SETTING HIS PADD DOWN on the table before him, Will Riker raised his arms over his head, interlocked his fingers, and reached for the ceiling, welcoming the sensation as his back muscles flexed and stretched. That small motion, along with a deep cleansing of breath, helped clear his head and worked to shake off the fatigue that had been building steadily all afternoon.

Oh yeah, he chided himself. I feel like two slips of latinum, all right.

The task of reconfiguring the crew’s duty rosters, to allow for ample free time as requested by Captain Picard while keeping the most qualified officers on hand across the day, had proven anything but simple. Even with the input of the department heads, it seemed to be taking forever. He wanted it done, though, so here he sat as he had for the past several hours, hunched over his data padd. He had forsaken his quarters for a seat in one of the Enterprise’s dining lounges, but refused to break for anything more than a mug of raktajino—or had it been two?—until he was finished.

Tuning out any distractions from the comings and goings of crew members, he found himself pushing to complete the assignment in short order, just as he had done with all of his tasks during the last few days. Not that Riker viewed himself as typically lackadaisical when it came to his orders; on the contrary, he strived to be efficient and precise, not merely to please himself but to set a standard for the rest of the crew on how Captain Picard should be followed.

Riker stepped up his pace now because he felt that loyalty had been compromised, and not by any member of the Enterprise crew. No, it had been wounded by the elite of Starfleet Command, and that, more than anything, angered him.

For two-thirds of his Starfleet career, he had served as Jean-Luc Picard’s first officer. During that time, Riker had watched his captain make life-or-death decisions and lead fragile diplomatic negotiations, all while continuing to revel in the wonder of the unknown.

Time and again, Riker had been invited to leave Picard’s side and assume a command of his own. Each time, he had declined, feeling that he still had more to learn, and more to contribute, right here. His place, he continued to believe, was on the Enterprise.

He had tried to rationalize Starfleet’s viewpoint, arguing with himself that his understanding of Picard was something he had honed through years of experience. Many Starfleet admirals obviously did not share that perception, most likely only gleaning a fraction of it from reviewing mission reports or hearing apocryphal stories at strategy sessions. Consequently, they failed to appreciate or really even comprehend just how fortunate the Federation was to have Picard as one of its representatives. Otherwise, the first officer decided, they would not be doling out to the Enterprise captain the most menial of responsibilities and effectively putting him out to pasture, sending him to graze in the galaxy’s open fields as did the Alaskan caribou Riker had watched in his youth.

It’s no way to treat any captain, much less my captain.

Sighing loudly, Riker tossed his padd onto the table. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “Computer, dim lighting in this area to forty percent.”

As the illumination in the portion of the lounge he currently occupied grew softer and more relaxing, he heard a voice call out in mock disapproval. “That’s not very conducive to getting any work done, you know.”

Looking up at the new voice, one that most definitely did not belong to the ship’s computer, Riker sat upright and smiled at the new arrival. “Hello, Deanna. I didn’t see you come in.”

Deanna Troi returned the smile, her dark hair framing her soft features. As she drew closer, Riker was sure he detected the faintest hint of the Risian perfume she liked to wear on occasion. It was a pleasing scent, which was why he had purchased the perfume for her in the first place.

“You seem fairly engrossed there,” she said. “Still working out the rosters?”

“You guessed it,” he said, gesturing for her to take a nearby seat. “I might’ve been done sooner, but I’m trying to rig things for everyone to make the most out of this relaxation time prescribed by the captain. I’m adjusting the three shifts into four and rotating them so that everyone has opportunities for downtime at varied hours of the day.”

Troi smirked as she settled into a chair at Riker’s right. “Sounds complicated.”

“You’d know if you’d been working on your assignment as well.”

“Oh, but I have,” she said. “It’s done and filed for your review.”

His eyebrow rising suspiciously, Riker retrieved his padd. A few touches brought Troi’s proposed duty-roster alterations to its screen. “Well…damn, Deanna, this is pretty sharp.”

“I found it easier to cut required postings in each department and extend the three shifts by two hours each. That allows for twenty-hour breaks while offering the duty-time variations you are suggesting.”

“And it gives people even more time off than I’d calculated,” Riker said, nodding appreciatively. “Excellent work, Counselor.”

