with spiral tattoos on his head. And he was completely immobile, not twitching so much as a muscle. If it weren’t for the level, steady gaze he had fixed upon Riker, Riker might have wondered whether he was truly alive or a brilliantly carved statue.
Riker cleared his throat and approached the Thai-Ionian. The Thallonian’s gaze never shifted from him, and his face remained inscrutable. Riker came to within a couple of feet and stopped, as if the Thallonian had somehow drawn an invisible barrier around him and hung a large DO NOT CROSS sign on it. “Commander William T. Riker,” he introduced himself. “First officer of the Enterprise.”
For the first time the Thallonian made a minimal movement: he inclined his head slightly. “Si Cwan,” he said in a deep voice that was tinged with bitterness. “Former prince of the Thallonian Empire.”
“My condolences on your tragic loss,” Riker said.
Si Cwan gave him an appraising look. “How do you know,” he asked, “whether the loss is tragic or not? If you believe the rhetoric of those who brought down my family . . . those who . . .” His voice showed the slightest hint of wavering before he brought it firmly back under control. “ . . . who slaughtered those close to me . . . why, my loss of station is one of the greatest achievements in Thai-Ionian history.” He began to speak more loudly, deliberately capturing the attention of Spock, Picard, and Nechayev. “Our conquests, our good works, our achievements in art and literature . . . the fact that we sculpted order from chaos . . .”
“Gods spare us from more Thallonian rhetoric.”
It was a gruff and harsh voice, and it came from the direction of the entrance to the conference room. Riker saw Si Cwan stiffen as he turned to face the person who had spoken.
Standing at the door was Admiral Jellico. Next to him was Data, who had met Jellico at the transporter and escorted him to the conference room. Ordinarily protocol would have required that it be Picard or Riker, the ranking officers, who fulfilled that function. But considering the urgency of the situation, Picard felt it wiser to place himself where he would do the most good.
Next to Data was a squat and bulky young Danterian. His bronze skin glistened in the light. His broad smile displayed a row of perfect and slightly sharp teeth, and Riker found he had a barely controllable urge to knock one of those teeth right out of his head. The Danterian appeared insufferably smug as he studied Si Cwan, not even bothering to glance at Riker. The fact that he was being ignored didn’t bother Riker one bit. He felt that if this Danterian looked at him for any length of time, he’d need a long shower just to make himself feel clean again.
Riker was not surprised by the presence of a representative from Danter, The Danteri were the Thallonians’ “neighbors” over in Sector 221-H . . . a nearby, rival empire who were as ironfisted in their way as the Thallonians had been in theirs. But, the Danteri claimed, their ambitions were less over-reaching than the Thallonians’ and their own little empire more compassionate—a contention that did not hold up for anyone with a significant memory capable of recalling some of the fiascoes that occurred during the Danteri reign. (One of the best known was the uprising on Xenex, a rebellion that had lasted several years and wound up costing the Danteri a fortune in men, money, and esteem before they had finally washed their hands of Xenex and given the accursed planet and its inhabitants their freedom.)
“Thank you, Mr. Data, that will be all,” Jellico said. His giving an order to one of Picard’s officers in Picard’s presence—particularly in a noncombat situation—was also a breach of protocol, and he fired a glance at Picard as if daring him to comment on it. Data, for his part, merely looked blandly at Picard. Clearly he wasn’t going to budge until Picard had given his say-so. Picard caught Data’s look and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Picking up on it, Data turned and walked out of the conference room.
“Admiral Nechayev, Captain Picard, Commander Riker, Ambassador Spock, Lord Si Cwan,” Jellico said by way of brisk greeting. “I suggest we get down to business.” He nodded toward the Danterian standing next to him. “This is—”
The Thallonian who had identified himself as Si Cwan stabbed a finger at the Danterian. “I know you,” he said slowly, his already partly hidden eyes completely obscured by his dark scowl. “You are . . . Ryjaan?”
Ryjaan bowed stiffly from the waist. “I am honored that you know of me, Lord Cwan. One such as I knows of you, of course, but I am flattered that—”
“Save your flattery,” Si Cwan said brusquely.
