“But surely waking from his coma must be a positive sign,” Mentir said, seeking some measure of hope.

“Yes,” Van Riper said cautiously, stretching the word out, “but that’s not in itself cause to believe that the admiral can overcome his injuries.”

“I see,” Mentir said, though he wasn’t necessarily sure that he did. “Is he lucid?”

“He seems to be,” Van Riper said, “but he’s also extremely tired, and Dr. Morell has reported that he’s shown some signs of distress.” Even though Blackjack was being treated on Space Station KR-3, Mentir knew that he still remained in the primary care of the Enterprise’s CMO, who had first treated him.

“Distress?” Mentir asked, but then he heard the door open behind him. He turned his antigrav chair to see Blackjack’s son enter.

“Admiral,” Captain Harriman said, his expression stoic. He did not look as though he’d been sleeping particularly well, though.

“Captain,” Mentir returned. He knew that there must be some physical resemblance between father and son, but he had never been able to see it. Nor had he ever seen much similarity in their personalities. But then, few people could match up against Blackjack; he cut such a commanding figure, tall and muscular, with a strong, self-assured presence. Captain Harriman was his own man, of course, and a fine commander, but he was not his father. “I assume that Dr. Van Riper contacted you about your father.”

“Actually, Idid,” came another voice.

Mentir looked around to see Dr. Morell approaching from one of the intensive-care bays. “Doctor,” he greeted her.

“Admiral,” Morell said, and then, looking with some apparent concern to the younger Harriman, “Captain.”

“May we see him?” Captain Harriman asked.

Morell hesitated, peering at Mentir and Dr. Van Riper in quick succession before looking back at Harriman.

“May I see you privately for a moment, Captain?” she asked. Mentir thought that she seemed very uncomfortable.

“It’s all right, Doctor,” Harriman said, and Mentir got the impression that the captain knew what Morell had to tell him. Mentir thought that he knew as well. “Go ahead.”

“I mentioned to Admiral Harriman that you and Admiral Mentir would be coming to see him,” Morell said, still clearly ill at ease. “He got…um…agitated.”

“He doesn’t want visitors?” Dr. Van Riper asked, but Mentir knew that was not the case.

“He doesn’t want me,”Captain Harriman said.

“No, sir,” Morell agreed. “And I’m afraid, under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to go in. The admiral’s in no shape to be upset.”

“I understand,” the captain said, and Mentir could see that he did, although Mentir himself did not—at least not entirely. He knew that a rift had long ago developed between father and son, but he had never known why that had happened, or why the two had never resolved whatever issues lay between them. Mentir had inquired a few times many years ago, but Blackjack had always deflected the conversation elsewhere, never once bringing up the subject himself.

Captain Harriman started to leave, but Mentir stopped him. “Would you like me to tell your father something for you?” he asked.

“Tell him—” the captain began, but then he seemed to catch himself. “No. No thank you, Admiral.” He turned and exited.

A stony silence drifted into the room, which Mentir finally broke. “I’d like to see him then,” he said.

“Of course,” Morell said. “This way.” She gestured toward one end of the long room. “I’ll have to ask you to stay only a short time, Admiral. Just a couple of minutes at most. Admiral Harriman is obviously very weak and very tired.”

“I understand, Doctor.” Mentir followed Morell to the bay in which Blackjack lay. She walked up to the side of the biobed and leaned down near her patient’s face, blocking him from view.

“Admiral Mentir is here to see you,” she said quietly. She backed away, allowing Mentir to maneuver his antigrav chair in beside the biobed. He peered over at his friend and felt horrified by what he saw. Bandages swathed the entire top of Blackjack’s head, and covered most of one side of his face. But even where his head and face were not visible beneath the gauze, the impression was that of flesh that had been compromised, bone that had been fractured. His complexion barely contrasted with his bandages, so pallid did it appear. His lips had thinned into an ashen line. A respirator encircled his chest and evidently breathed for him. Blackjack looked bloodless, his body seeming too frail to hold life within it.

Mentir leaned in toward his longtime friend. “Blackjack,” he said gently, “it’s Tirasol.” Blackjack’s one visible eyelid fluttered, but did not open all the way. His eye appeared hazy and unfocused, as though attempting to see through a fog. He looked not just exhausted, but hurt.

In pain,Mentir thought. Both physically and emotionally.

He waited a few moments, and when Blackjack said nothing, and seemed to see nothing, Mentir thought that he should probably leave. But as he prepared to move away, Blackjack’s gaze found him. “Tirasol,” he said in a voice barely strong enough to be called a whisper, the syllables almost lost in the murmur of the respirator. “I wanted…to tell you…it worked.”

“‘It worked’?” Mentir repeated, unsure what Blackjack meant. Was he coherent, or had his medical condition rendered his words meaningless?

“The…” Blackjack sputtered. “The Romulans…”

Mentir waited for Blackjack to continue, but he said no more. “What about the Romulans?” he finally asked. “Blackjack, what about the Romulans?” But Blackjack’s eyelid flickered closed. Had he been hallucinating, or disoriented, or had he actually been trying to tell Mentir something? “Blackjack,” Mentir said. “Blackjack.”

“Admiral,” Dr. Morell said, moving back in beside Mentir. “I think that’s enough.”

“Can you revive him, Doctor?” Mentir asked. “Can you bring him more awake?”

“I don’t know,” Morell said. “But certainly not without putting him at risk.”

“All right,” Mentir said. He looked at his friend, and felt as though he didn’t really recognize him. “If he gets stronger, if he can talk,” he said, “I want to know immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mentir backed his antigrav chair away from the biobed, taking one last look at Blackjack. Then he turned and headed out of the bay, wondering if his friend would ever be the same again.

The Klingon recording device sailed through the air in a high arc, nearly striking the ceiling before it descended to the conference table with a crash. The device skittered across the flaxen surface, until it came to rest not far from where the Federation ambassador, Endara, sat. He looked at it, Kage thought, as though it might leap at his throat at any moment.

“What is your explanation for this?” Kage asked angrily from across the room, from where he had tossed the recorder. The storm he forced into his voice belied the calmness within him. The data on the recorder had been transmitted directly to him by Chancellor Azetbur yesterday, and she in turn had received it from the Romulan government. Kage assumed that Ambassador Kamemor had by now been provided the information as well. Both yesterday and today had been scheduled as open days in the Algeron talks, when no negotiating sessions would take place, but after Kage had learned of the Romulan sensor logs and consulted with the chancellor about them, he had requested this special session. He suspected that if he had not done so, Kamemor would have.

At the end of the conference table, among the other four members of his staff, Ambassador Endara seemed to compose himself. He looked up from where the recorder had landed and over at Kage. “Am I to infer that you want me to examine the information on this device, Ambassador?” Endara asked, his tone steady and not acerbic, even if his words were. He made no move to pick up the recorder.