It was nearly 0800; he had yet to get a cup of coffee, and the senior staff meeting was about to start. Normally, Reyes waited until after lunch to decide whether a day was a good one or not, but as he trudged toward a turbolift for the ride up to ops, he decided that any day that began with him being ambushed by his ex-wife couldn’t possibly end well.

Jeanne Vinueza’s esper skills were nowhere near as powerful or focused as those of Vulcans, but she had enough experience gauging emotions and picking up surface thoughts to know when she was being lied to. Looking across the wide gray table at the Chelon ambassador and two Starfleet officers, she was certain that at least one of them was hiding something.

It wasn’t Aole Miller. Starbase 47’s colonial administrator was an open book, all bonhomie, warmth, and untainted goodwill. Men like him were a rarity, in Vinueza’s experience: good souls unblemished by pessimism or cynicism. Short and ebony-skinned, with a smooth-shaved head and a bright white smile, he was without a doubt the most truthful and forthcoming person in the chilly, utilitarian-looking conference room.

Ambassador Jetanien and Starfleet JAG officer Captain Rana Desai were another matter.

Jetanien held up a data slate in one scaly, clawed manus. “I’ve read your petition three times, Ms. Vinueza,” he said. “And I still don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand our petition?” Vinueza asked.

“I understand its contents perfectly,” he said, setting down the slate. “What I fail to understand is why I’m reading it at all. Frankly, I find your case for refusing protectorate status incomprehensible.”

Mimicking his archly patronizing tone, she replied, “Perhaps your colleague Captain Desai could explain it to you, Mr. Ambassador.” She tried to glean some sense of his reaction, but his face, a leathery olive mask marked by a turtlelike beak and deep amber orbs for eyes, betrayed nothing. His thoughts were even more remote from her; Chelon brain waves were too dissimilar from those of most humanoids for Vinueza to read.

Jumping into the conversation, Miller seemed genuinely taken aback by the colonists’ petition. “I respect your colony’s right to independence,” he said, leaning forward. “But declining official Starfleet protection in a sector targeted for conquest by the Klingons seems, well, unwise.”

Desai added, “If it’s a matter of preserving your world’s legal autonomy, Ms. Vinueza, there are several exemptions available under the Federation’s colonial charter for the Taurus Reach. Accepting our protection would not obligate you to anything that hasn’t been ratified by a vote of your colony’s residents.”

There was no duplicity in Desai’s surface thoughts, at least none that Vinueza could detect. Something felt off about the slim Indian woman’s demeanor, however. A tinge of concern, a shadow of doubt, the hint of a secret lurked behind her words. She isn’t malicious, Vinueza concluded, but she’s not being completely forthright, either.

Vinueza replied, “It’s not about our independence, Captain. Our concerns are based on the rising frequency of clashes between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. If we accept UFP protectorate status, we might as well paint a bull’s-eye on our colony. Neutrality, both politically and economically, seems like the safest course to us. So with all respect, the people of New Boulder would rather not fly your banner over their new home.”

“I daresay you would be hard-pressed to find a more ardent supporter of colonial self-rule than myself,” Jetanien said. “However, I have to confess that I find your political risk assessment of the Taurus Reach somewhat lacking in nuance and marred by gross naïveté. Disavowing affiliation with the Federation, far from sparing you the notice of the Klingon Empire, will in fact bring you more swiftly to their attention as a soft target, one that they can encroach upon without fear of Starfleet interference or reprisal. I would beg you to reconsider and withdraw your petition.”

She shook her head. “That’s not an option, Mr. Ambassador. The colonists have already ratified this petition. As their representative, it’s my responsibility to honor it.”

“And as their leader,” Jetanien countered, “it’s your duty to prevent them from making a potentially fatal mistake. The people of New Boulder are your constituents, Ms. Vinueza, not your shareholders. You are not blindly yoked to their will.”

Vinueza sighed softly and resisted the urge to reply before thinking through her response. Jetanien’s remark about shareholders clearly had been intended to goad her, by casting aspersions on her previous tenure as the chief executive of an interstellar dilithium-mining corporation and implying that her experience in the much-maligned private sector was inapplicable to her new role as an officer of civil government. The first one to get angry loses, she reminded herself. Don’t take the bait.

“I would not present a petition in bad faith, Mr. Ambassador,” Vinueza said. “Nor would I advocate any measure that I felt would be to the detriment of those I represent. The New Boulder colony is an agricultural collective. Gamma Tauri IV has no dilithium, so I’m not worried the Klingons will show much interest in it. What does worry me is how interested Starfleet seems to be. You’ve clearly read my file, so you know about my esper skills. Well, every time I’ve talked to Starfleet Command about this colony, I’ve gotten the feeling that someone is hiding something. Bottom line? I don’t trust you people.”

“Ma’am, we just want to ensure the safety and success of your colony,” Miller said. “The Lovell and a team from the Corps of Engineers have been there for the past four weeks, helping your people get their farms running, their water cleaned, and their backup generators operational. And I want to assure you that even if you refuse protectorate status, the Lovell and her team will stay on to assist you, no strings attached, until your colony is fully self-sufficient. Starfleet just wants to help.”

Rising from her seat, Vinueza said, “Thank you, Commander, that’s very generous.” She picked up her briefcase and cast a suspicious glare at Jetanien and Desai. “But I suspect we’ll be getting Starfleet’s help whether we want it or not.”

2

Ensign Brian O’Halloran grunted and struggled to keep his hands from slipping off of the enormous, prodigiously heavy component, the name of which had slipped his mind at about the same time as his back had slipped a disc. He was fairly certain that part of the problem was that his partner, Ensign Jeff Anderson, was sitting on a rock behind him instead of helping him hook up the humongous whatever-it-was to a juncture in the colony’s new water main. As his knees began to wobble under the strain, O’Halloran pleaded, “Would it kill you to lend a hand?”

“Yes, it would,” said Anderson, staring at the horizon. “It kills me that we’re stuck here, pounding out this kind of grunt work, when there’s a whole world full of other stuff we could be doing.” Eyeing O’Halloran’s predicament, he added, “You should put that down before you hurt yourself.”

As if Anderson had spoken magic words, the clumsy hunk of heavy metal fell through O’Halloran’s hands. He leaped backward, barely dodging clear in time to save his foot. “Great,” he groused, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s probably broken.”

“Stop complaining,” Anderson said, brushing a bang of blond hair from his eyes. “You know the first rule of engineering: If it jams, force it. If it breaks, it had to be replaced anyway.”

Pacing around the device, O’Halloran replied, “It didn’t jam, I dropped it—because you weren’t helping me.” He stepped back and stroked his dark goatee as he studied the problem. “How the hell are we supposed to get it back in position?”