Amazement. Confusion. “Of course not. On the contrary, I’m applaudin’ his initiative.”

  “You must be joking,” Genestra said, even though he knew Scott had no humorous intent. “This is a gross violation of standard procedure, and—”

  “Mr. Genestra, do you know what standard procedure is?” Scott’s mind was now awash in pity, and it only made the patronizing tone he took more infuriating to Genestra.

  “Of course I do, it’s—”

  “It’s the procedure you follow when things are goin’ normal. I think we can both agree, can we not, that things out here are a wee bit off from normal. Since the war, Starfleet’s supply lines have been stretched thinner’n syntheholic scotch. On top of that, since that foolishness at Rashanar, the Enterprise has not been Starfleet’s top priority when it comes to resupply.”

  Genestra could not deny the truth of Scott’s words. “But to involve a Ferengi—”

  “Who better? We’re hardly at war with ’em, and if there’s one thing a Ferengi can do right, it’s scrounge.” Scott grinned, and Genestra felt an odd combination of appreciation and affection. “Situations like this call for creative solutions, Mr. Genestra—and you’d know that if you’d had any time in the field instead of spendin’ your career hemmin’ admirals’ trousers.”

  “Captain Scott—”

  Irritation and dismissal. “If that’ll be all, Mr. Genestra, I promised to have dinner with Mr. La Forge and Mr. Data—and I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my area of this inspection.”

  Without another word, Scott turned on his heel and left the observation lounge.

  Genestra sighed. He supposed that Scott did have a point, but he still should have noted the improper procedure in his report. It was Captain Go’s place to decide the propriety of Commander La Forge’s actions as head of the inspection team; their job as inspectors was to bring all data to her attention.

  Perhaps the chain of command was also lax in the twenty-third century.

  With another sigh, Genestra sat down at the table and started compiling his latest report on Commander Vale.

  “Come,” said Riker’s voice from the other side of the door to his quarters.

  In response to the keyword, the door slid aside. La Forge looked in to see the distinctive biosignature of William Riker seated comfortably in the large chair in the common room, just a couple of meters from the poker table. Riker had been reading a padd, which he set aside as La Forge entered the cabin. “Geordi. Thanks for coming.”

  “What can I do for you, Commander?”

  “Quite a bit, actually.” Riker indicated the couch perpendicular to his chair, and La Forge sat down in it. “I’m not taking you away from anything, am I?”

  “I’m supposed to be meeting Scotty and Data in Ten-Forward for dinner, but I can cancel, if—”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. This’ll only take a minute.” Riker chuckled. “I envy you, you know.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve got Scotty checking you over. We should all be so lucky.”

  La Forge let out a breath. “Yeah, I wasn’t exactly doing cartwheels when I saw Genestra again. After what he did to poor Simon…” Simon Tarses had been a medical technician on the Enterprise when Admiral Satie’s search for a Romulan spy got out of control. It was Genestra who interrogated Tarses, revealing in front of the entire crew that Tarses was one-quarter Romulan, not part-Vulcan as he’d said on his Starfleet application. Tarses recovered from the experience, thankfully, as wiser heads prevailed over Satie’s irrational judgment. He went on to attend Starfleet Medical and, last La Forge heard, was serving as a doctor on Deep Space 9.

  “I know,” Riker said. “And Beverly’s chewing nails over Russell’s presence.”

  “I haven’t come across Captain Go—what’s she like?”

  Riker hesitated, then: “Not the friendliest person I’ve ever met. She makes Worf look chirpy.”

  Wincing, La Forge said, “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse.”

  Grinning, La Forge said, “Well, I’ll just count my blessings down in engineering.”

  “As well you should. Like I said, Scotty’s an ideal inspector.”

  “Oh yeah—if nothing else, he’s been in my shoes plenty of times before.”

