Kant scowled. “That’s one way of looking at it. It started publication about three hundred years ago, right after the first contact between Vulcans and humans on Earth. A group of humans felt that Vulcans should rule the galaxy. They started the FVG, and it’s kept going strong despite being officially repudiated by the Vulcan government, and being the laughingstock of pretty much everyone who doesn’t subscribe to it, which is about ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of sentient life.”

  Zhres tilted his head in a way that Kant found especially annoying. “What’s the basis of their argument?”

  “What, why Vulcans should rule the galaxy?” Kant shrugged. “I guess because they’re the only ones smart enough.”

  “It’s a case that can be made.”

  Glowering at his assistant, Kant said, “I’m going to assume that was a joke.”

  “I thought assuming was bad.”

  “See, that’s your second mistake. Your first was assuming. Your second was to believe that I’m someone who expects, desires, or needs you to think. Thinking just gets in the way of the work and irritates me. Kindly stop it.”

  Kant and Zhres reached the large doors that led to a small, empty room that was about to be full of people who weren’t there.

  Holographic technology had improved to the point that it could be married to communications technology. As a result, the days when Kant would be in the same room as the various members of the press assigned to cover the doings of the president and the council were long past. Instead, he scheduled his briefings, the press folk in question would activate their own holocoms, and their images would appear in this room, located in the same building as the council chambers in Paris.

  The doors parted at their approach, revealing a room with the usual grid pattern on the walls indicating holographic emitters. As soon as they entered, the room activated, the computer altering the surroundings to one of a pleasant, wood-paneled room, with a podium by the north wall and plenty of floorspace in front of it. Kant preferred it this way. He never understood why the press all got to sit while he had to stand, so right after he took the job as press liaison, he had all the chairs removed. With the advent of the holocom, that all changed, as the reporters could present themselves however they wished—including at their seats—a change that Kant also found annoying.

  Standing behind the podium and in front of the Federation flag that hung on the north wall, Kant asked, “They ready?”

  The technician that was hidden in some other room where Kant couldn’t get at him said, “Yes, but Councillor Ra’ch’s office specifically told me not to activate the holocom until noon.”

  Kant checked his chrono, which read 11.58. Damn literal-minded techies.

  He turned to Zhres. “Check with Starfleet again, see if Ross has released any kind of statement.”

  Nodding, Zhres put a blue hand to his right ear, disturbing his well-groomed, feathery white hair. Speaking in a low voice, he asked to be put through to Starfleet Command’s press office.

  An eternity later—though Kant’s chrono insisted that it was only thirty seconds—the answer came through the Andorian’s earpiece. “Nothing yet.”

  “Did they at least give some kind of estimate as to when we’d get one?”

  Zhres shook his head. “All they would say is that the admiral will make a statement when it’s appropriate.”

  Kant rolled his eyes. “Now is when it’s appropriate. Right after the council has declared him a candidate. Pagro and Bacco understood that, why the hell doesn’t he?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question? Because I’m afraid my telepathic abilities haven’t improved in the last few minutes.”

  The technician cut off Kant’s snide reply. “Thirty seconds.”

  “About time,” Kant muttered.

  Half a minute later, several figures appeared in the room in front of Kant. Some were humanoid, some not. (This was another major change with the holocom: It allowed those with different atmospheric needs to those of most humanoids to be in the room instead of in a separate area. While Kant agreed with the spirit, the actual result of more people in the room was something else he found annoying.) Some were of sufficiently acute resolution as to seem like they were right there in the room, others were laden with static and poor image quality. Some stood and some, to Kant’s dismay, were seated. Some were also far enough away that there would be a time delay in their questions and responses, which Kant had gotten used to, but had no intention of ever liking.

  When the figures blinked into existence, a cacophony of sound hit the room like a photon torpedo. Kant had grown accustomed to it; Zhres, though, winced. I wonder if he’ll get used to it. Probably won’t last long enough to. Kant took a certain pride in that.

