“You may have a seat,” the ensign said. “The admiral should be available shortly.” She asked Sisko if he would like a beverage or some reading material, but he declined. The ensign left him to wait while she returned to her desk, situated in front of the windows but facing in the direction of the turbolifts.
As Sisko sat on the sofa, he debated again the reason for his visit to Starfleet Command. For months, he had considered the course upon which he had now set himself. In the wake of the terrible devastation caused by the Borg invasion, that course had become a more reasonable possibility; and since his father’s death, it had transformed into a necessity. In so many ways and for so many reasons, he didn’t want it to be, but he genuinely believed that he had no real choice in the matter.
The funeral had been hard. By virtue of his popular restaurant and his long involvement in the community, Joseph Sisko had a lot of friends and acquaintances throughout New Orleans. As a result, many wanted to pay their respects and offer their condolences to the family. Sisko spent the first couple of days after his arrival receiving well-wishers at the restaurant, many of them incongruously bringing gifts of food.
As he and his siblings started to plan the memorial for their father, Sisko found himself ill-equipped to deal with the emotional strain. He ended up leaving the arrangements to the rest of his family, while he consumed his days with long walks through the city. He wandered for hours through Audubon Park, the French Quarter, and along the winding banks of the Mississippi River. One afternoon, he transported two thousand kilometers, to Babylon, New York, where he tramped across the beach on which he’d met his first wife more than a quarter of a century earlier. Indulging in self-pity, he lumbered over the sand with tears in his eyes, thinking about all the things in his life that could have been—not just for him and Jennifer, but also for him and Kasidy.
Kas had wanted to attend the funeral, but travel throughout the Federation remained problematic, and finding timely transportation from Bajor to Earth proved effectively impossible. That might have been just as well, Sisko thought, since neither he nor Kasidy knew how the experience would impact Rebecca, just four years old. It also alleviated the need for Sisko to deal with the next loss in his life—or it at least postponed that need.
The funeral had taken place yesterday, four days after his father’s death. Sisko had expected a somber service in Katrina Memorial Cemetery, which already contained the remains of several generations of his father’s family. Instead, his siblings arranged a jazz funeral, originating at the northeastern entrance to Audubon Park. The assembled throng marched down St. Charles Avenue to Nashville Avenue, and then up to the cemetery, with Jake carrying the crematory urn most of the way. The band played a mixture of dirges and spirituals that seemed to elevate the emotions of many, but those elegies left Sisko feeling more lost and alone than ever.
At the memorial, Sisko’s sister and brothers—half-sister and half-brothers, he reminded himself—delivered eulogies, as did Jake. Sisko did not. The funeral, though perfectly in keeping with his father’s personality, did not connect with him. When the band struck up rousing, celebratory songs on the way from the cemetery to the restaurant, which seemed to stir the spirits of the mourners, Sisko felt further isolated. He allowed himself to lag back in the procession, until finally he stopped walking altogether, watching as the ritual commemoration of his father’s life left him behind, ultimately turning left onto St. Charles Avenue and out of sight.
He’d left a message at the restaurant so that his family would not worry, then took the afternoon to set up both his travel back to Bajor and a meeting at Starfleet Command. He returned to Sisko’s Creole Kitchen late that night, hoping to avoid unwanted conversation. He didn’t wish to be comforted, or reasoned with, or asked about his plans. Jake waited up for him, though, so Sisko had to prevail upon his son to permit him his solitude. Jake did, though Sisko could see both concern and a measure of hurt in his eyes. When Sisko said good night, he knew that he wouldn’t see his son for a while but that at least Jake would be safe.
Sisko hadn’t slept well, and that morning he’d risen early, making sure he departed without seeing anybody, knowing that Jake would make his apologies to the rest of the family. He transported to San Francisco, then after having breakfast at a local eatery, spent the rest of the morning in a library, putting his head down in a carrel and catnapping until the afternoon. Then he made his way to Starfleet Headquarters for his meeting.
Sisko had been seated in the reception area for twenty minutes when the door in the right wall opened inward. A tall woman greeted him by name and asked him to come inside. He did, entering another anteroom, with a desk to the right facing the windows and a small seating area to the left. The woman closed the door behind him.
