Then the transmission ended, and the screen reverted to the image of the alien fleet as it finished its course change and leapt to warp speed, en route to regroup with its waiting armada.

Stano crossed her arms. “Charming fellow. Real smooth talker.”

“For a Tholian, he’s practically a diplomat,” Khatami said.

Estrada looked up from his console. “Enterprise is hailing us, Captain.”

“On-screen.” Khatami watched the forward screen snap to an image of the Enterprise’s dashing young commanding officer, a lean and fair-haired man in his mid-thirties. “Captain Kirk, I presume?”

“And you must be Captain Khatami.”

She favored him with a grateful smile. “Thanks for rolling out the red carpet.”

“Our pleasure, Captain.” Kirk turned serious. “What’s your status? Do you need assistance?”

“More than I’d like to admit. We got beat up pretty badly over the last few days.”

Kirk nodded. “Understood. We’ll be in transporter range in a few minutes. Once we’re all at impulse, we’ll beam over engineers, supplies, and whatever else you need.”

“Glad to hear it,” Khatami said. A glance from Stano confirmed that she was passing the good news to Mog. Turning her attention back to Kirk, she added, “Maybe then we’ll be able to keep up with you on the way back to Vanguard.”

“We’ll only be with you for half the trip, I’m afraid. About an hour ago, we received a distress signal from the planet Ariannus. We’ll have to leave you after we pass Kessik. But don’t worry—the latest intel from Starfleet says the rest of that sector is clear, and the Buenos Aires is en route to meet you at Al Nath. They’ll be your escort from there back to Vanguard.”

“Acknowledged.” Khatami was about to sign off, but she didn’t know when she might get another chance to speak with Kirk, and her curiosity was too intense to be denied. “Captain, if it wouldn’t be too impertinent, could I ask you a personal question?”

The young captain looked amused by her carefully couched inquiry. “Be my guest.”

“I read a report from Starfleet Command last year that said you’d met the Greek deity Apollo. I was just wondering . . . did that really happen?”

Kirk glanced at someone off-screen, then his mouth curled upward with playful mischief. “I prefer to think that Apollo met me. . . . Enterprise out.”

16

Jetanien kneeled on his portable glenget opposite Lugok, at a table in a secluded corner of Ventus, one of the few restaurants still operating within the limits of Paradise City. The narrow, low-ceilinged dining room’s deeply subdued illumination did little to conceal its filthy floors and bare walls. If not for the dim shaded bulb hanging directly above their table, Jetanien doubted he would even be able to read the menu. He looked around the dingy eatery with suspicion. “Lugok, are you quite certain this establishment is open for business?”

“Quite certain,” the Klingon replied without lifting his eyes from his menu.

Tapping the digits of one scaly manus on the tabletop, Jetanien wasn’t convinced. “If that’s the case, old friend, shouldn’t someone be attending us? Had we not found menus on our table when we arrived, I suspect we would still be waiting for them.”

Lugok looked mildly irritated as he peeked over the top of his menu. “Be patient. Maybe they’re busy.”

“Oh, really?” He waved broadly at the sea of empty tables surrounding them. “With whom? If this restaurant is a going concern, why do we appear to be its only patrons?”

The Klingon answered with a glum frown, “Its cuisine isn’t very popular.”

“Nonsense,” Jetanien huffed. “I’ve already seen several items on the menu that sound delectable to my rather discerning palate.”

“As I said.”

Jetanien ground his mandible for a moment, then set down his menu. “I suppose we can at least be grateful that by meeting here, we are unlikely to fall victim to eavesdroppers. Or the temptation to overeat. Or eat at all.” He leaned back and strained to divine any sound or motion from the kitchen, but detected nothing. “Perhaps this is a self-service automat.”

“I am quite sure it’s not.”

Leaning away from the table, Jetanien grumbled, “Maybe if I go back there, I could get their attention.”

Lugok harrumphed. It was a deep but muffled sound, hidden under his thick beard and fleshy torso. “Like the way Captain Khatami got the Tholians’ attention at Eremar?”

“So, you heard about that, did you?”

A sadistic chuckle animated the Klingon’s swarthy face. “Half the quadrant’s heard about it by now. The Tholians all but called it a war crime.”

“Ridiculous. Captain Khatami’s actions were entirely proportional and in accordance with accepted interstellar law. She did not fire on their ships until they fired upon hers.”

“You speak as if the Tholians give a damn about such distinctions. At a time when the Gonmog Sector—”

“We prefer to call it the Taurus Reach.”

“Good for you,” Lugok continued, unfazed by the interruption. “At a time when the Gonmog Sector is teetering on the brink of all-out war, Khatami should have known better.”

A derisive snort escaped Jetanien’s nasal aperture. “It’s just more Tholian saber-rattling.”

“Yes, just like that empty gesture they made when they destroyed the Bombay.” Lugok looked up and studied Jetanien’s face, perhaps hoping to provoke some kind of response. After several seconds passed without Jetanien taking the bait, the Klingon moved on. “So, what was your little scout ship looking for on Eremar, anyway?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Jetanien said. “You might recall that I’m officially no longer cleared for sensitive operational intelligence from Starfleet.” He knew that Lugok understood the key word in that sentence had been officially. The two “retired” diplomats had become quite adept at reading between the lines of each other’s statements. It was simply a matter of professional courtesy that they tended to refrain from calling each other out on their lies. “If, by some thermodynamic miracle, a server should ever appear to take our orders, I believe I should like to sample their assortment of fried beetles.”

“With any luck, this place will burn to the ground, with us in it, before I have to endure the spectacle of watching you eat that.” He perused the menu again. “The thrakas carpaccio sounds like it might be edible, if I can get a decent stein of warnog to wash it down.”

Inhaling deeply, Jetanien thought for a moment that he caught the scent of smoke from the kitchen, but then it was gone, and silence reigned once more inside Ventus. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to mention that I conferred with our friend from Romulus.”

“And . . . ?”

“The conversation was less than fully illuminating.”

Lugok chortled softly. “I presume you’re exercising your talent for understatement.” He shook his head. “So, you’ve learned nothing pertinent to my inquiry?”

“That was not what I said.” Jetanien reached under the folds of his tunic and took a data card from an inside pocket. He put it on the table and pushed it across to Lugok, who picked it up and tucked it inside his own jacket as Jetanien spoke. “Apparently, both Starfleet Intelligence and their civilian counterparts have been investigating this matter for some time. It seems your suspicions are correct: one of your empire’s noble Houses is being courted to act as a proxy for Romulan interests, perhaps as a prelude to seizing the chancellorship.”

The Klingon’s voice was a low rumble. “Which one?”

“Duras. One of the more bellicose voices on your High Council at the moment, and not one the Federation would be keen to see wield power as a head of state.”