Текст книги "The Red King "

Автор книги: Michael Martin

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-two

AULD AERTH, STARDATE 57071.0

Frane shivered under a fog-obscured late-afternoon sun that supplied distressingly little heat. He looked out across the blue-green bay toward a series of large rocks, upon which several large, wet, black creatures made an apparently vain effort to sun themselves; some of them made strange barking noises as they turned their broad bellies toward the waning rays. Above them, white-winged birds circled lazily in the sky, screeching and chattering.

The sight was unlike any he had ever seen before, and yet somehow exactly as he had imagined it would be. He felt the cool soil—so different in texture from the gritty, volcanic sands of Oghen or any of the other old M’jallanish worlds—beneath the toes of his bare feet. The vegetation was green here, rather than bluish, though he had seen some flowering plants that looked almost exactly like the sweet-smelling portangeas of home.

“So what do you think of this place?”

Frane turned, reminded by the voice that he was not alone, and that this was not merely some dream of Auld Aerth. He saw the large, gray-haired man walking toward him through the manicured grass, his shoulder-length locks set into gentle motion by the light breeze. Now that he had taken the time to get to know Admiral Leonard James Akaar, he didn’t find him nearly so intimidating as he had initially.

“It’s…cold,” Frane said, shivering again. He drew his simple penitent’s robe even more tightly about himself, though it did little to keep out the chill.

Akaar laughed, a deep, rhythmic sound that wouldn’t have been out of place in an Neyel space vessel’s Efti’el compartment. “You might be surprised how common that complaint is. According to local legend, an ancient human writer once said that the coldest winter he ever experienced occurred here during summertime. Welcome to San Francisco.”

Frane recalled what he had been told all his life about the progression of Auld Aerth’s seasons; it was currently the dead of the ancestral homeworld’s northern winter, a month and several days past the solstice.

“Regardless of the weather, Admiral, this world is truly beyond my imaginings,” Frane said to Akaar. He pointed out to the sea.

“I hope you and your people will get to know it well,” Akaar said. “After all, it is more your birthright than mine.”

Frane nodded, though this was a difficult concept for him to get his mind around. Being Neyel, Frane was genetically human, though his people resembled no terrestrial racial group owing to their many genengineered traits. Akaar, however, hailed from an entirely different world and heritage, despite his almost completely standard human appearance.

Frane’s eyes were drawn back across the bay, to the strange, intermittently barking animals. “What are those noisy black things?” he said, pointing toward the rocks with the spade-shaped tip of his tail.

Akaar peered across the water and smiled. “Seals. They like to sun themselves out there.”

Frane didn’t understand. “But I saw them go below the water. They breathe both water and air?”

“They are marine mammals. I sometimes regard them as a kind of compromise between people and fish. In fact, according to some very old Earth legends, there used to be creatures known as mermaids that were half-woman and half-fish. When sailors observed the seals at a distance, they sometimes mistook them for mermaids.”

Frane pulled his loose-fitting sleeve up and looked at the bracelet that had been handed down through nine Neyel generations, all the way down from the sainted Aidan Burgess to him through his multigreat grandmatron Vil’ja. He finally located one particular small metal charm.

He held it up so that the admiral could see it. “Is this a mermaid?”

Akaar peered closer. “That is indeed a mermaid.”

“It was one of the original stories,” Frane said. “Burgess brought it with her to Oghen.” Lost, beloved, dead Oghen,he thought, briefly wondering whether the extinguished Neyel Coreworld would one day become the stuff of Neyel legend the way Auld Aerth had.

Akaar placed one of his large hands on the Neyel’s shoulder. “Come with me. There is something here that I must show you before you return to your people.”

As they walked, Frane stepped over and around the stone slabs that lay nestled in the ground, or rose from it. Each of them bore witness to someone from Auld Aerth, people who had been here once, but were no more.

After spending several minutes quietly looking at the stones and their inscrutable markings, Frane spoke. “I think we Neyel are like the seals.”