“I’m Lieutenant Reel,” she said, pronouncing it as two syllables: Ree-el. Because of the name and her considerable height—she stood very nearly two meters tall—Sisko suspected that she hailed from Capella IV, as did the man for whom she worked. “Before I bring you in to see the admiral, may I offer you something to drink?” When Sisko thanked her but said no, she crossed in front of her desk to the inner door, a wide slab of burnished mahogany. She turned the knob and stepped inside.
“Admiral, Benjamin Sisko to see you,” she said.
“Thank you, Reel,” said a deep voice from within. “Show him in.”
“Yes, sir.” Reel glanced back at Sisko, inviting him into the office of Starfleet’s commander in chief by moving aside. Sisko walked past her, hearing her close the door after him.
The large office sat enclosed by three walls of windows, providing a spectacular one-hundred-eighty-degree view of the Presidio and beyond. Ahead and to the left, Sisko could see the unmistakable form of the Golden Gate Bridge. Glancing around, he saw the inner wall decorated with a colorful assortment of primitive crafts: carved figures and masks, cloaks and capes, scarves and coronets.
Admiral Akaar—articulated in the same manner as Reel’s name, Aka-ar—sat behind an enormous desk, sizable enough to suit his considerable bulk. Possessed of a broad chest and shoulders, he stood up from his chair to reveal a commensurate height, at least two and a quarter meters tall. He had dark, almost black, eyes, and gray hair pulled back behind his head.
Sisko had met the admiral after returning from the Celestial Temple, during the days leading up to Bajor’s entry into the Federation. He hadn’t spent a great deal of time with Akaar, but he’d found him steady, somewhat formal, and forceful in a quiet, careful way. It pleased Sisko that the admiral had agreed to meet with him, particularly with such little advance notice.
“I welcome you with an open heart and hand,” Akaar said, lifting his right fist to the left side of his chest, then opening his hand and holding it out, palm upward.
“Thank you, Admiral,” Sisko said, mimicking the gesture. “And thank you for seeing me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t see you for long,” Akaar said. “Even though we’re still assessing the damage done by the Borg, we’re already trying to move forward, trying to formulate a plan to restore Starfleet.”
Sisko nodded. He knew that it would likely require years of effort to return the fleet to its former strength. Not only would Starfleet need to construct new ships and train new personnel, but it also would have to renew the infrastructure supporting both of those activities.
Akaar pointed to the chairs in front of his desk, and Sisko took a seat. The admiral sat back down and folded his hands together atop his desk. He said nothing more, apparently waiting for Sisko to tell him why he’d requested a meeting.
“I’ll get right to the point,” Sisko said. “I’ve decided that I want to rejoin Starfleet.”
Akaar nodded. “I see,” he said evenly. “May I ask why?”
Sisko blinked, surprised. Considering the terrible losses suffered by Starfleet—losses to which the admiral had just made reference—he’d expected to be welcomed back into the service, not met with questions. “Does it real
ly matter?” he asked.
Akaar seemed to consider that. “Perhaps not,” he said. He stood from his chair once more, and Sisko thought that the admiral had chosen to end the meeting. But then Akaar walked out from behind his desk, along the far wall, and turned to gaze out toward San Francisco Bay. “You weren’t here when the Breen attacked Earth,” he said.
“No,” Sisko confirmed, a bit confused by the rapid shift in the conversation. “I was on Deep Space Nine.”
“Of course,” Akaar said. “But you saw the images of the bridge.”
“Yes.” Sisko recalled well seeing pictures of the damaged Golden Gate: the drooping cables, one of the towers bent and twisted, the deck blown apart in the center of the span.
“And do you remember what you felt when you saw those images?”
Sisko did, and said so. He’d experienced a visceral reaction at seeing the broken form of a landmark he’d known and appreciated for most of his life.
