MONTGOMERY SCOTT had yet to grow tired of the view.

For as long as the building had been in existence, the commissary at Starfleet Command headquarters on Earth had a spectacular view of the San Francisco skyline. The first time Scotty came here was when he was an Academy cadet. The reason for a cadet getting to dine in the Command commissary was long since forgotten, but even now, well over a hundred years later, Scotty still marveled at the sight of San Francisco’s skyline. Over here, the restored Golden Gate Bridge. Over there, the Romanova Building, named after the mayor who spearheaded the rebuilding of the city following the disastrous earthquake in 2109. In the center, DeLaGuardia Tower, built shortly after the forming of the Federation. On top of Telegraph Hill, the World War III Memorial, built on the remains of the Coit Tower after the latter was destroyed during that conflict. To the right, the sprawling complex of Starfleet Academy.

Of course, it helps that I was out of commission for seventy-five years. He chuckled to himself at the memory of waking up in the transporter room of the Jenolen, seemingly moments after he and Ensign Franklin—the last survivors of the ship’s crash into a Dyson Sphere—had rigged the transporter to keep them alive in the buffer until a rescue came. That rescue did come—over seven decades later, and too late to save poor Franklin.

For Scotty, who’d been on the road to retirement, it was a new lease on life, and he’d taken it with gusto. In the decade since his “revival,” he’d traveled the galaxy from Risa to Romulus, seen things he’d never imagined possible, helped out some old friends, and even aided in Starfleet’s horrendous battle against the Dominion.

It was during the war that he became the liaison between the Starfleet Corps of Engineers and the admiralty. The job was ideally suited to Scotty, who had made a career out of navigating the dual landmines of command necessity and engineering possibility. Where once he would have considered an administrative post to be the equivalent of death, his recent years of gallivanting around the galaxy served to remind him why he thought retirement was a good idea in the first place: He wasn’t getting any younger. These days, he was content to work with the S.C.E., doling out mission assignments, and keeping the brass off their backs so they could do their jobs. Perhaps it doesn’t have the excitement of the old days, but these bones aren’t up to quite that level anymore. Let the children have their day in the sun.

“Admiring the view?” came a familiar voice from behind him.

Scotty smiled. The old engineer wasn’t at the commissary today on S.C.E. business, but rather to meet with the man who’d just entered: Admiral William Ross, the one who’d offered him the S.C.E. post in the first place.

“Aye,” Scotty said. “Never fails to take my breath away.”

Ross chuckled. “It’s funny. It wasn’t until after the Breen attack that I ever even noticed it. I saw it, of course, but never really thought anything about it. Then I saw what the Breen did to the city—to the Golden Gate…” He took a breath. “Well, let’s just say I’ve come to appreciate the reminder it provides of what we’ve got—and what we could lose.”

“I know what you mean, Admiral. I spent the Breen attack stuck with Admiral McCoy in a broken-down run-about on a Bakrii repair facility without a clue as to whether or not the bloody planet was still in one piece. Leonard and I almost went mad with the not knowin’.”

Nodding, Ross said, “I was on Deep Space 9 when the news came in. It took all my self-control not to commandeer a ship back home, believe me.” He sighed. “Well, you didn’t ask me to lunch to reminisce about the war or talk about the view. Shall we?”

“Aye, we shall.”

The two officers proceeded to the replicators, ordered their respective lunches—for Scotty, a fehrgit chop, wild rice, and Irish breakfast tea; for Ross, hasperat, a Cajun salad, and raktajino—then proceeded to an empty table. Along the way, both nodded hello to assorted officers they knew, though Ross’s salutations far outnumbered Scotty’s. That only made sense, given Ross’s position as the head of Starfleet forces during the war. He was arguably the most popular person in Starfleet, which was no doubt why he had been deemed a viable presidential candidate.

Scotty indicated the hasperat with a nod of his head. “What is that, exactly, Admiral?”

“A Bajoran delicacy. You can blame Captain Sisko for getting me addicted to it.” Ross smiled. “Have a taste.”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Scotty thought as he scooped up some of the food into his fork. Gingerly, he tasted it.

“Not bad,” said as diplomatically as he could, then quickly gulped down as much of his hot tea as he could stand.

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“ ’Twould seem I haven’t acquired it, then.” He swallowed, which only made the taste linger. “I’ll stick with this, I think.”

“Fair enough.”

Scotty took a bite of his chop, the replicated alien meat doing much to alleviate the stain on his taste buds left by the hasperat—not to mention the awful stench of that Klingon sewer water they called coffee. Even after ten years in the twenty-fourth century, even after the Dominion War, even after having been present for the writing and signing of the Khitomer Accords, Scotty still had trouble wrapping his mind around the idea of the Klingon Empire as a Federation ally. “You made quite the impression the other day, throwin’ your hat in with that governor woman.”