“How so?” Akaar asked.

“We are half human and half something else. We are what we were made to become. Our Oh-Neyel fathers and mothers made us into something else.”

“From what I know of your history, they had to alter the genetics of the people of the Vanguard colony in order to survive,” Akaar said.

“They never expected that we would return,” Frane said solemnly. He wrapped one of his hands around the bracelet, holding it in place on his arm as they walked slowly through the somber forest of inscribed stones.

Eventually, they reached a meter-high stone column, near a tree whose branches were laden with brown leaves, in bold defiance of the austere winter. Frane noticed other short columns as well, arrayed in concentric rings around the tree.

Akaar gestured toward some writing on the side of the nearest column. Frane could see the familiar chevron that the Titancrew wore on their chests, but he could not decipher any of the text.

“What does it say?”

Akaar crouched and pointed. “It says ‘Aidan Burgess, Ambassador and Peacemaker.’ ”

Frane was confused again. “Why is this here?Burgess was assassinated on the Coreworld.”

“This is an area where the Federation places markers commemorating those who have fallen in its service but are never recovered. Since Burgess’s body was never brought back, they eventually placed this marker here in her stead.”

Frane nodded solemnly. “She has a much bigger cenotaph on Oghen.” He realized his slip, and quickly added, “Had.”

Akaar gave a curious grin. “Well, she may have been more highly regarded by your people than by ours. She did not make a lot of friends toward the end of her career.”

The notion astonished Frane, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He touched the cool stone, then wriggled the story bracelet off of his wrist.

“I have brought the stories back to Auld Aerth,” he said to the column. “Where the oldest of them originated, with Burgess and her ancestors.”

Akaar sat beside the column, his long legs folded beneath him. “Tell me about the bracelet,” he said.

And Frane did. He spoke of Burgess’s childhood, of her adventures exploring the world of her birth, and later, of the multiplicity of worlds that had surrounded her. He told of her coming to Oghen, of the life she had lived there, of the incremental yet necessary changes she had helped bring to Neyel society, and of the legacy she had left behind. With each story, he held up a tiny charm, until the skies had darkened to deep purples and his voice had grown tired and hoarse.

He stood and placed the bracelet atop the column, then slowly backed away. Akaar stood as well, a confused look in his eyes.

“You are leaving it here?”

Frane nodded. “I have returned it, full of memories. It belongs with Burgess.”

Akaar shook his head, his iron-gray hair crowned in a nimbus of fog-shrouded city lights. “No, it belongs with someone who will tell its stories. It belongs with you,Frane. You should keep it, and pass it along to your children, and they to theirs.”

Frane saw the man hesitate, then reach out to grasp the bracelet. He brought it over to the Neyel and held it out to him.

It was probably the first time that someone other than a Neyel had touched the bracelet since the time of Burgess. And yet somehow it seemed right for Akaar to be handing it back to him. Akaar had knownBurgess, had worked alongside her, and more recently, had helped to save the Neyel and the other M’jallanish native races from oblivion.

Frane took the bracelet and slipped it back onto his arm, then turned and began picking his pathway across the sprawling graveyard.

Akaar quickly caught up with him, but said nothing. They walked on in silence as the winter shadows lengthened farther.

“What will you do now that you are no longer aboard Titan?” Frane asked eventually.

“Oh, I was never formally assigned to Titan,”Akaar said. “In fact, I have not had a permanent shipboard posting for many, many years. I sometimes think the fact that I am unwelcome on my homeworld keeps me from putting down roots of any sort elsewhere. Even on a starship.”

“I gather that there were…complications regarding your actions on Oghen?” Frane asked. He wasn’t certain how—or if—he should even bring up the subject.

Akaar stopped and looked skyward, into the gathering night. Frane also paused to look up, and saw that a smattering of unfamiliar stars, constellations he knew only from ancient drawings and photographs, was becoming steadily more visible. The gentle wind had intensified enough to send the fog into retreat, though enough of the haze remained to smear the lights of the city into a colorful wash across the southeastern sky.

