A knot formed behind Sulu’s eyes, and she reached up and rubbed her forehead. What am I doing?she asked herself. She understood the grieving process, recalling the emotional storms she had weathered during other times of loss throughout her life. But was that what she was doing now? Was she working through her shock and sadness, or obsessing over them, staying mired in her sorrow?

Maybe the captain was right,she thought. Maybe I should talk to Dr. Morell.

Sulu dropped her hand into her lap and looked again at the Universeroster on her desktop display. She had no desire to diminish the memories of these women and men by fixating mindlessly on their loss. She wanted instead to honor them, to find the words or gestures that would exemplify her grief, and in so doing, venerate the lives of the Universecrew.

And that’s what she would do, she decided.

Sulu stood from her desk and retrieved a small, round candle from her bedroom. She returned to the front cabin with it, and set it down before the desktop computer interface. After lighting the candle, she sat and folded her hands together. The yellow flame flickered once, then settled down to burn steadily. Sulu focused on it for several moments, before raising her eyes once more to the Universecrew roster.

“Commander Adrienne Kuwano,” she said, her voice firm and clear. She peered again at the candle flame, bowing her head as she memorialized her fallen compatriot. Finally, after a silent minute or so, she looked back up at the screen, at the next name on the list. “Lieutenant Commander Alexei Chernin,” she recited, and bowed her head once more.

It took more than an hour for Sulu to read through the entire list of names.

A recognizable and steady tone signaled the arrival of the visitor at Kamemor’s quarters. “Enter,” she said from her place on the sofa, and the door slid open to reveal Captain Harriman standing beyond it. Behind him, a muscular security guard towered over him, evidence of station protocols that required guests to be accompanied when outside their habitat and conference sections.

“Ambassador Kamemor,” Harriman said, bowing his head and closing his eyes in what she took to be a sign of respect. After the meeting with Harriman and the Federation envoys—and the vulgar Vokar—the three had been assigned separate quarters, despite the uncertainty of how long the trio would be staying on Algeron. From his cabin, Harriman had contacted Kamemor and asked for an audience with her. It had demanded some consideration for her to accede to his request; concerned that even the smallest misconception could pose a problem for the treaty negotiations, she did not wish to risk the impression of impropriety. But she realized that far greater problems than that now plagued the peace talks, and in the decade and a half that she had known the Starfleet captain, she had always found him an honorable and trustworthy man.

“Captain Harriman,” she said, standing. “Please come in.” The captain strode inside, and the security guard followed, stopping in the doorway. “Thank you, that will be all, Lieutenant,” Kamemor said, dismissing him. He withdrew back into the corridor, the door closing behind him.

“Jolan tru,Ambassador,” Harriman said, offering the traditional Romulan greeting. His pronunciation, impressively, lacked even the slightest hint of a human accent.

“Good evening, Captain,” Kamemor returned, trusting in her own language skills to reciprocate Harriman’s show of deference. “Please, have a seat,” she said, opening her hand in the direction of a chair across from where she had been sitting.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Harriman said as he moved farther into the room. He circled around the chair and sat down.

“It is my honor,” she said. “May I offer you something to drink? Some ale perhaps?” She recalled the last time she had seen Harriman, at another treaty negotiation more than five years ago, on a moon in Tholian space. The two, celebrating the signing of a trade accord, had shared more than a liberal amount of the famed Romulan intoxicant.

Harriman looked up and smiled, clearly understanding her reference. “I think I’ll pass on the ale today,” he said. “But a glass of carallunwould be refreshing.”

“Of course,” Kamemor said, struck again by the captain’s knowledge of Romulan culture. As far as she knew, carallun—a lightly flavored citrus beverage made from fruit native to Romulus—was generally unknown outside of the Empire. She walked from the sitting area to the other side of the room, to the food synthesizer set into the bulkhead there. As she operated the control panel, walking through several menus and submenus, she asked, “How is Ms. Sasine?” Kamemor had once met Harriman’s romantic partner, and Ms. Sasine had been the topic of conversation on more than one occasion.

“Good, very good, although I miss her,” Harriman said. “And how about Ravent?” he added, asking about Kamemor’s own mate.

“Excellent, thank you,” Kamemor said. “Although I miss her as well.” Arriving at the submenu item for carallun,she selected it, specifying her request for two glasses of the beverage. “So, Captain, is this a social visit, or an official one?”

“I’m afraid it’s neither,” Harriman said.

“Neither?” Kamemor questioned. “Then this is an unofficial visit, and not one intended for social purposes.”

“Yes,” Harriman agreed. “That’s right.” The hum of the food synthesizer filled the room, and its small door slid upward to reveal a pair of tall, narrow glasses on the shelf within. Kamemor picked them up and crossed back to the sitting area. As she handed one of the pale yellow drinks to Harriman, she saw him peering around her quarters. She followed his gaze as it passed over the artwork adorning her walls, a collection of realist works, mostly oil paintings, but also including a pair of busts she had acquired over the years. She saw the captain’s attention settle on a still life portraying an IDIC pendant sitting atop a stack of books on an antique desk. “That painting is by a woman named Raban Gedroe,” she told him. “It is entitled Still Life, with Philosophy.”

“It is impressive,” Harriman said. “But I’m a little surprised to see a Vulcan symbol depicted in a piece of Romulan art.” He obviously referred to the medallion in the painting, an ancient Vulcan icon embracing the concept of “infinite diversity in infinite combinations.”

“Tolerance and acceptance are ideals hardly exclusive to the Vulcans,” Kamemor said.

“And yet not practiced widely enough,” Harriman said as Kamemor sat back down on the sofa. “It’s good to see you again, Ambassador. You’re looking well.”

“I am well, thank you,” Kamemor said, sipping at her drink. “Although I am also frustrated at the often torpid pace of the peace negotiations.”

“I understand,” Harriman said.

“And you?” Kamemor asked. “Are you well? You appear…fatigued.” The captain’s features seemed drawn, his eyes red.

“I am fatigued,” Harriman admitted. “The situation with the hyperwarp drive…that’s why I’m here.”

“But not in an official capacity,” Kamemor said, attempting to understand the purpose of Harriman’s visit.

“No,” the captain said. “I wanted to tell you…I wanted to assureyou…that the new drive was never intended to provide the Federation with a first-strike capability.”

“I see,” Kamemor said, not disguising her tone, which clearly reflected the uncertainty she felt about Harriman’s claim.

“I can tell you that I’ve been involved in the project from the outset,” he continued. “It’s been in development for years, the next logical step after the failure of Starfleet’s transwarp program.”

Kamemor leaned to her left and set her glass down on a small table at the end of the sofa. “All these years since the transwarp program, Captain,” she said. “Two, two and a half decades? And a starship equipped with the next generation of propulsion systems appears now, at the height of tensions between the Empire and the Federation?”