“ ‘That governor woman’ is quite impressive in her own right. She negotiated a treaty with both the Gorns and the Metrons.” Ross smiled. “You more than anyone should appreciate that accomplishment, since you were there for first contact with both of them.”

“As far as I’m concerned, they can both go hang. I cannot say what’s worse, what the Gorn did to Cestus III or what the Metrons did to the Enterprise.” He sighed. “Still, I suppose ’tis better to be at peace. I’m sure she’ll make a fine president, should she win, especially as you’ve chosen not to run.”

“I don’t want the job. And I wanted to support someone who wouldn’t force me to—” Ross hesitated. “I just don’t want to get into that level of decision making anymore. I’ve had my share of that. At this point, I’m content to live out my career as a simple bureaucrat.”

Scotty barked a laugh. “ ’Tis nothing simple about that, as you well know, Admiral. Still, I don’t blame you for turnin’ down the nomination, though I have to confess, I don’t follow politics overmuch.”

“You’re better off. Besides, I’m sure the politics of dealing with bureaucrats like me is more than enough for you.” Ross smiled again as he scooped more hasperat into his mouth.

“Aye, that it is.”

After swallowing his food, Ross said, “Scotty, we could spend all day making small talk, or you can get to the point of this lunch. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got an afternoon full of meetings here, and then an evening full of them with Governor Bacco’s staff in Venezia.”

Scotty nodded as he chewed his meat. Ross was a busy man, and it was only Scotty’s own reputation that allowed him to carve out the time to have this lunch. “I understand that Admiral Nakamura has added the Enterprise to the inspection list.”

“Yes.” Ross’s voice contained a slight note of annoyance. “Honestly, I think that Nakamura concocted the entire inspection tour as an excuse to give Picard a thorough going-over, and waited until now to put them on the list to cover his tracks. Not,” he added quickly, “that I think the tours are a bad idea. The transition to peace has been a difficult one, and in light of what happened with Zife and Azernal being forced to resign—well, let’s just say it’s for the best.”

Recognizing the look on Ross’s face—that of someone who’d said more than he should—Scotty didn’t ask him to pursue the matter, though this was the first that he’d heard anything about the president and chief of staff being forced to resign. Still, between that and the sentence Ross didn’t finish earlier, Scotty was starting to wonder just what exactly went on in the upper reaches of the Federation government over the past few months. However, he’d been in Starfleet long enough to know that things were classified for a reason. Not always a good reason, mind, but still for a reason.

“I’d like to ask you a favor, William.”

That got Ross’s attention. Scotty rarely referred to a superior officer by anything other than rank, even when that officer was a friend, as Ross had become over the years. Hell, he and James T. Kirk had been through life and death and everything in between back in the day, and he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d called him “Jim.”

“Scotty, I think it’s safe to say that the universe owes you several dozen favors, and I know for a fact that I do. For one thing, you’ve done a better job keeping the S.C.E. running than anyone has in a hundred years. Name it.”

“Nakamura hasn’t finished putting the Enterprise’s inspection team together—there’s still one slot open, and it’s to inspect the ship’s mechanical efficiency. I’d like to be on it.”

Ross frowned. “You don’t need me for that. Just put in the request to Admiral Nakamura.”

Blowing out a breath through his teeth, Scotty said, “Nay, that will not be—ah, prudent.” At Ross’s questioning glance, Scotty elaborated. “Last year, after that incident at Rashanar, Nakamura told me to send an S.C.E. team to ‘evaluate’ Commander Data. In the end, he ordered the lad to remove his emotion chip. I—well, protested. A bit.” He smirked. “A great deal, in fact. I believe I called his parentage into question, and informed him that if he wanted my people to perform an act that was in violation of everything the Federation stood for, he could perform an act of his own—one somewhat anatomically impossible for a human.”

Ross had picked up his raktajino to drink, but set it down again as he burst out laughing. After a moment, he caught his breath. “Captain Scott, for the record, I would like to say that I’m appalled that you would speak in such a way to a superior officer.”

Forcing himself to sound contrite, Scotty said, “Aye, sir, as well you should be.”

Grinning, he added, “Off the record, I wish I’d been there to see it. Admiral Nakamura and I haven’t seen eye-to-eye about any number of things over the years, particularly with regards to Rashanar and the Enterprise.” He took a breath. “So, you want me to recommend you for the team?”

Scotty nodded as he swallowed his rice.

The admiral took a sip of his raktajino. “Well, you’re certainly qualified, and I don’t have a problem with recommending you in principle—but the tour’s supposed to take several weeks. I really don’t want to lose you from the S.C.E. for that long. Is there any particular reason why?”