“ ‘Complications’ would be putting it mildly,” Akaar said at length. “But I shall weather whatever storms may come. I have been doing this for far too long to do otherwise.”

The admiral looked back over to Frane. “And what of you, Frane? What are yougoing to do next? You are considered something of a hero among the Oghen survivors now.”

“When Starfleet secures a permanent home for my people, I may settle there,” Frane said.

“That could take months. Perhaps years. What of the meantime?”

Frane sighed, and his tail switched back and forth in a classic Neyel expression of indecision. “I don’t know.”

Akaar’s mien grew serious. “If I were you, I would not stay away from the Vanguard habitat for too long.”

That piqued Frane’s curiosity. “Why?”

“Because you could wield considerable influence over the people there. If you wanted to, that is.”

“The people aboard Vanguard are safe from the Sleeper,” Frane said, shaking his head. “That’s the only influence I wish to wield over them.”

“Is it? Once you wished divine retribution upon them.”

Frane lowered his gaze to the carpet of greenery that blanketed the cemetery. He absently picked at it with the fingers of his right foot.

“Much has changed since then.”

“Yes. And things will go on changing, whether you wish to pay attention to them or not. Whether you want it to happen or not.”

Frane was quickly growing uncomfortable with the subject at hand. “What are you trying to tell me, sir?”

“Only that you have earned a certain degree of celebrity among your countrymen. You could use it to lead your people.”

Frane began to laugh then, and found it difficult to stop. “I am no leader. Just a seeker who has failed at just about everything he has ever tried.”

Akaar shrugged. “Maybe you are. It does not matter. Your people perceive you as a savior right now, and thatis all that matters.”

“Leadership is something my father was good at, Admiral. But it is not a talent I share. I am no drech’tor. Perhaps such gifts skip a generation.”

“Whether you understand it or not, you have already led your people this far. But I caution you: fame is a fickle mistress.”

Frane shook his head, confused. “I do not understand.”

“You have a narrow window of opportunity, Frane. If youmiss it, I guarantee that others will not.And some of those might grasp the mantle of leadership with far less altruism and probity than you have demonstrated.”

A queasy sensation settled deep in the pit of Frane’s stomach. “You speak of Subaltern Harn.”

“He is no longer a mere junior military officer, Frane. He was as visible as you during the evacuation of Oghen. Your people will listen to what he has to say. Perhaps even follow his leadership.”

Gods,Frane thought with a shudder that had nothing to do with the chill winter evening. “Harn is a throwback to a much crueler age.”

He recalled how contemptuously Harn had treated his aboriginal coreligionists and traveling companions. “Kaffirs,” he called them. They were just colonial wogs to him. Just like my father.

Such men were indeed throwbacks to a horrible, formative period in Neyel history—paranoid, violent times that Aidan Burgess had spent her life working to help Frane’s people outgrow. The influence of such men on frightened, dispossessed people could well undo all the progress toward peace that had been achieved since the bloody Devil Wars of the previous hundred cycle.

But maybe it really doesn’t have to be that way.

Frane looked up and saw that Akaar was studying him carefully. He had no idea how long they had both been standing there in the glow of the nearly full moon that had just risen into the eastern sky.

Akaar chuckled gently. “Sometimes the best leaders are the most unwilling ones, Frane.”

He felt the future coming down on him, giving him far too many things to think about at once.

“Do you recall Nozomi?” Frane asked.

Akaar nodded tentatively. “The female Neyel who was part of your religious sect?”

“Yes. I am considering formally asking her to become my partner.”

Akaar clapped a hand on Frane’s shoulder. “Good for you. Marry. Start your own family. You will build a future that you may even be willing to fight to protect.

“And you will have someone to tell your family’s stories. Someone who will carry them forward.”