“I’m sure you’re aware that the Golden Gate is known not just all around Earth, but throughout the Federation,” Akaar said. “And because of its proximity to Starfleet Command, it’s become associated with us.” The admiral turned from the window to face Sisko. “When the images of the wrecked bridge were distributed across the comnets, the number of applications to Starfleet and the Academy skyrocketed. Not just from Earth but from Andor and Tellar and Aurelia and Betazed. There was even a spike in applications from Vulcan and Pacifica.”
“People wanting to defend against the enemy who destroyed the bridge,” Sisko said.
“People wanting to defend against the enemy who destroyed a part of their universe,” Akaar said. “An enemy who attacked a home they knew, even if it wasn’t precisely their home.” The admiral’s shoulders moved slightly in what Sisko took as a shrug. “We actually received applications from a few Gorn and Ferengi, and even one Tholian.”
Sisko understood. In some regard, hadn’t that been how he’d come to serve on Deep Space 9, wanting to defend the Bajorans and their home? Bajor had ultimately become his home too, but initially, that hadn’t been the case.
Akaar crossed back to the desk and half-leaned, half-sat on its edge. He towered over Sisko and fixed him with the stare of his dark eyes. “Is that why you want to rejoin Starfleet?” he asked. “To help defend a Federation that’s been badly wounded?”
Sisko did not respond. He couldn’t, because he knew in his heart how he really felt: that he had already done more than his share to protect and serve the United Federation of Planets. But he didn’t think the admiral would want to hear the true reason Sisko wanted to return to active duty.
“Wanting to defend the Federation is a legitimate reason to want to serve in Starfleet,” Akaar went on. “But Admiral Walter told me that just last week he offered you an admiralty and the posting of your choice. You turned him down. So I have to ask myself, and I have to ask you, what’s changed between then and now?”
Again, Sisko felt that he lacked an answer that the admiral would want to hear. And so again, he said nothing. Akaar regarded him silently for a moment, then pushed away from the desk and returned to his chair.
“As far as my information goes,” the admiral said, “what’s changed for you between the time you left the New York and now is that your father died.”
The words sent a shock, a physical sensation, through Sisko’s body. It somehow wounded him to hear somebody state his loss as a fact—a loss that he supposed he had yet to fully accept. Your father died. His world seemed to shatter anew.
Akaar leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sympathetic about your father,” he said quietly. “But I also understand how such a death can drive a person to do things they would not otherwise have done . . . that they might not want to do tomorrow.” He paused, as though to give Sisko the opportunity to comprehend his point—or perhaps to refute it. When Sisko said nothing, the admiral continued. “Starfleet needs people, and it particularly needs good, experienced officers like you, Mister Sisko. What you accomplished with Bajor, and the role you played in defeating the Dominion, speak to your exceptional abilities. And I appreciate your willingness to leave your home to take command of the New York and defend Alonis against the Borg. But I can’t have somebody joining the service today and resigning tomorrow. There’s enough instability already throughout Starfleet. We need to turn that around, not contribute to it.”
Sisko didn’t know what to say. He briefly considered admitting the truth—that he couldn’t go home, and that he had nowhere else to go—but he didn’t think that would effect the result he wanted. Instead, he groped for something, anything, to tell Akaar. The moment reminded him of one he’d had a dozen years earlier.
“Admiral,” he finally said, “when I was first assigned to Deep Space Nine, I objected to the posting. I was raising a teenage son, and a hostile frontier beyond Federation space didn’t seem the appropriate place to do that. I even considered leaving Starfleet so that I could return to Earth.” Akaar listened impassively, as though none of the revealed details surprised him. Sisko wondered if the admiral had consulted his service record before their meeting. “In the meantime, I followed orders, I went to Bajor, to Deep Space Nine, and I changed my mind.” Sisko leaned forward in his chair too, wanting to emphasize his next words. “Last week, after my temporary return to service ended, and after watching the Borg kill eleven thousand Alonis and scores of Starfleet personnel, I decided I didn’t want to continue in Starfleet.” He paused, wanting to doubly underscore his final thought. “I changed my mind.”
The admiral held his gaze for long seconds. Sisko hadn’t lied—he really had changed his mind—but neither had he offered up the whole truth. Akaar wanted to know why Sisko sought a return to Starfleet, but Sisko had no intention of divulging his reasons.
