When General Kaarg had finished delivering his statements, Kamemor thanked him. After he had withdrawn, returning to his seat beside Commander Sulu, Kamemor stood up to address all those assembled. “I appreciate everybody’s time and tolerance in dealing with this matter so soon after the tragedy. I will bring these reports back to my government, and we will, I am certain, take action.” What actions the praetor and the Romulan Senate might take, Kamemor did not know, but she also understood that it would likely not make any difference in the current flow of politics among the three powers. The Klingons had made their choice of allegiance, and they would not forsake it—at least not in the foreseeable future—no matter what the Romulans had to say; even the unlikely exoneration of Vokar would be met with enough skepticism to prevent Qo’noS from changing sides. “I again offer, on behalf of the praetor, the Senate, and my people, our most solemn condolences on the disaster the Federation has experienced. I also want to assure all parties that if Admiral Vokar and others did commit this heinous crime, then they did so on their own, and not under the aegis of Romulus. We unequivocally condemn these actions.” She peered slowly around the room, being sure to make eye contact with each person present. “Thank you,” she said at last, ending the meeting and dismissing the participants.

The Klingon and Federation delegations exited the room in silence, leaving Kamemor with her two aides. She stood up, preparing to leave herself, but first she wanted to know the thoughts of the people with whom she worked. “What are your impressions of the situation?” she asked.

“It’s a tragedy,” N’Mest said at once. “Commander Sulu was correct in her assessment that this was a cowardly and immoral act.”

Vreenak conspicuously said nothing. Kamemor moved out from her chair and circled out from behind the table. Stopping opposite her aides, she said, “Subconsul Vreenak, have you no opinion on the attack on the Federation?”

“It’s a lie,” Vreenak said simply.

“A lie?” N’Mest said, incredulous. “Do you believe that the Federation outposts were not actually destroyed, that the region of space around them was not decimated, that four thousand people did not lose their lives?”

“Admiral Vokar,” Vreenak avowed, “is not a terrorist.”

“If your characterization is not inaccurate,” Kamemor said sternly, “it is at least irrelevant. What has been done cannot be undone, and that includes not only the act of destroying the Federation outposts, but the alliance of the Klingon Empire to the Federation. What we must do now is not dwell on the past, but focus on the future.”

“And if it is a future based on a lie?” Vreenak asked.

Kamemor moved forward, placed her hands flat on the conference table, and leaned toward Vreenak. “The future we now face, young Merken,” she said, admonishing him for his impertinent attitude, “is one of peace. The praetor and the Senate will not seek to go to war against a force combined of Starfleet and the Klingon Defense Force. And the Federation, despite being viciously attacked, despite being provided superior numbers by the Klingons, has not responded with violence. So at least for now, there will be peace. We should all be thankful for that.”

This time, Vreenak did not respond, apparently chastened enough to hold his tongue. Kamemor turned and headed for the door. Before she left, she looked back toward the conference table. “The lie, Subconsul Vreenak, is believing in something contrary to all evidence.” Then she turned and left, not waiting to see if he would brave a reply.

Captain Harriman walked beside Demora Sulu through the brightly lighted corridors of Space Station KR-3. He had not yet had an opportunity to discuss with her everything that had happened; he hadn’t even found time to contact Amina. While Enterprisehad traveled to Algeron, he had remained in seclusion, and during the return to KR-3, he’d spent most of his off-duty hours in conference with Gravenor and Vaughn, putting together the verbal report that they would deliver to Admiral Sinclair-Alexander. Within the next few days, though, he felt sure that he and Sulu would talk.

When Enterprisehad arrived at the space station just a few minutes ago, Admiral Mentir had asked to see Harriman at once. But while Mentir’s desire for an immediate debriefing about the mission seemed reasonable, and while Harriman had agreed to it, he had decided when disembarking the ship to first visit his father. This time, he would not allow Blackjack to keep him away. Demora, always a supportive friend, had asked if she could come along.

Now they entered the station’s infirmary. Only two of the biobeds in the main section were occupied, he saw, one by a sleeping man, and another by a woman whose ankle was being tended to by a nurse. The scene put Harriman in mind of all the dancing he and Amina had done over the years, since he had twisted his own ankle from time.

As he and Demora approached the wide door of the intensive-care section, it glided open before them. They started inside, but stopped at the threshold when a voice called from behind. “Captain Harriman,” a man said. Harriman turned to see the tall, lean figure of the station’s chief medical officer coming through a doorway on the other side of the room.

“Dr. Van Riper,” Harriman greeted him.

“Captain,” the doctor said after he had crossed the room, “I’m terribly sorry.”

Harriman nodded knowingly. “We all are,” he said, unsure that he would ever feel completely comfortable speaking about the apparent loss of the four thousand people in the Foxtrot Sector—and the fifty-one aboard Universe—when he knew the truth. “The attack on the outposts was a terrible thing.”

“Oh,” Van Riper said, and then he motioned with an open hand into the intensive-care section. “Let’s go in here,” he said, moving past Harriman and Sulu.

And Harriman suddenly realized that the doctor had not been referring to the events that had unfolded in Foxtrot Sector; he had been offering compassion for the death of Blackjack. “My father,” Harriman said, still standing in the doorway. “My father is dead?” The words, and his speaking them, seemed surreal.

“I’m afraid so,” Van Riper confirmed. “He died just a few hours ago. The injuries to his brain were just too severe.”

Harriman peered past the doctor, toward the far bay, where they had been treating Blackjack. An urge rose in him to race over and peer inside, to confirm that his father no longer lay in the biobed there. But there was no point; the doctor was not lying.

Harriman felt a touch on his forearm, and he glanced down to see that Demora had reached out a hand to him. He looked up at her face, and saw an expression of sympathy and sadness, as well as complete understanding. In her childhood, he knew, she had lost her mother, and as an adult—

“Captain,” the doctor said. “I’ll give you a moment to yourself. Please don’t hesitate to call on me if you’d like any questions answered.” He walked back out into the main area of the infirmary. Harriman turned in the other direction, moving farther inside the intensive-care section. Demora followed, the door sliding closed behind her.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she said, and she reached out to hug him. He put his arms around her back and held her close for a few moments. Even though he felt as though he’d taken a phaser on heavy stun, the kindness and caring of his friend was not lost on him.

When he stepped back from her, she said, “Are you all right?” Then she shook her head quickly, as though she had asked the most ludicrous question possible.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m…I’m…” I’m an orphan,he thought. The idea—however foolish for a man of fifty-two—produced an awful, hollow feeling inside him. Not wanting to say that, though, he told Sulu, “I’m in shock, I guess. I think I believed that Blackjack would live forever.”