Placing his fork down and folding his hands on the table, Scotty said, “Because, Admiral, I’ve seen who else is on the team.”

Ross shrugged. “So’ve I. They’re all qualified personnel.”

“In the abstract, aye, they are.” Scotty hesitated and brushed the end of his mustache with his right hand. “Do you play cards, Admiral? Are you familiar with the phrase ‘stacked deck’?”

Leaning back in his chair, Ross fixed Scotty with the most serious expression he’d used since entering the commissary. “I’m familiar with the term. How does it apply here?”

“The leader of the team, Captain Wai-Lin Go.”

“She’s got an impeccable record,” Ross said defensively.

“Aye, but are you aware that she went to the Academy with Captain Leeden?”

Ross straightened up. “No, I wasn’t.”

“They’ve been close friends for thirty years. After they graduated, they shared a house on Prince Edward Island until Captain Go got married. Since the official story has Captain Picard at least partly responsible for Captain Leeden’s death at Rashanar—”

Holding up a hand, Ross said, “I see your point. What about the others?”

“Nakamura assigned Dr. Toby Russell to inspect the medical staff. She’s a fine doctor, I’m sure, but she also butted heads with Dr. Crusher about a decade back over a medical procedure. They’ve not seen eye-to-eye about a blessed thing in the time since, including some rather nasty spats in the literature.”

At this, Ross smiled. “Since when do you read medical journals?”

Scotty shuddered. “I don’t, believe me, but Leonard keeps babblin’ on about this nonsense. He’s taken a shine to Crusher—worked with her a few times—and so every time she publishes, I hear about it.”

“I’ll bet. So this Russell is her archnemesis?” Ross asked with a smirk.

“I’d not go that far, but she’s not the prime candidate for an objective opinion. Which brings us to Sabin Genestra.”

“He’s evaluating personnel and security. I can’t believe you’d have a problem with him. He’s served as the aide to half a dozen admirals, all of whom have had nothing but praise for him.”

“Seven admirals in total—including Norah Satie. He worked for her when Captain Picard disgraced her.”

Ross folded his arms. “Would you mind telling me how you got all this information?”

“ ’Tis all in the records.”

“Yes, but only if you look hard for it.”

Scotty again grabbed the end of his mustache. “You’re not the only one who does not trust Nakamura’s motives, Admiral. I had my suspicions from the minute I saw the memo that announced the Enterprise’s inspection, and so I did a wee bit of research.”

Shaking his head, Ross said, “I think you may not be giving Captain Go, Dr. Russell, or Mr. Genestra enough credit.”

“Perhaps. But I cannot believe it’s a coincidence that three of the positions on the team are occupied by people who might have personal dislikes for members of the senior staff.” Feeling a bit parched, Scotty took a sip of his tea. The now-lukewarm liquid soothed his throat. “I owe Picard and La Forge and Crusher and the rest of the people on that ship a lot. If not for them, I’d still be trapped in the Jenolen transporter buffer—or worse, my pattern would’ve degraded. And I think, after the way they took it on the chin after Rashanar, that they deserve a fair shake in this inspection tour, and that means that there should be at least one person on that team who doesn’t have an agenda against those good people.”

Rather than answer right away, Ross picked up his fork and sampled his Cajun salad. After chewing on it for several seconds, he swallowed and said, “I don’t get it. The replicator has been programmed with the exact recipe that Captain Sisko gave me for this, yet it never tastes as good as when he or his father make it. You’re an engineer, can you explain why?”

Scotty smiled, recognizing the stalling tactic and going along with it. “My sister, rest her soul, was a sculptor. A fine fine artist, she was. Could bring the clay to life. I remember when we were teenagers, I told her I could build a machine that would make a figurine that would look just like one of hers, but do it in half the time.”

“And did you?”

Chuckling at the memory, Scotty said, “Oh aye, I made the machine. We both made small figures of our da. Both looked like him, but hers felt like him. I got the size of his nose right, but she got that look on his face he always had whenever we did somethin’ wrong. ’Twas that day I realized the difference between art and science—and that my way lay toward the latter.” He chuckled. “Replicators are science, Admiral, and cooking, as I’m sure your Captain Sisko would tell you, is most definitely an art.”

“That he would.” Ross put the fork down. “I’ll talk to Admiral Nakamura, tell him I’m recommending you for the Enterprise inspection team. Assuming he approves—and I’ll make sure he does—consider yourself on temporary reassignment from the S.C.E. for the duration of the inspection.”

Grinning, Scotty speared the last bit of meat on his plate. “Thank you very much, sir.”