  It had been good to see Scotty again. Their first meeting, back when they rescued the old captain from the Jenolen’s transporter, had not started out well. La Forge viewed the time-displaced engineer as an intruder in his engine room, serving mostly to keep La Forge from getting any work done with his inability to adjust to the technological changes during the seventy-five years he was away. Years later, Scotty would confess to La Forge over drinks that, had someone behaved like that in Scotty’s engine room on his Enterprise, “I would not have been nearly so patient as you were with me.” This led Scotty into one of his stories about the old days on the Enterprise, when they hooked up the M-5 computer—or, as he called it, “some useless pile’a junk”—to the ship’s engines, with tragic results.

  “Geordi—how’d you like a different pair of shoes?”

  La Forge frowned and looked at Riker. Based on what his optical implants were telling him, Riker’s heart rate was up a bit. Like he’s a little nervous about something. Then again, the man is getting married and getting his own command. “What do you mean, Commander?”

  “I’ve got an opening for first officer on the Titan. I’d like you to fill it, if you’re interested.”

  La Forge was suddenly very grateful Riker had asked him to sit down, because he probably would have had trouble keeping his footing if he was still upright. He stared at Riker for several seconds. Now that he’d asked the question, the commander’s heart rate had gone back to normal. But that’s okay, ’cause mine just shot through the roof.

  “First officer?”

  Riker held up both hands. “I don’t need an answer right away—in fact, I don’t want one. I want you to think about it.”

  “Sir, I don’t know if I’m—”

  “Geordi, don’t tell me you’re not ready,” Riker interrupted before La Forge could say the words. “You’re past ready. Look at the good people who’ve come out of your engine room—Sonya Gomez, Reg Barclay, Miles O’Brien, Robin Lefler, Emma Bartel, Raisa Danilova, Taurik. It all speaks to good leadership, and that’s what I want in my first officer.”

  La Forge did not often find himself speechless, and in fact his mouth did attempt to form words, but his brain had, as far as he could tell, short-circuited.

  Riker leaned forward. “Think about it, that’s all I ask. If you refuse, I understand completely—but you are my first choice, Geordi. Let me know when you decide.” Leaning back, Riker picked the padd back up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go over the fifth draft of the guest list for the wedding.” He squinted, as if trying to remember something. “Or maybe it’s the sixth. Hell, I’ve lost track. I swear, though, we’re going to have half the Federation attending this thing.”

  Finally, La Forge managed to get his mouth to move. “Thanks, Commander, I—uh—I guess I have a lot to think about.” He stood up and moved toward the door slowly, still not trusting his body to respond properly to ordinary stimulus. First officer?

  After he departed Riker’s quarters, La Forge tapped his combadge. “La Forge to Data.”

  “Go ahead,” said the android’s voice a moment later.

  “Data, I’m gonna have to beg off dinner. Apologize to Scotty for me, but—well, something’s come up.”

  “Is there anything I can do to assist, Geordi?”

  As ever, La Forge was grateful for his best friend’s presence. “Eventually, probably, yeah, but for right now—I gotta deal with this alone.”

  “Very well. I will convey your regrets to Captain Scott.”

  “Thanks, Data. La Forge out.”

  So much for counting my blessings in engineering….

  Chapter 8

  Earth

  “A HOLOGRAM?”

  Worf was back on Earth and in the heart of Paris, sitting in Councillor Ra’ch’s office. Although she still served as president pro tem, Ra’ch steadfastly refused to use the presidential office on the top floor of the building. Unlike that of the president, councillors’ places of work on Earth were small and practical. However, while T’Latrek—the councillor whose office Worf most often visited when on Earth—displayed no personal items or decoration of any kind, Ra’ch’s office was filled with them, from the painting of the sunset over Damiano’s capital city of Iaron on the side wall to holographic representations of her mate and all three of her parents on her desk.

  “Yes, Councillor,” Worf said. “I have seen the hologram with my own eyes, as well as the mobile emitter that powered it.”

  “Mobile—Oh for Ho’nig’s sake, the Klingons got their hands on that?”