Nozomi.One of the Starfleet audio texts he’d heard aboard Titanhad explained that the name meant “hope” in the Terran language known as Japanese.

Frane raised his arm and looked again at the story bracelet. For the first time in years—perhaps since he was a child himself—he began to feel some genuine hope for the future. He still wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of pursuing a leadership role in the rebuilding of his society. But he knew that the uncertain and tumultuous process of establishing a new life and a new home for himself and his people was a journey worth taking.

One of the rocks on the bracelet glinted as he turned his arm, and Frane lifted his gaze from that speck of brilliance into the evening sky, where billions of stars beckoned and promised the future.

Coda

U.S.S. TITAN,STARDATE 57072.4

Deanna Troi stood just inside the doorway and watched Mekrikuk. The huge Reman was dressed in the plain black Reman military jumpsuit that Nurse Ogawa had replicated for him, and he turned to face the transporter stage. He exchanged courteous nods with his escorts, Lieutenants sh’Aqabaa and Sortollo. The security officers—Andorian and Martian-human respectively—were already standing in at-ease positions on two of the rear transporter pads.

The fearsome-looking Reman turned back to face Will Riker, Tuvok, Ranul Keru, and transporter chief Bowan Radowski, all of whom stood behind the transporter console in front of Troi.

“So this is good-bye,” Will said.

“Farewell,” said the Reman. “I understand that in another three days you’ll be getting under way on your original mission of exploration.”

Will nodded. “We’re bound for the Gum Nebula, in a region of the galaxy beyond the space known to the Federation.”

At long last,Troi thought, with no small amount of eagerness.

“I’ll bet Starbase 185 won’t be nearly as exciting as life aboard Titan,”Keru said.

The tall, chalk-white alien displayed his fangs in a smile, a facial gesture that Troi was gratified to discover no longer made her feel uneasy. Mekrikuk had more than proven that beneath his wide, battle-scarred chest beat a truly noble heart.

“After everything I have experienced since Vikr’l Prison, I would find a certain amount of boredom agreeable,” Mekrikuk said in a pleasing tenor voice that didn’t at all comport with his fierce countenance. “Besides, I do not believe my continued presence would be appropriate aboard a ship of exploration. I am certain that Starfleet would agree with that assessment.”

“You have unique talents, Mekrikuk,” Tuvok said. “Those talents saved countless lives on Vanguard, and will be sorely missed.”

Mekrikuk nodded at the man the Romulans had once so brutally imprisoned with him. “Let us all hope then that your need for such talents remains infrequent, Commander Tuvok. Perhaps our paths will cross again one day. After my…immigration issues have been fully resolved, of course.”

“Has Admiral de la Fuega scheduled a hearing yet on your request for political asylum?” Troi asked.

Mekrikuk shook his head. “I suspect that Starfleet Intelligence will wish to debrief me first.”

“I’m sure they will,” said the captain. “But only under Admiral de la Fuega’s direct supervision.”

Troi sensed some trepidation coming from Mekrikuk, whose Romulan interrogators and jailers had doubtless more than justified such fears.

“Don’t worry,” Troi said. “Starfleet Intelligence is notthe Tal Shiar.” At least, not most of the time.

Will nodded. “And Alita de la Fuega is an honorable woman. I wouldn’t want to trade places with any SI interrogator who tries to step out of bounds on herstarbase.”

He nodded, and Troi sensed that Mekrikuk was greatly reassured. Then he turned again and stepped up onto the transporter stage.

“Good-bye, Mekrikuk,” Troi said.

“I am sure we will all see one another again,” the Reman said. “Someday.”

“Peace,” Tuvok said. “And long life.”

“Farewell, my friend,” Will said.

“Farewell. Thank you all, and may Tenakruvek watch over you.”

Will nodded toward Radowski, who slid his right hand forward across the top of the transporter control console. Mekrikuk and his escorts were instantly engulfed in a curtain of shimmering light, and then vanished entirely.