“It’s nothing we haven’t discussed before,” she said, her expression turning to one of understanding. “You would have hit on it, too, were you not so preoccupied.”

“I’m not that preoccupied.”

Troi offered a slight smile. “Will, even a non-Betazoid could sense that you’re not all here right now.”

Never could fool you, could I?

Reaching out, she placed one hand on Riker’s forearm. The simple touch caused him to relax muscles in his neck and shoulders for the first time in what seemed like days. “I’ve asked before and I’ll ask again,” she said. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

Frowning, Riker began to turn away, but her presence had already succeeded in disarming him as efficiently as ever. He knew there was no one else on the ship—hell, in his life—to whom he would rather vent his feelings and frustrations at that moment. Still, he hesitated as he questioned whether she was seeking connection with him as his ship’s counselor, his fellow officer, his friend, or his Imzadi.

Maybe it doesn’t matter right now.

“Deanna,” he said, “this whole situation can’t be sitting well with you, either. What would I say that you don’t already know?”

“I’m not seeking information, Will,” she said, her voice continuing to soothe the edge on his nerves. “Just talk to me. If it’ll help, I could use someone to talk to myself.”

Nodding at that, Riker finally felt himself beginning to relax, the full effect of Deanna’s presence asserting itself as it always had. “I’m not worried so much about my feelings over what’s happened, but I am worried about Captain Picard. It might help me to know how he feels. What are you sensing from him?”

“He’s hurting,” Troi said, meeting his gaze. “It’s as if he’s mourning, in a way, for the way things used to be. I sense some embarrassment, as though he feels he’s let the entire crew down or tarnished our reputations by his actions and decisions.”

“Captain Picard has nothing to be embarrassed about,” Riker countered. “This whole mess is so wrong for so many reasons.” He realized his voice had risen as he spoke the last words, carrying across the lounge and attracting the attention of officers seated at other tables. Clearing his throat, he affected a weak smile to Troi. “Sorry.”

“The captain doesn’t seem to harbor any ill will against Starfleet or his superior officers,” Troi said. “He understands this is the way things have to be. The captain would sacrifice his standing and reputation for any of us, Will. It’s not a shock that he would do so for the Ontailians as well. I’ve never seen him place a boundary on his respect for any race or culture.”

Riker nodded. “Well, no argument there.”

“I think he just needs time to sort this all out for himself,” Troi said. “Hopefully he’ll eventually feel comfortable discussing the matter with me.”

Smiling, Riker said, “You do have an uncanny ability to get people to talk.”

“You, sir,” Troi said, adding a touch of a purr to her voice, “are merely more susceptible to the power of suggestion than most.”

“Now, hold on,” Riker said, holding up both hands with an air of mock defensiveness, “Consider the source, here. When it comes to you, I…”

A voice over his combadge interrupted his train of thought. “Commander Riker, you have a priority subspace transmission on an encoded channel.”

Tapping his communicator, the first officer replied, “Riker here. Who’s the message from?”

“According to this,” said the voice, which Riker recognized as belonging to the beta-shift tactical officer, Lieutenant Hines, “it’s from the Federation ambassador to Qo’noS. Shall I route it to your quarters?”

Riker looked at Troi, raising his eyebrows and adopting a low tone of voice. “I guess news travels fast.” He scanned the lounge and saw an unoccupied table with a computer terminal sitting atop it. “Lieutenant, route it down here, please. Riker out.”

“I’ll catch up with you later then,” Troi said as she rose from her seat.

“Stick around,” he replied, moving to the other table. “You know I’ll only repeat it all to you over dinner.”

“Oh, so now it’s dinner we’re having?”

Riker grinned as he sat down at the computer station and spun the terminal’s flat-panel screen to face them both. He tapped a control and a moment later was rewarded with an image of Worf, dressed in his ambassadorial robes, filling the screen.

“Hello, Worf,” Riker said to his former shipmate. “This is a surprise. Deanna is with me, too, so watch that language of yours.”

“So I see, Commander.” Worf’s expression, as usual, showed no signs of amusement in response to Riker’s remark. “You both appear well.”

“Thanks, Worf,” Troi said. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Riker asked, “And how goes your assignment?”

The Klingon’s shoulders rose and fell with a protracted sigh. “It presents its share of…challenges. Dare I pose the same question to you?”

