CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD sat in the quiet haven of his ready room. He sipped his freshly replicated Earl Grey tea while he scrolled through a classified report on Tezwa. The file, along with dozens of others, had been forwarded to him by Starfleet Intelligence. He’d read all the files several times over the past two days, since the Enterprise had received its orders to intervene in the Tezwa crisis. The reports were far more detailed than those he usually received on such short notice. Population reports, overviews of Tezwa’s industrial output and political processes, and even statistical analyses of its meteorology and economic stability had been included.

What was conspicuously absent, however, was an explanation for why its prime minister, an outspoken nationalist named Kinchawn, believed he could challenge the Klingon Empire. And although the Starfleet Intelligence briefing contained superb technical schematics of Tezwa’s recently acquired fleet of two dozen Danteri-manufactured starships, it failed to explain how the Tezwan government had convinced the Danteri to sell them the ships, how it had finagled the Orion Syndicate into acting as a broker, or how it had paid for the ships in the first place.

Equally troubling to Picard was why the Federation was now inserting itself into what was, as far as he could determine, an internal matter of the Klingon Empire. Tezwa was uncomfortably close to the Federation’s border, but the Klingons were an ally; he couldn’t ascertain why a Klingon military action in neutral space was deemed to be within the Federation’s jurisdiction.

Nonetheless, it was not the first time he’d been asked to intervene in a foreign crisis to prevent bloodshed, even if he wasn’t necessarily privy to the larger agenda of the Federation Council. His orders were clear: Convince the Tezwans to accept Federation aid rather than antagonize the Klingons by usurping their colony for its natural resources, and get them to make a formal apology to extinguish the Klingons’ war lust.

Picard closed the Tezwa file and reclined slightly. He cupped his hands around the warm mug and swiveled his chair to look out the aft-facing window behind his desk. Beyond the window’s ghostly reflection of his aquiline visage, the warp-distorted stars stretched away behind the Enterprise, which was flanked by half a squadron of Klingon warships of various sizes and classes. Four birds-of-prey were at station between the six larger battle cruisers and fast-attack frigates, all of which remained respectfully—if barely—aft of the Federation flagship.

Normally, he would have been reassured to have this many Klingon ships at his back. But he knew full well that the crews of those ships were escorting the Enterprise only grudgingly. No doubt they were seething over the order from Chancellor Martok, and deeply resentful of the Enterprise’s presence. He understood the Klingons well enough to trust them to obey their orders, but he knew that if Tezwan Prime Minister Kinchawn provoked them, the Klingons’ reprisal would be swift and terrible.

He also knew enough by now about Klingon fleet operations to be certain that if he saw ten Klingon vessels, there were at least a few more he didn’t see, traveling under the protection of their cloaking devices. The Klingons had not specified the number of ships that would escort the Enterprise to Tezwa. They had said only that it would be sufficient to “send the correct message.”

Picard finished the rest of his tea and walked over to the replicator. As its matter reclamator dissolved and re-absorbed the empty mug, he wondered to himself why he felt so optimistic about being used as a bulwark between the Klingons and a battle. Then, after a moment of introspection, he realized what felt different today: This felt like a mission that mattered.

After several months of being personally pilloried in the court of public opinion, and seeing his ship and crew detailed to a series of ostensibly low-profile assignments, it felt good to finally return to more serious duties. This seemed to Picard like a chance to get back to the way things used to be. It could be a prime opportunity to cleanse the Enterprise and its crew of the stigma that had haunted them since Rashanar.

But hopeful as he was, he knew that one successful peace negotiation wouldn’t mend all the fences that had recently been broken.

No amount of diplomatic finesse he could wield on Tezwa would convince Admiral Nakamura to allow Data to reinstall his emotion chip; he had blamed the mysterious piece of technology for impairing the android’s judgment and instigating the Rashanar crisis.

And even if Picard could coax the Klingons into forgiving the Tezwans for making a hasty threat on their territory, he was unlikely to secure such charitable feelings from Dr. Beverly Crusher. She had seemed colder toward him, in some subtle ways, since the mission to Delta Sigma IV. He wondered if she had resented his trumping of her medical authority on that assignment. It seemed unlikely to him. He had made many such command decisions over the years; none had provoked this kind of reaction from her. He wanted to think that this communication breakdown was all in his imagination, but they had not met for breakfast since the Enterprise left Delta Sigma IV, and their conversations had grown strained and awkward.

The bitter irony of his situation pulled the corners of his mouth into a wry grin. To bridge a chasm of loathing between two worlds and peoples would be all in a day’s work, but to rebuild the damaged foundation of his decades-long friendship with Beverly seemed maddeningly beyond his abilities. One detail that was feeding his own resentment was that she had yet to confide in him that she had received an offer from Dr. Yerbi Fandau, the head of Starfleet Medical, to take his place when he retired. Picard had learned of the offer from Dr. Fandau himself, in a standard-protocol written brief. Now he found himself torn between wishing her well, and not wanting her to go.

