“YOU KNOW WHY we’re here, Mr. President,” said Kellerasana zh’Faila, the Andorian representative to the Federation Council.

President Min Zife glumly regarded the three politicians seated on the other side of his desk. Cort Enaren, the newly elected Betazoid representative, sat to the left of zh’Faila. On the other side of the Andorian female—at least, Zife was fairly certain zh’Faila was female—was the Tellarite representative, Bera chim Gleer.

All three visitors squinted at the golden light of the Paris morning, which streamed in over Zife’s right shoulder.

The Bolian chief executive had been expecting and dreading this visit for weeks—ever since he had authorized the massive relief and reconstruction effort on Tezwa. Still, that was no reason to make this meeting any easier for his visitors. With caustic faux sincerity he said, “You’ve come to pledge your continuing support?”

Zife’s sarcasm was rewarded by a subtly annoyed twitch of zh’Faila’s antennae. “Hardly,” said the Andorian, infusing the word with her patented quiet vitriol.

Gleer elaborated. “At a time when so many Federation worlds are in such dire need, you’ve committed us to rebuilding a foe.”

“Their need is more urgent,” Zife said. “I understand that member worlds need help, but I won’t play politics with lives.”

Suppressing a sneer, zh’Faila replied, “How noble of you.”

Enaren expertly suppressed any overt reaction and kept his accusatory stare leveled coldly at Zife. The great hero of Betazed’s resistance against the Dominion didn’t look at all the way Zife had imagined him; slim and middle-aged, he seemed no more impressive than any other humanoid. Regardless, Zife found him unnerving; after all, the man was Betazoid—who was to say whether or not he was reading Zife’s mind?

“Certainly you three didn’t come all the way to my office merely to lodge a complaint,” Zife said.

“No,” Gleer said. “We’ve come to issue a warning.”

“We’ve cosponsored a bill that I’ll be presenting to the Security Council today,” Enaren said. “A binding resolution to withdraw material aid and personnel from Tezwa, and redeploy them to Betazed.”

So, Zife mused, it’s a direct challenge. Arching one eyebrow, the president leaned forward. “With all due respect, Councillor, that would be a most regrettable decision.”

“I expect it to pass the Security Council with little resistance,” Enaren said. “In addition to the votes of my esteemed colleagues here, I’ve been assured that I’ll have the support of a significant majority on the council.”

“Have your colleagues also explained to you that your bill will be subject to executive review? And that I have the option of exercising a veto?” Zife locked eyes with Enaren, who appeared not at all inclined to moderate his position.

“We can override your veto,” the Betazoid man said. “It’s time for a change, Mr. President. Your aggressive foreign policy might have seemed bold during the Dominion War, but the war is over. It’s time to focus on healing the damage at home.”

Gleer and zh’Faila jumped in to echo Enaren’s sentiments.

“We need budgets, not battle plans,” zh’Faila said.

Gleer added, “Our own people have to come first.”

Steepling his fingers, Zife knew that zh’Faila and Gleer were letting Enaren do the talking for the same reason they had placed the junior representative’s name on the bill: His motives were more sympathetic than theirs.

“I’m sure your people will come first, Councillor Gleer.” The president looked at Enaren. “How many amendments and provisions does your bill include for development on Tellar?” While Gleer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Zife glanced at zh’Faila. Returning his attention to the Betazoid, he asked, “Should I presume it also contains provisions for an infrastructure upgrade on Andor?”

Gleer answered before Enaren could speak. “It’s a comprehensive proposal, Mr. President.”

“Indeed.” Zife narrowed his eyes in contempt at Enaren. “What an auspicious beginning for your career in public office,” Zife taunted. “Your first piece of major legislation. Your first act of wanton genocide.”

Enaren glowered at the charge. “Excuse me?”