  The noise died down as soon as everyone realized they were “on,” so to speak, the more distant reporters taking longer thanks to the time delay. Kant began speaking as soon as the room was completely quiet.

  “First I have a statement, then two announcements, then I’ll take questions.

  “Here’s the statement: ‘The Federation Council has examined all the petitions for presidential candidacy that have been submitted, and has chosen three who fit the criteria for consideration. An election will be held three weeks from today, with the votes to be tallied by an independent auditor and announced one week after that. The three candidates are: Ktarian Special Emissary Arafel Pagro, Cestus III Governor Nanietta Bacco, and Starfleet Admiral William Ross.’ ” Putting the padd with the statement aside, he then read from the one under it. “Both Special Emissary Pagro and Governor Bacco have agreed to run in the election. Special Emissary Pagro will be giving a press conference on the Golden Gate Bridge on Earth tomorrow, and Governor Bacco is en route to Earth for a press conference of her own at the Statue of Liberty, also tomorrow.”

  He then set aside that padd, and looked up. As soon as he did so, several voices blared at once. Before Kant could call on someone, a short human woman asked, “What about Councillor T’Latrek?”

  Kant looked at her, pulled one of his padds, checked her face against the press list. Yup, it’s the new woman from the FVG.

  “Ms. Armitage, you’ve never been in here before, so let me fill you in on how we do things—I call on people who then ask a question. You do not barge in and get your question asked first by virtue of being ruder than everyone else. That’s my job.” He turned to a Trill woman. “Ozla?”

  Ozla Graniv of Seeker, one of Trill’s leading news-magazines, smiled sheepishly. “Actually, Jorel, I was also going to ask about T’Latrek.”

  Kant glowered at her. “Fine. For you, I’ll answer it. T’Latrek’s name was not submitted to the council for consideration.” He turned to the reporter from the Times. “Edmund?”

  “Has there been any further word from President Zife—sorry, ex-President Zife—on the subject of why he felt the need to resign now?”

  “That ground was well covered in the resignation speech, I thought.”

  Edmund Atkinson smiled superciliously, as was his wont. “I didn’t think so, and neither do my readers. He’s three years into his second four-year term. What did he do that was so terrible that it required holding an election a year early?”

  Kant sighed. “I would think that your readers would be grateful for a politician who realized his own shortcomings and moved to address them. Maria?”

  The squat human woman who covered the council for the high-gravity world of Pangea asked, “Does President Zife’s resignation have anything to do with the horrific events at Tezwa, and is the Federation’s alliance with the Klingon Empire in any danger of collapsing again, especially in light of the incident at the Federation embassy?”

  “As I already said, the reasons for the resignation were covered in the speech. Given that this has been in the works for several months, it is unlikely that the tragedy of Tezwa had any impact one way or the other. As for your second question, relations with Chancellor Martok’s government are as strong as ever. Regia?”

  A human woman from the Federation News Service asked, “If this was in the works for months, why haven’t we heard anything about it?”

  At this, Kant smiled. “Do you really think the president would have been able to accomplish anything for the last few weeks if everyone knew he was resigning? Secrecy was necessary to allow him to continue to do the job properly until the time was right to announce the resignation.”

  He was about to call on another reporter, but Regia wasn’t finished. “C’mon, Jorel, there are always leaks, but this came out of nowhere. Does the Zife administration really think that it’s a good idea to suddenly announce a vacuum in power without giving anyone in the Federation time to adequately prepare for it?”

  “You only think there are always leaks because we provide them periodically. Don’t underestimate our ability to fool you guys.” Some laughter went throughout the room. Kant then turned to one of the static-laden images, as much to get it out of the way as anything. “Regradnischrak?”

  A two-second delay, then: “That’s Regradnischrak,” the reporter from Sebrotnizskeapoierf said. It always made that correction, even though Kant had never been able to determine the difference between Regradnischrak’s pronunciation and Kant’s own. It came from the rather distant world of Antares VIII or, as they called it, Grilasdixraksirvek. “Will any of the candidates be addressing the issue of alternative sources for faster-than-light travel, and will they be coming to Antares to speak to the issue?”