  “The Klingons did not—whoever replaced Kahless did. In fact, there is great concern on the High Council that this is a Federation plot.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  Worf simply looked at her.

  “Sorry, forgot who I was talking to.”

  “The terrorists who seized the embassy did so in part because they believed the Federation kidnapped the emperor and replaced him with a hologram that was programmed to advocate a Federation agenda.”

  Ra’ch put her head in her hands, her fingers splaying around the horn that protruded from the center of her forehead. “This is all we need right now.” She looked up. “What does the High Council want?”

  “Several things. The first is a written assurance from you and the council that this is not a Federation plot.”

  Ra’ch shrugged. “Since it’s true, that ought to be easy enough. Honestly, I doubt the idea would have occurred to any of us.”

  “A similar assurance from the admiralty would be prudent as well. Many on the council believe that Starfleet is the true power of the Federation.”

  “Really?” Ra’ch’s lips twisted into a frown. Then her face softened. “Actually, I can kind of see why they might think that. Fine, I’ll talk with Nakamura tomorrow. What else?”

  “The High Council would also like the Federation’s aid in attempting to locate Kahless. The Defense Force will share what information it has regarding the emperor’s whereabouts.” What little information there is, he thought dolefully.

  “Of course, we’ll be happy to help.” She smiled. “I suspect that will cause more goodwill than the written assurances, but we’ll do both. The last thing we want to do right now is kill the alliance.”

  “That leads me to the council’s final request.”

  Ra’ch’s face fell. “Uh-oh.”

  “There is—concern among some members of the council that the Federation intends to dissolve the Khitomer Accords.”

  “Based on what?” Ra’ch asked, straightening.

  “Special Emissary Pagro has—”

  “Fel Pagro’s a presidential candidate making speeches to try to get himself elected!”

  “You and I are aware of this, Councillor, but Chancellor Martok and the others do not understand that distinction. As far as they can see, the person most likely to rule the Federation is calling for Klingons to change their ways or face war.”

  “Yeah, I can see how they’d think that, too. Damn cultural relativism, anyway.” Ra’ch set her hands down on the desk, and stared at the hologram of her mate. Then she regarded Worf with a determined expression. “Mr. Ambassador, I need you to return to the empire and talk to the members of the High Council. Assure them that the Federation hasn’t abrogated the Khitomer Accords once over the last eighty years, which is more than the Klingons can say. For that matter, their embassies have never been attacked by Federation citizens, either. There may be problems between our peoples, but they are ones that can be dealt with diplomatically. We have no designs on their emperor or their territory. The alliance was our best hope for victory during the war and is our best hope for a prolonged peace in the wake of it.”

  Relief washed over Worf. This was exactly how he hoped this conversation would go. “Very well. It will also enable me to see which of those on the council will use this as an excuse.”

  Ra’ch tilted her head slightly. “An excuse for what?”

  Worf hesitated. “There are some on the High Council who feel that an alliance with the Federation is—inappropriate. That the Federation, like any other governmental body that is not the Klingon Empire, should merely be the next on the list of what to conquer.”

  “Joy.” Ra’ch rose from her seat. “Well, I hope your powers of persuasion are as good as I’ve heard, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Getting up from the guest chair, Worf said, “We shall see.”

  “I’ll have the official statements from both the council and Starfleet Command by tomorrow.”

  “Good. I will return to Qo’noS as soon as they are delivered to me.” Giving Ra’ch a small bow, Worf said, “Thank you, Councillor.”

  “You’re welcome, Worf. Do well for us, please.”

  “I have always endeavored to do so.”

  With that, he departed, his business for the Federation completed. He headed to the nearest transporter station, intent on beaming to the Rozhenkos’ house in Minsk. Since he was on Earth until at least the following day, he was going to take advantage of the opportunity to spend time with his foster parents. I have not had Mother’s rokeg blood pie in far too long. Nor, he added to himself with the tiniest of smiles, her latkes.