STARDATE 57080.6

Seated in her chair near the center of Titan’s bridge, Troi set down the padd she was reading and trained her eyes on the main viewscreen. She was rewarded with a vision of the beautiful blue world Titanwas orbiting. But as lovely as the sight was, she felt more than ready to move on, as did everyone else on board. The buzz of eager anticipation that energized the entire crew buoyed her, almost burying her traumatic memories of the death of the planet Oghen.

Almost.

Titanwas quickly approaching the daylight terminator of Iota Leonis II, the aquamarine M-Class world upon which the sprawling Starbase 185 compound lay. The starbase’s position in the Federation’s Beta Quadrant frontier made it not only the closest starbase to Titanafter her return to Romulan space, but also made it an ideal jumping-off point from which to access the rimward reaches of the Milky Way’s vast, mostly uncharted Orion Arm.

The time had come to resume Titan’s original—and interrupted—mission of exploration; that mission had been the new starship’s raison d’être prior to the emergence of almost simultaneous crises in the Romulan Empire and the Neyel Hegemony.

Now Titanwas ready to get back to her real work. The last of her repairs, which had primarily involved the replacement of a number of compromised hull plates, EPS relays, and a few related circuits, had been completed hours ago. Every crew member who had taken shore leave at the starbase was now back on board. The repair technicians that Admiral de la Fuega had loaned to Dr. Ra-Havreii had all been returned to the planet’s surface. Titanwas ready, at long last, to cast off into the unexplored, as was her crew. Ahead lay the Gum Nebula, and the seductive beckoning of the Unknown.

But Troi knew that this ship wasn’t going anywhere until Will tended to one final piece of unfinished business.

Glancing to her right, Troi noticed that Christine Vale seemed to be having similar thoughts.

“You’re still staring at it,” Troi said to Vale’s back, obviously not referring to the planet that was turning majestically on the viewscreen, hundreds of kilometers below.

Vale chuckled as she turned the captain’s chair back toward the front of the bridge. “Sorry to be so fidgety, Deanna. But when Will took down my suggestion box, he left a huge, conspicuous bare spot on the bulkhead. I have to look right at it every time I use the turbolift. It’s impossible to avoid, the way your tongue keeps going after a missing tooth.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, Chris. I still have all my teeth.” Troi grinned broadly, displaying them.

Vale returned her smile with almost equal wattage. “I know, Deanna. Have I told you how much I hate you for that? You obviously never worked in security.”

Troi stifled a guffaw behind the back of her hand as the turbolift whooshed open. She turned toward the sound and watched Bralik and Cethente moving out onto the bridge, the latter perambulating so smoothly on his four, outwardly splayed lower limbs that he almost could have been mounted on wheels.

Bralik stepped over to the bridge railing near where Jaza was working at the main science station. Troi noticed then that the Ferengi geologist had a bottle tucked under her arm. The bottle complemented the rack of delicately fluted champagne glasses that hung from one of Cethente’s four tentacle-like upper appendages.

Bralik immediately fixed her gaze on the bare spot on the bulkhead that Vale had pointed out. “Good. They’ve finally taken the suggestion box down. Looks like the decision’s been made. I just hope we haven’t missed the ceremony yet. When do the festivities start?”

Personally, Troi had had more than enough of ceremonies of any sort, after the recent memorial services for Chief Engineer Ledrah and Lieutenant T’Lirin. The latter, who had been lost during the Oghen evacuation, had been memorialized in a very brief but dignified service, per the Vulcan security officer’s own written directives.

But with T’Lirin’s memorial still only five days in the past, Troi could well understand the need that some of her colleagues might have for other, more life-affirming rites in the wake of so much recent sorrow.

Vale rose and crossed to the railing that ringed the bridge’s central section, approaching Bralik. “Ceremony? We hadn’t planned to make a huge production out of this, Bralik. It’s really not a big deal.”