  Kant sighed, having seen that one coming. Some Antarean scientists claimed they had come up with a new, more efficient way to travel faster than light that didn’t come with the inherent risks of matter-antimatter annihilation. Kant knew this because Sebrotnizskeapoierf had taken up this cause célèbre, and so where once Regradnischrak would have asked substantive questions, now it just harped on this to the exclusion of all else. “You’d have to ask them.” He gazed around the room to see if any of the other crackpots were in the room before going back to real news sources, saw none, and so called on a man from Bolarus and You. “Sovan?”

  “Starfleet sources say Admiral Ross has said that he has no interest in running for high office. Does the council have a comment on that?”

  “Someone submitted the admiral’s name, though I can’t say who, as such submissions are confidential. The council deemed him worthy of the honor. From this point, it’s up to the admiral to decide if he’s going to take them up on it, and if he says yes, it’s up to the voters if they think it’s a good idea. But, as you may have gathered from the fact that I didn’t provide one, Admiral Ross has not yet made a statement accepting or declining candidacy. Kav?”

  The stocky Tellarite cleared his throat. “Does the council have any comment on the rumor that the Ontailians are once again considering leaving the Federation?”

  Again, Kant sighed. Damned Tellarites. “Kav, how long have you been covering the council for the Tellar News Service?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Which means you’ve been here for the two and a half years that I’ve been running this particular room, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “In all that time, have I ever passed on a comment from the council, the president, or any of their staff addressing a rumor?”

  This got more laughs, though Kav was not among the amused. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

  “That answers your question, then. T’Nira?”

  Before the Vulcan reporter could ask her question, Zhres handed him a padd. Its display simply contained the words ADMIRAL ROSS’S STATEMENT, with a glowing box next to it. He gave the Vulcan reporter an apologetic look as he applied his thumb to the box.

  “Hang on, T’Nira, I was just handed a statement from Admiral Ross regarding his candidacy.” At his thumb’s touch, the display showed a short paragraph, which Kant read aloud. “ ‘While I am grateful to the council, and to those who submitted my name to them, for their implied confidence in my leadership abilities, I have no interest in running for public office at this juncture. I have every confidence that the new president, whoever it is, will lead the Federation to continued prosperity in this post-war age, and I look forward to working with him or her for the next four years. Starfleet Command has always shared a solid bond with the Federation government, and I look forward to keeping that bond as solid as ever.’ ” Gotta remember to recommend that Ross get a better speechwriter. He looked up. “T’Nira, your question?”

  “President Zife was considering curtailing relief efforts to Cardassia. Is the council still considering that in light of President Zife’s resignation?”

  That had been covered in the briefing Ra’ch had given Kant half an hour earlier. “There are no plans to reduce humanitarian aid to Cardassian space. The Cardassians have suffered enough the last few years, and the Federation is not about to let their people starve just because their recovery has had a few setbacks. Vairo?”

  “Yeah, I’m wonderin’ about that ‘solid bond’ Ross mentioned. Is he includin’ when Starfleet tricked President Jaresh-Inyo into declaring martial law on Earth seven years ago?”

  Kant closed his eyes. “Hang on, let me use my telepathic powers to see what the admiral was thinking.” He opened them. “Nope. Sorry, Vairo, left my telepathy in my other pants today. That’s it, folks, next briefing’s at 2100 tonight.”

  With those words, the room emptied of all save Kant and Zhres. That was the one thing Kant liked unreservedly about the holocom: the off switch.

  As the two of them exited the room, the Andorian said, “You stole my telepathy joke.”

  Shrugging, Kant said, “I wouldn’t call it stealing.”

  “Really?” His antennae quivered. “What would you call it.”

  Kant considered the point for half a second. “Okay, it is stealing, but I’m entitled.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m your boss, your every thought is mine to use as I will.”