Ryjaan raised an eyebrow. “I was merely endeavoring to pay respects. . . .”
“Oh, Danter will pay,” Si Cwan told him. “You and all your people will pay most dearly.”
Picard stepped forward. “Gentlemen, little will be served by vague accusations of—”
“You are quite right, Captain.” Si Cwan drew himself to his full height. Riker quickly realized that “looming” was Si Cwan’s single greatest weapon. “So I will be blunt rather than vague. Our empire has fallen apart. Planets which once honored the ruling class have broken away. Our economy has crumbled, our social organization lies in ruins, and I have every reason to believe that the Danteri have a hand in it.” He stabbed a finger at Ryjaan. “Do you deny it?”
“Absolutely,” shot back Ryjaan heatedly. His cloak of deference was rapidly becoming tattered. “I completely, totally, and absolutely deny it.”
“Of course you do,” said Si Cwan. “I would have expected nothing less . . . from a liar such as yourself.”
That was all Ryjaan needed. With a snarl of anger, he launched himself at Si Cwan, who met the charge with a sneer of confidence. Ryjaan slammed into him, and even as Riker moved to separate them he couldn’t help but be impressed to notice that Si Cwan barely budged an inch. Considering Ryjaan’s build and the speed with which he was moving, Riker would have thought that Ryjaan would have run right over Cwan. Instead Cwan met the charge and looked ready to lift Ryjaan clear off his feet.
“That’s enough!” thundered Picard, coming from the other side.
Since Ryjaan was the aggressor, Riker and Picard focused their efforts on him. They pulled Ryjaan off Si Cwan as Admiral Nechayev stepped up to Si Cwan and said sharply, “That was completely uncalled for, Lord Cwan!”
“You do not have to be present at this meeting, Lord Cwan,” Jellico put in. “We are extending a courtesy to you. Need I remind you that, officially, you have no standing. Deposed leaders do not rank particularly high in the grand scheme of things.”
Ryjaan pulled himself together, steadying himself and nodding to Picard and Riker that he had regained his self-control. Picard
glanced cautiously at Riker and they released Ryjaan, turning their attention to Si Cwan. Cwan studied them all as if they were insects.
And then, just for a moment, a cloud of pain passed over his face as he said softly, “ ’Uncalled for,’ you say. Uncalled for.” He seemed to roll the words around on his tongue. “Admiral . . . I saw good and loyal people slaughtered by insurgents. I saw family members carried away while I watched helplessly from hiding. From hiding,” he snarled with such self-revulsion that Riker repressed an inward shudder. “From hiding, as I foolishly let supporters convince me that it was important I survive. “For years my family knew what was best to guide the peoples of the Thallonian Empire. And someone goaded them, turned them against us.”
“And you wish to blame it on us,” said Ryjaan. “Go ahead, if it will please you, no matter how baseless the accusation.”
For the first time, the ambassador spoke up. “The accusation,” said Spock, “while inflammatory, is nonetheless logical.”
“Logical?” Ryjaan practically spat out.
Spock was unperturbed by the vehemence of Ryjaan’s reaction. “The Danteri share borders with the Thallonian Empire . . . or, to be more precise, the former Thallonian Empire. The Danterian desire for . . .” He briefly considered the word “conquest” and discarded it as too inflammatory. “ . . . acquisitiveness . . . is well known. Overt action would possibly lead to undesired confrontation, and therefore it would be logical for the Danteri to pursue a course of gradually undercutting the structure of the Thallonian ruling class. Such actions would obtain the same goals as outright conquest without the proportionate risk.”
Admiral Nechayev stood with her hands draped behind her back, and said with clear curiosity, “Ambassador . . . are you saying it is your belief that that was what occurred here?”
“I am speculating, Admiral,” Spock replied evenly. “One could just as easily speculate that the Thallonian Empire collapsed entirely on its own, through a combination of mismanagement and oppression. The former would have assured the eventuality of disintegration, while the latter guaranteed that—when the fall of the empire did occur—the attitude of the oppressed people would be violent and merciless. I am merely playing devil’s advocate.”