Bralik’s eyes grew large. “Not a big deal? Nota big deal?”She raised the bottle and produced a gleaming corkscrew with all the panache of a professional stage magician. “Any time a starship gets its official motto installed is a cause for celebration. It’s like…” She paused, seeming to have to grope for an acceptable metaphor. “…like when a Ferengi business concern publicly unveils its mission statements.”

“ ‘Statements’?” Troi asked, rising from her chair. “Why do they need more than one?”

Bralik regarded her as though she belonged to some newly discovered variety of idiot. “There’s the one the company shows to the Ferengi Commerce Authority. And then there’s the realone that management shows its employees.”

Vale shook her head. “I still wouldn’t make too much out of this, Bralik. It’s just a dedication plaque, for crying out loud.”

Bralik snickered as she opened the bottle, which made a loud “pop” but fortunately did not shower the deck with the bottle’s contents. The Ferengi addressed Cethente as she accepted a glass from him. “ ‘Just a dedication plaque,’ she says.” To Vale, she added, “So why did you spend weeksagonizing over piles of quotes and epigrams from all over the galaxy?”

Vale hiked a thumb toward Troi. “My counselor says I work too hard. I needed a hobby.”

Seated, respectively, at the forward conn and ops consoles, Ensign Aili Lavena and Cadet Zurin Dakal exchanged amused looks with Lieutenant Rager, who stood nearby.

Bralik let the vapors from the open bottle’s neck drift toward her wrinkled nose. She made an approving face. “If you ask me, Commander, I think you’re just trying to play down the competitive aspect of this situation.”

“I wasn’t aware of any competition,” Vale said.

“Wasn’t the captain’s ‘Help Select Titan’s Dedication Plaque Motto Suggestion Box’ intended to be a competition?”

Vale shook her head. “I really don’t think so, Bralik. The captain just wanted to give everyone’s ideas a thorough hearing.”

“You’re only saying that because you want to soften the blow when you lose the contest,” Bralik said.

Troi couldn’t restrain herself from chuckling. “So you must think you have a much better chance of winning this ‘competition’ than Commander Vale does.”

“Damned right I do, assuming all the entries get evaluated fairly. Of course, I probably don’t stand as good a chance as youdo, Counselor. After all, I’m not sleeping with—”

“Okay,” Vale said, interrupting. Troi noticed that she and Jaza exchanged veiled, significant glances at that moment. “You don’t want to go there, Bralik, trust me. And another thing: I’ve read all the entries in this ‘competition,’ and yours didn’t exactly make our short list.”

Troi couldn’t get a reliable emotional “read” on Bralik, of course, because Ferengi brains were completely opaque to Betazoids. But she thought that the geologist looked genuinely wounded.

“Why?” Bralik asked.

Vale, too, was now having trouble holding back her laughter. “I’m sorry, Bralik. But ‘tip your waiter’ is not quite something I’d classify as a starship-worthy motto.”

Bralik shrugged. “That’s just because you Federation folk have a cashless economy. In the Ferengi Alliance, those are words to live by, believe you me.”

The turbolift opened again, this time disgorging engineering trainee Torvig Bu-kar-nguv, astrobiology specialist Kent Norellis, and Lieutenant Eviku, the Arkenite xenobiologist.

“I hope we haven’t missed the big unveiling,” Norellis asked, beaming at Vale and Troi.

Torvig waved one of his biomechanical limbs toward the bare spot on the wall. “Obviously not.”

“Then our wager is still on, Cadet?” said Eviku, tipping his long, swept-back cranium to the side as he regarded the Choblik engineering trainee.

“Our wager is still on,” Torvig said.

“Wager?”Cethente asked in a tinkling voice that sounded almost as though his rack of champagne glasses might have just learned to speak. “What have you and Mr. Eviku wagered on?”

Eviku’s eyes met Troi’s, and he flushed baby-blanket pink with embarrassment. “I know it’s not quite regulation, but I saw no harm in placing a small bet.”