  The musty smell of old buildings and canal water assaulted Esperanza Piñiero’s nostrils as she materialized outside Bacco campaign headquarters on Earth, located in the city of Venezia. United Earth government regulations stipulated that transporters were not allowed within any building designated a landmark, and almost the entirety of the Italian city was so designated. To compensate, transporter stations were constructed all over the walkways that snaked around and over the canals.

  Helga Fontaine had chosen the site for their campaign headquarters, and Piñiero was still of two minds about it. It was a lovely place, no doubt about it. In many ways, the city had not changed in a thousand years, and it had a medieval beauty that no modern architecture that Piñiero knew of could match.

  But that beauty could be very distracting, and the last thing a three-week campaign could afford was distractions. It’s going to be enough of a challenge to win this thing. Hell, it’s gonna be damn near impossible to win this thing.

  She walked the few meters to the headquarters entrance, which was an old-fashioned door that had to be opened by hand. More of that landmark foolishness, Piñiero thought. I should’ve overridden Helga on this. We need to be looking at the future, and all this place does is romanticize the past. The past is Min Zife and Koll Azernal. The past is Jaresh-Inyo letting Starfleet make an ass of him. If we’re going to win, it has to be by embracing the future.

  Then she caught it.

  It had been late evening in San Francisco when she left there moments ago, but dawn was just arriving in Italy. The sun started to peek out over the horizon, bathing the ancient buildings in a beatific molten butter glow. The canal water bounced the light in all directions, looking like a pile of scattered gemstones.

  Piñiero just stopped and stared at the pure glory of daylight shining on millennia-old stonework. Again, she inhaled, feeling the sea air waft into her nostrils, admiring it rather than viewing it as an intrusion the way she dismissed the smell when she first beamed in.

  That’s why we’re here, she realized. Because the Federation is a thing of beauty, and we need to preserve it the way the government has worked to preserve this most magnificent city.

  Opening the door, she thought, How the hell am I going to explain this to her?

  At least the governor was still on ship’s time from their trip through the Rigel colonies, so it was late afternoon for her. There would be no worries about waiting for the caffeine to kick in. The time changes mattered little to Piñiero, whose Starfleet career took her to so many planets that her internal clock had given up the ghost by the time she made lieutenant. But Nan Bacco still had trouble with ship lag.

  Even as Piñiero made her way through the lobby area—which was empty of all save the security guard at this early hour—she wondered if she should even share this latest news. Maybe she’ll be better off not knowing. If we lose, this knowledge can only…

  She shook the thought off. What is it Fred keeps saying? We’ve got to act as if we’ve already won. If the voters see a lack of confidence, they won’t have any reason to be confident in us.

  She could hear Bacco’s voice in her office before she turned the corner to face the open doorway. “Look, Piers, I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. Talk to Lieutenant Governor Gari, she’ll be able to handle everything. That’s her job.”

  “But Governor, she is the one who told me to confirm with you.”

  Bacco ran her left hand through the curls of her paper-white hair just as Piñiero entered the office. Bacco, who was standing behind her desk and looking down at the com unit on her cluttered desk, glanced up at the sound of her footfalls and waved her in with her right hand. “Piers, I’m confirming it now. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am, that was all I needed.”

  “Good for you. Bacco out.” She angrily stabbed at the com unit’s control panel, cutting off the image of Piers Renault, the governor’s press liaison. “I don’t know who’s worse, Piers or Gari. Neither one of ’em seems to be able to go to the bathroom unless I sign off on it.”

  “If they do ask, I’d say let them.”

  “It’d be a welcome change for Piers.” Bacco chuckled as she sat in her chair and indicated that Piñiero should take the guest chair. “So how’d that thing go in San Francisco? What was it, a reception?”

  “A birthday party for Admiral Nechayev. I served with her on the U.S.S. Gorkon.”

  Frowning, Bacco said, “There’s a U.S.S. Gorkon?”

  Piñiero nodded.

  “Wasn’t Gorkon a Klingon chancellor?”

  “Yes, but he was the one who was instrumental in getting the Khitomer—”