“All right,” Akaar said at last. Sisko couldn’t tell whether he had satisfied the admiral, or if Starfleet’s commander in chief had ultimately chosen simply to allow the return of an experienced officer to a service that desperately needed him. Akaar leaned back in his chair, and Sisko did as well. “I know Admiral Walter offered you your choice of assignments, but if you’re hoping to return to Deep Space Nine—”
“No,” Sisko interrupted, wanting to dispel the idea of a posting within the Bajoran system. “I was thinking more along the lines of my last assignment.”
“Starship command,” Akaar said.
“Yes.”
“The New York will be undergoing repairs for quite a while,” Akaar said. “But we do have ships out there that need a new captain.”
“Any port in a storm,” Sisko said.
“I could promote you to admiral,” Akaar said, “but frankly, we’ve got enough of those around here right now.”
Sisko couldn’t be sure, but he thought the admiral might still be probing for the reasons he’d asked to rejoin the fleet. He didn’t know what would satisfy Akaar, so he simply told him the truth. “I don’t need the rank,” he said. “I just want to return to service.”
“All right, then,” Akaar said. He rose from his chair, this time clearly signaling that the meeting had come to an end. Sisko stood up and faced the admiral across his desk. “Welcome back to Starfleet, Captain Sisko.”
12
Durjik watched as the young senator stood up in the last tier of the Romulan Senate Chamber. He rose in the same way that so many other senators had throughout the afternoon. Unlike most of those others, though, the political neophyte did not bellow out his opinion or question or whatever had driven him to his feet. Rather, he waited for Tomalak to recognize him from the floor of the chamber. That did not happen immediately.
Because Durjik had served in the Senate before, he could have claimed a position in the first tier of seats, or even on the other side of the large circular room, at one of the tables reserved for the Continuing Committee. Instead, he had eschewed both for an undistinguished place amidst his fellow senators. He would still bluster and make his views known, as people woul
d expect of him, but he would do it in a manner that would not openly challenge the praetor. In that way, he hoped to make himself less of a threat, and therefore less of a target.
Of course, he could afford to assume a lower profile, knowing that his interests—both political and personal—were well represented on the Continuing Committee.
It amused Durjik to observe Tomalak ignoring the young legislator in favor of responding to the bloviations of Senator Eleret, the beldam from the Remestrel clan. Eleret doggedly asked about the dwindling foodstuffs for the masses throughout the Empire—an understandable concern, to be sure—but she steadfastly refused to listen to what the proconsul had to say—also understandable, Durjik thought.
As he waited for the exchange to end, Durjik took the time to study Tal’Aura. In the center of the opposite side of the chamber, she sat in a high-backed chair—not quite a throne—facing the rows of senators. Behind her, a detailed wooden framework held an expanse of glass etched with the symbol of the Empire: a front-on view of a raptor, its talons clutching the worlds of Romulus and Remus. Except that a length of black cloth had been draped in an arc from the top corners of the glass. Durjik grasped the obvious symbolism, the official recognition and remembrance of the senators that Shinzon had murdered in that very room, but he wondered if the mourning cloth had been purposely hung so that it would cover the depictions of the two Romulan core planets. Thanks to the traitorous Donatra and the incompetent Tal’Aura, Remus—or at least its people—no longer belonged to the Empire.
Still, Durjik admitted to himself that Tal’Aura not only presented herself well in the role of praetor, but over time had shown herself adept at consolidating and holding on to power. Her initially stunning request of the Hundred that they re-form the Senate, which on the surface looked like an action that would weaken the praetor, actually insulated Tal’Aura and potentially would draw even more power to her. Once the new Senate had convened, she’d revealed her negotiations with the Breen, Gorn, Kinshaya, Tholians, and Tzenkethi, and her radical plan for the Romulan Star Empire to join them in a new entity she called the Typhon Pact. By taking the proposition to the Senate, she shielded herself from charges, or even the appearance, of overreaching, of single-handedly committing the Empire to a radical new course. At the same time, if such a pact did form, it would immediately elevate the strength of its component members, and thus of their leaders.
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