  “Did you not say earlier that I was not supposed to think?”

  “Now you’re starting to understand.” Kant smiled.

  Again, the antennae quivered. “Understand what?”

  “Why I’m impossible to work with.”

  The sound of a communication signal interrupted Governor Bacco’s dream, for which she was eminently grateful. In eighty-seven years of life, it was only in the last four days that Nan Bacco started having weird dreams.

  “Governor, it’s time to wake up.” The voice belonged to Nan’s campaign manager and old friend, Esperanza Piñiero.

  “The hell time is it?” she asked. Or, at least, that was what she tried to say, though it came out with fewer actual consonants.

  However, Esperanza had long experience in deciphering Nan’s morning voice. “It’s 0600, Governor.”

  Nan blinked. “Esperanza, you mind telling me why the hell you’re waking me up at this ungodly hour? Not that I mind all that much—I was having another one of those damn dreams.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you wanted to be awake when we came into orbit around Earth.”

  Nan rotated her body ninety degrees so her legs hung over the side of her bed. “Are we in orbit now?”

  “Uh, no, ma’am, but we will be in an hour. I figured if I woke you now, there was a chance you’d actually be awake by the time we made orbit.”

  “Nobody likes a wiseass, Esperanza.” Nan waited for some energy to creep into her legs. Said energy was not forthcoming.

  “So you keep telling me, ma’am.”

  “All right, all right, I’m getting up.” Deciding to throw caution to the wind, Nan got out of bed despite the lack of energy and slowly stumbled her way in the general direction of the replicator. The yacht on which she rode, the Palombo, was at the disposal of Cestus III’s governor, and included a rather large stateroom. “This room is too damn big.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “The room. It’s too big. This bed is farther from the replicator than any sane person should have to ambulate first thing in the morning, especially when her pain-in-the-ass campaign manager gets her up at 0600.”

  “It’s my job to be a pain in the ass, ma’am.”

  “Explains why you’re so goddamned good at it.” She finally made it to the replicator. “Coffee, black, unsweetened.” The replicator hummed and provided a large mug with the needed beverage. “And will you, for crying out loud, call me Nan? We’re not on Cestus and it’s not like I’m president or anything.”

  “We’re hoping to change that, ma’am. Still having the dreams?”

  Nan took a sip of her coffee, the feel of the hot liquid in her throat having a cascade effect on the cobwebs in her brain. Getting Esperanza not to be deferential was a hopeless cause, but that didn’t stop her from trying. She spent too much damn time in Starfleet is the problem. “Yeah. It’s ridiculous. Eleven years as governor, been through DMZ refugees, a major galactic war, and a Gorn invasion, and I sleep like a rock. I decide to run for president, and now I’m dreaming I’m sitting on the Gorn throne with a Metron glowing in front of me while two Vorta ask me if they can invade my planet. This is what happens when you move from the kiddie table, I guess.”

  “Probably, ma’am. The staff and I will be waiting for you in the lounge.”

  Nan took a final gulp of the remainder of the coffee. Starting to feel almost lifelike. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, ma’am. See you in half an hour.”

  “You know, Esperanza, one of these days I’m actually going to make it somewhere when I say I’m going to for the express purpose of pissing you off.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble on my account, ma’am. See you soon. Out.”

  One shower and another cup of coffee later, Nan put on a brown suit and ran a brush through her paper-white hair. Damn, she thought, looking in the mirror at her wrinkled face, tanned from eight decades of exposure to Cestus’s rays, I got three more worry lines. Esperanza would say she was seeing things, which was why she resolved not to share her recognition of these new wrinkles with her campaign manager.

  Buoyed by the caffeine rush and the thought of visiting Earth for the first time in almost three years, Nan exited the stateroom—still too damn big—and walked the few meters across the Palombo’s middle deck to the lounge, arriving precisely half an hour after she told Esperanza she’d be there in twenty minutes. Damn her, anyhow.