Perhaps I’m just getting old, he chided himself. After the Rashanar debacle, he had been ordered to undergo a complete competency evaluation. During those tests, more than one person had questioned whether he was still fit for the captain’s chair.

The warble of the com broke the silence. “Riker to Picard. We’ve just entered communication range, and we’re being hailed.”

Picard strode quickly toward the door, which swished open. He stepped onto the bridge, walked directly to his tall faux-leather seat, and sat down. The chair welcomed his lean, toned physique as if it had been made just for him. Riker, seated on Picard’s right, looked up from his command console. “Prime Minister Kinchawn is waiting for us to respond.”

“Patience, Number One,” Picard said. “Let him wait a few moments.” Noticing Riker’s glance, he added with a bemused grin, “An old trick I learned as a young suitor: The one who makes others wait is the one who’s in control.”

The command deck of the Enterprise-E was relatively quiet. Soft, electronic tones served as an innocuous form of active feedback for the dozen or so officers working at various stations along the bridge’s aft bulkhead, just behind the captain’s chair. Though the bridge was dimly lit, the glow of active panels was strong enough to illuminate their users’ faces. Data’s silvery, synthetic skin shone in the light of the ops console, which was located to Picard’s left, in front of the wraparound main viewer, which showed stars elongated by the ship’s faster-than-light transit.

Next to Data, at the helm, was Lieutenant Kell Perim. Perim was an unjoined Trill woman whose angular features were subtly complemented by two rows of distinctive, oddly shaped beige markings. The spots began above her temples, somewhere beneath her tawny hair, and traced a straight line over the corner of her jaw, down the side of her neck, and under the collar of her uniform.

The turbolift door opened. Counselor Troi stepped out and took her post in the seat to Picard’s left, opposite her fiancé. Picard greeted her with a brief nod, then stood and pulled down the front of his uniform jacket, smoothing its random wrinkles. He turned to Christine Vale at tactical. “Open the channel.”

Vale punched a command into her panel. The warp-distorted starfield was replaced by a live transmission from the floor of the Tezwan Assembly Forum. Hundreds of Tezwan government representatives were crowded into the ancient-looking meeting hall. They sat in a seven-rowed semicircle, all of them facing the high, multilevel dais located front-and-center before them.

Occupying the topmost level of the dais was Prime Minister Kinchawn. The Tezwan head of state was more than two meters tall and slightly built. His sand-colored crown of plumage contrasted with his dark bronze skin. His charcoal-hued eyes were piercing in their intensity. His mouth was twisted into the least-sincere smile that Picard had seen in more than five decades of diplomatic assignments with Starfleet.

“Captain Picard, on behalf of myself, Deputy Prime Minister Bilok, and the ministers of the Tezwan Assembly, I welcome you and your distinguished Klingon allies to Tezwa.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Picard said. “On behalf of the United Federation of Planets, I request the honor of a formal parley, in the hope that we might avert an unnecessary conflict.”

Kinchawn nodded. “A most amenable proposition, Captain,” he said. “I offer you my assurance of safe passage and invite your vessel and its Klingon escorts to make orbit.” Kinchawn spread his arms in what Picard guessed was a clumsy imitation of the human invitation for an embrace. “We would be honored if you and an entourage of your choosing would join us here at the Forum to reopen the discussion of diplomatic options.”

“With your permission, Captain Logaar of the I.K.S. meQ’chal will join me, on behalf of the Klingon Empire.”

“Of course, Captain,” Kinchawn said. “Signal us when you’re ready to receive beam-down coordinates for the Assembly Forum.”

Picard cracked a polite smile. “Thank you, Prime Minister. We’ll contact you after we make orbit.”

“Very good. Kinchawn out.” The transmission terminated, and the main viewer reverted to the image of the warp-speed starfield. The point of light that was Tezwa had grown a tiny bit larger and brighter.

Riker and Troi turned toward Picard. “Two days ago he was ready to fight the Klingon Empire,” Riker said. “Now he talks like he’s backing down. I don’t buy it.”

“It does seem unlikely,” Troi said. “But it’s also possible he’s not prepared for a war on two fronts.”

“What was your impression of him, Counselor?” Picard said.

“Confident,” Troi said. “Aggressive.”

“Did he seem to be hiding anything? Concealing an agenda?”

“Hard to tell, Captain,” she said. “He is, after all, a politician on the brink of war.”

“Point taken,” Picard said. He rose from his chair. “Number One, you have the conn. Maintain yellow alert and have a security team meet me in transporter room one. Counselor, you’re with me.”