Confident that he had all three councillors’ full attention, Zife relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “You’ve all spent so much time looking at budgets and balance sheets, you don’t know how to see anything else. I’m well aware of the damage inflicted on Betazed, Councillor Enaren. Your economy is stagnated. Your metropolitan centers require rebuilding. The planetary transporter network is still offline…. Are you as well informed about the situation on Tezwa?”

“I know that they built their military bases too close to their population centers,” Enaren said. “And I know that they learned the hard way not to antagonize the Klingons.”

Zife shot back, “What’s the current status of their agricultural yield?” When Enaren didn’t respond immediately, the president looked at the Andorian representative. “Councillor zh’Faila. Certainly you’re aware that the climatic damage caused by the Klingon attack has obliterated Tezwa’s indigenous farming industry? That millions of its people are without food?” While zh’Faila stammered in search of a reply, Zife aimed his finger-pointing harangue at Gleer. “How about you, Bera? Surely you informed your esteemed colleagues that the rapid spike in global temperatures on Tezwa is threatening to disrupt its oceans’ thermal-regulation mechanism, posing the risk of an ice age. Or weren’t you aware that a planet of nearly five billion intelligent beings is in danger of imminent extinction?”

Chastened into silence, Zife’s three visitors exchanged irritated sidelong looks.

“You’re free to do as your consciences demand, of course,” President Zife said. “But before you present your bill to the Security Council, I suggest you ask yourselves whether bolstering your sagging local economies is worth condemning five billion people to slow, terrible deaths. Because that’s a question I certainly intend to ask when I challenge your bill—and announce my intention to veto it.”

Gleer and Enaren looked to zh’Faila, who gave a small nod and stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. President,” she said, and extended her hand. He stood and shook her hand, then Enaren’s and Gleer’s.

Watching the trio turn and leave his office, he felt a great surge of relief. His chief of staff—a cunning and almost prescient Zakdorn political strategist named Koll Azernal—had prepared him well for this confrontation. Not only had Azernal foreseen the challenge from Enaren, he also had predicted correctly that zh’Faila and Gleer would be the Betazoid’s chief backers. In retrospect, the Zakdorn’s recommendation to classify the bulk of Starfleet’s reports from Tezwa had also been fortuitous. By preventing anyone beyond Zife’s senior cabinet from seeing the daily briefings, Azernal had all but guaranteed that the Security Council’s challenge to the Tezwan relief mission would be easily thwarted.

Turning to look out his broad, curving window at the bright cityscape of Paris, Zife knew it would be easy to blame Azernal for creating the Tezwa crisis. It had been Azernal’s Dominion War retreat strategy that led to the illegal installation of Federation-made nadion-pulse cannons on Tezwa. Doing so had been a blatant breach of the Khitomer Accords—the Federation’s fragile treaty of alliance with the Klingon Empire. Likewise, it was tempting to chastise Azernal for not predicting that Tezwa’s prime minister, a hawkish ideologue named Kinchawn, would use the artillery system to militarize his entire economy—or that he would dare to threaten the Klingon Empire. But Azernal, for all his talents, was only a strategist, not a clairvoyant.

Preventing the Klingons from landing a massive invasion force had seemed impossible; if the Klingons had learned that the rogue planet’s artillery had been provided by the Federation, war would have been inevitable. As the entire Alpha Quadrant teetered on the edge of a fiery cataclysm, Azernal had counseled patience—and he had been right.

Captain Picard and the crew of the Enterprise had done the impossible; against seemingly insurmountable odds, they had conquered Tezwa and halted the Klingon invasion fleet. Even more impressive, Picard somehow defused the crisis between Tezwa and the Klingon Empire. It seemed that disaster had been averted.

Questions lingered, however. Starfleet was investigating the origin of the now-vaporized artillery system. Kinchawn, hiding underground, was no doubt directing the insurgency against the new government. Tezwa’s society was fracturing. Azernal’s covert effort to lay the blame for arming Tezwa at the feet of the Tholians (or maybe the Romulans—it was hard for Zife to be sure which government the Zakdorn’s plan was ultimately intended to incriminate) was still in progress, and at risk of being disrupted by interference from Kinchawn and his Loyalists.