“Oh, we’re doing just fine,” Riker replied, not bothering to edit any frustration from his voice. “We’re well on our way to where no one has bothered to go before.”

“I am aware of the nature of your mission,” Worf said. “It would have been more appropriately handled by a ship other than the Enterprise.”

“Your powers of assessment are as sharp as always,” Riker said. “It’s a step up from all of us being sent to our rooms without supper.”

The first officer saw his friend’s expression cloud over, making him appear even more dour than usual. “I confess that I am concerned for the captain’s well-being,” he said.

“We all are,” Troi replied. “I believe that he’s coping as best he can under the circumstances, and that he’s drawing strength from the support of his friends.” Smiling, she added, “He might appreciate hearing from you sometime soon.”

Shaking his head, Worf said, “When I was forced to accept discommendation from the Empire, the captain stood at my side and helped my family regain its standing. I promise you that I will do all in my power to support him in this time as he did for me.”

“I never thought otherwise, Worf,” Riker replied, smiling. “It never hurts to have a few friends in high places.”

“Indeed,” the Klingon said. “The right person in the right position is sometimes all it takes to turn a tide of opinion, after all.”

As his friend’s eyes bored into him even across the vast distance separating them, Riker felt any reply he might have made die in his throat. There was something powerful behind Worf’s words, something the first officer could not quite identify.

Apparently sensing the awkward pause, Troi said, “Please keep in touch, Worf. It’s always good to hear from you.”

“I shall,” the ambassador replied, a smile forming or the first time on his usually intimidating features. “I wish you good luck in the Dokaal sector. Worf out.”

As the Klingon’s image was replaced with the familiar starred oval symbolizing the United Federation of Planets, Riker played his friend’s remarks over in his mind once again. Was Worf suggesting that he contact another starship commander to help stir some goodwill for Picard among the ranks? Was he of the mind that, to the right person, a leak of the facts regarding the demon-ship incident would work in the captain’s favor?

Or, was it something else? Something more personal?

Prior to Worf’s departure from Deep Space 9 for the Federation embassy on Qo’noS, Riker had contacted his friend to wish him well. During that conversation, as he beheld his former shipmate and the new direction his life was about to take, Riker remembered thinking about his own career and the choices he had made.

At one time on the fast track for command, Riker had been offered a ship of his own on three separate occasions. He had carefully considered each appointment, but in the end had declined them all and chosen instead to remain on the Enterprise. Even though he had garnered a distinguished service record while assigned as executive officer of the U.S.S. Hood, when the first offer for promotion was presented, he had opted to serve under Jean-Luc Picard. A tour of duty as first officer of the Federation flagship was not an opportunity to be dismissed lightly, after all.

He had spent more than a decade as Picard’s second-in-command, far longer than would be considered normal for an officer of his age and accomplishments. He had seen men and women, younger than himself, continue to climb the career ladder, progressing to captaincies of their own. With that in mind, why had he not taken advantage of the offers presented to him and advanced his career along the accepted lines?

The answer, odd as it might be, was simple. None of the ships Riker had been offered was the Enterprise. They did not hold lineages and histories as storied as the vessel on which he currently served.

His decision to remain as Picard’s first officer was the wisest move he could have made, so far as Riker himself was concerned. He truly believed that the value of all he had learned during the ensuing years under Picard’s mentorship far surpassed even the experiences he would have acquired as captain of his own vessel. In Riker’s eyes, there was no finer leader in Starfleet, and no one more deserving of his unflagging respect and support.

Still, had the time finally come for Riker to move on? Had Worf, with his mysterious words, suggested that the best way he could continue to serve Picard, to say nothing of Riker himself, would be to finally accept promotion and appointment to a vessel of his own?

How did we get to thinking about this, he wondered. These were thoughts that had not occupied his mind in…well, longer than he could remember.

“Will?” Troi asked, obviously sensing his unease. Blinking rapidly, Riker looked up to see the counselor staring at him from across the dining table. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head to clear away the remaining wisps of his reverie. “No, no. I’m fine. Just lost in thought.” Flashing what he hoped was an encouraging smile, he added, “Don’t worry. I’m just tired, is all.”

“Are you hungry, too?” Troi asked, the question enough to cause his stomach to grumble in response.

“Yes,” he admitted, “for food and for company.”

Troi’s eyes met his and she smiled. “Good. Then we’re in the right place.”