Vale frowned. “A bet on what?”

“On the outcome of Captain Riker’s final decision regarding the dedication plaque motto,” Eviku said. Then he turned his piercing gaze upon the ostrich-like Torvig.

“Cadet?” Troi said.

“May I speak freely?” Torvig asked.

Vale smirked. “All right. But just this once.”

“I thought that Captain Riker might give preference to a motto written by a human author. Sir. That is the thesis of my wager with Lieutenant Eviku.”

“Because the captain is human?” Vale asked, nonplussed. “I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit, Cadet.”

“I understand, sir,” Torvig said. “However, your perspective is much the same as the captain’s, Commander. Thus you may have similar exosociological ‘blind spots.’ You, too, are human, after all.”

Vale nodded, a look of understanding crossing her face. “Ah. So you think Titan’s command hierarchy may have a built-in, systemic human bias.”

The Choblik seemed delighted to have been so clearly understood so quickly. “Yes, sir. Precisely, sir. I could not have said it better myself, sir.”

Eviku leaned forward, interposing himself between Torvig and Vale. “For whatever it’s worth, Commander, I took the other side of the wager. My thesis in this debate was that the captain would choose a nonhuman aphorism.”

Vale sighed. “That’s great, Mr. Eviku.” Under her breath, she added, “Remind me to put a special commendation in your service record for that.”

The turbolift shushed open yet again. Ranul Keru, Dr. Ra-Havreii, and Melora Pazlar—the latter leaning carefully on her garlanic wood cane—tried to step out onto the bridge. They all looked surprised to see the room’s aft portion so crowded.

“Whoa. What’s going on?” Keru said, still standing in the turbolift’s open doorway.

“The captain is evidently about to settle a bet for us,” Vale said, deadpan. “In front of an audience.”

“I think we still have room for a few more, Ranul,” Bralik said with a smirk. “Step carefully, though; it’s gonna be standing room only in here pretty soon. Start passing out those glasses, Cethente. I’ll pour the drinkables.”

“You know alcohol’s not allowed on the bridge, Bralik,” Vale said with a scowl, even as the Syrath got started distributing the glasses.

“Oh, snuff-beetle squeeze, Commander,” Bralik said, raising the bottle as though for inspection. “This is synthale, not Klingon warnog.”Cethente had frozen in mid-motion in a pose that made him look like some sort of garment rack—but not before he had placed glasses into the hands of Troi and Vale both. Troi looked toward the aft tactical station, to which Keru, Pazlar, and Ra-Havreii had retreated because there seemed to be so little room to stand anywhere else.

Troi sighed and shook her head as Bralik bulled ahead and began pouring the clear, sparkling liquid. Somehow I don’t think this is exactly what Will had in mind when he mentioned wanting a “quiet, dignified little dedication ceremony just for the bridge staff.”

The turbolift door opened once again. Dr. Ree stood in the threshold, his eyes nictitating rapidly in surprise at the crowd. “I think I’ll come back later,” he said. He took a single step backward and started to let the doors close in front of him. Bralik stepped into the aperture, which forced the doors back open. With her free hand, she grasped one of Ree’s forelimbs and drew him insistently onto the bridge, forcing everyone to move forward in order to make room.

Releasing the doctor, Bralik then emptied the bottle in her other hand and left it perched precariously on one of the railings. Troi reached out and grabbed it before it could get elbowed onto the deck, but the Ferengi appeared not to have noticed.

“So when is this party supposed to get under way?” Bralik said, consulting the small chronometer on her left wrist.

“Nobody planned a party!” Vale said. “This is the bridge!”

A door slid open, but this time the sound wasn’t coming from the turbolift. Troi turned toward the bridge’s forward section and saw Will and Tuvok stepping out of the captain’s ready room, almost in lockstep. Will was carrying a large, cloth-covered oblong object under his left arm. Tuvok wore a golden medallion that hung from a chain around his neck.