The potential blowback of this debacle was incalculable. If Bilok was deposed, the openly hostile Kinchawn would likely seek to inform the Klingons of Zife and Azernal’s cover-up. The result would be a Klingon-Federation war that would slaughter billions and plunge the galaxy into chaos.

Zife felt burdened with dread as he realized that the next few days would determine the fate of the Federation.

“It’s been four weeks. Why isn’t my cargo there yet?”

Koll Azernal simmered as he stared at the image of Nelino Quafina, secretary of military intelligence, on his desktop monitor. The Antedean had just returned from Deneva, where he’d been doing who-knew-what for most of the month while the future of the Federation circled the drain on Tezwa.

“The arrangements are complicated,” Quafina said. The peculiar design of Antedeans’ larynges sucked air inward to produce sound, creating the impression that their words were always being pulled away from the listener.

Azernal felt his forehead growing warm as his temper flared. “No,” he replied, “complicated is justifying the daily casualties on Tezwa when the Council wants us to rebuild half the Federation. All I want you to do is ship some crates.”

“I must have misunderstood. I thought you wanted them moved without a trace through unofficial channels. My mistake.”

It took all of the Zakdorn’s self-control not to indulge in a profanity-laced diatribe against the sarcastic icthyoid. The Antedean’s covert mission was to ship to Tezwa several freight containers. They were loaded with contraband that would falsely incriminate the Tholians for arming Tezwa with its now-destroyed artillery. Unfortunately (in Azernal’s opinion), since Starfleet had little aptitude or tolerance for morally ambiguous missions such as this, he and Quafina had no choice but to utilize cutouts to get the job done. Collecting himself, he continued, “I can’t keep the lid on this mess forever. When will the cargo be delivered?”

“It left Deneva twelve days ago. The entire shipment should reach Tezwa by end of day tomorrow, Tezwan Capital Time.”

The tension in Azernal’s shoulders eased; this was the first good news he’d heard in weeks. “Excellent. Now, what about those data files La Forge sent from the Enterprise?”

Quafina looked puzzled. He blinked his bulbous eyelids, then remembered, “The ones his assistant chief stole on Tezwa?”

“Yes.”

“I must have misfiled them. I might never find them again.”

Azernal nodded approvingly. Quafina could be annoying, but he was so reliable that it more than made up for the heartburn he inspired. Flashing a crooked half-grin, the paunchy chief of staff said, “Well done. Contact me to confirm when all cargo’s been delivered.”

“Acknowledged. Quafina out.” The screen went black.

Azernal felt only slightly more satisfied with the status of the Tezwa crisis than he had been a few minutes ago. Still, it was a start: The Klingon invasion had been prevented; the planet was nominally under Starfleet control; and all the elements necessary to exonerate the Federation of a potentially fatal political blunder would soon be delivered and put in place. For now, however, the matter was out of his hands.

He spied his worried reflection on the darkened monitor. Against his better judgment, he pondered for a moment how many variables on Tezwa were chaotic enough to disrupt his plan and provoke a worst-case scenario for the Federation.

To his dismay, he realized there were too many to count.

Sighing heavily, he opened his desk drawer and took out a small bottle of Aldebaran whiskey and a short glass. He poured a generous double measure of the emerald-green alcohol, then put away the bottle. The potent spirits’ fumes teased his sinuses as he took a sip. Sharp and tart, it left behind a pleasant afterglow of warmth on his tongue.

Feeling his years of intemperance and overwork catching up to him, he slouched with a tired grunt and cast his blank stare upon the city outside his window. It’s going to be a long three days, he mused, and downed his drink in one cheek-swelling mouthful. Plunking the empty glass back on his desk, he opened the drawer, took out the bottle, and poured another double.