Chapter Three

“PICARD’S COMING?”

“Is it true, is it really Picard?”

“Four of us heard it’s Picard, you make five, so it’s got to be true.”

“I dunno, an hour ago, we thought Admiral Jellico was being assigned.”

“And he never left Earth.”

“Which is a good thing.”

“Mia and Kal heard it, so that’s two. I heard it . . .”

“Yes, but you heard it from them so you don’t count.”

“But you heard it from Sacker, so you’re three.”

“Sacker would be four.”

“Jessie thinks she’s heard it, does that count?”

“Picard or not, I still don’t care.” And that seemed to settle the debate on the bridge. Everyone had arrived in hurried fashion, throwing their gear in temporary cabins, quickly logging in to check duty rosters, and then grabbing a bite before some captain arrived. Everything had been rush-rush, orders cut, people pulled from other vessels. No one felt properly oriented and it grated on Kal Sur Hol, the newly named science officer.

“Picard can throw his weight around, but what’s the big deal? I was scheduled to depart with the Gettysburg and now I miss out.”

“It’s Jean-Luc Picard! Don’t you realize what we’re dealing with?” The woman asking was Mia Chan, the conn officer. She belonged on this vessel and seemed to welcome the sudden change in routine. Her equanimity grated against Hol.

“Yeah, yeah, commander of the allmighty Enterprise, discovered this, settled that, Arbiter of Succession for the Klingons, once a Borg . . . what’s he doing on this miniature starship?”

Chan toggled a switch, swiveled around, and stood up. Hol noticed she was young, probably on her first posting and grateful for any deep-space assignment. She had auburn hair, cut short, a smooth unlined face that told Hol she had not had much experience at much of anything, and dark eyes that took in everything. There was that freshly minted Academy glow about her; he was glad his had worn down over the years through experience starting with even smaller craft in remote portions of the sector. He had returned to Earth, a land-based assignment in the wake of the Breen attack on Starfleet. Finally, he was given a fresh assignment and then this came up: short duty but vital to the Federation.

“He’s taking us places,” she said. “Serving with him, impressing someone like that, can do us all wonders.” Enthusiasm dripped from her every word. Had he ever sounded so sincere?

“This milk run will not be a chance to impress him at all, Chan,” he said with disdain. “We’re running him from point to point, just being good footmen. You think we’ll discover some new stellar phenomenon along familiar routes? Find another Q? Always heard how the Enterprise stumbled across this spatial glitch or that space-breathing life-form. You ask me, he’s just trying to outdo April and Pike. Now, they were explorers.”

The younger woman tugged at her right ear, an annoying habit, and was staring at the Tiburonian with dismay. “Picard helped stave off wars and his crews always got the best postings. Wouldn’t it be great to serve on the Sovereign-class ships like Enterprise?”

Hol sighed. “The Gettsyburg would have been big enough, thank you. Better take a station, though.

Davison went to meet him and I bet he comes right here.”

“So it is Picard, then?” she asked, seeking that final confirmation.

“It better be, wouldn’t want him disappointing you,” he said archly.

The main transporter facility at Starfleet Headquarters was in constant action when Picard arrived. He could see officers, young and old, being beamed to their ships, belongings sometimes coming along, other times left behind in haste. In his right hand was a data padd filled with the roster of the Marco Polo, and he had had scant time to even look through the names, let alone service records. He had never felt more rushed, less prepared for an assignment. Still, he recognized the need for speed and was doing what he could to keep things moving along.

Yet, he felt like he was only a step ahead of a tidal wave.

He went to the duty officer and announced his destination and was given priority clearance so he could skip waiting on line. Everyone seemed to know who he was and there were nods of acknowledgment. Picard returned them, wishing to know if any of them were to be among his crew. As the person on the pad dematerialized, he heard his name, and turned to face the speaker.

“Ah, Counselor, ready for your journey?”

Troi rushed up to him, still adjusting her jacket collar. She seemed as rushed as he was and he gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Just about. Captain Brisbayne is anxious to depart. Are you ready for a new command?”

“It’s just temporary, Counselor. We’ll be back with Will and the others soon enough.” He eyed the platform and saw it was empty and waiting for him.

“This is a new crew and they only know you by reputation,” she pointed out. Picard took a step toward the platform and paused. He looked at her as if there was a deeper meaning to her words. His silence prompted her to continue.

“It’s a young crew, and that means they don’t have the experience yet. All they have are lessons and simulations. You’ll be something larger than life to many of them and you need to keep that in mind.”

“Am I some sort of ogre?”

She laughed and touched his shoulder with reassurance. How lucky Will was, he considered. “Not at all, but there will be nervousness trying to live up to your reputation. Don’t let it distance you from them.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. In all the rush, he never considered his impact on the crew. He saw them mainly as a means to an end; she gave them substance. With a final smile, he walked to the platform, carrying his baggage himself, and placed it on the pad beside his own. His final image was of Troi, giving him one of her patented broad grins.

Just three hours after the conference, Picard and his belongings were aboard the Marco Polo, which had just finished a maintenance check before being crewed and launched.

She was a Sabre-class vessel, a light cruiser built for speed and maneuverability. The first such vessels, Picard knew, were launched just prior to the Borg attack on Earth two years previous. Most of them were attached to the S.C.E. these days—in fact, Picard had lent his chief engineer to one, the U.S.S. da Vinci, for about a week, and he had almost had to pry Commander La Forge away. It was a snub-nosed vessel, with nacelles close to the hull and painted a dark gray.

The captain noted that its complement was only forty, spread over four decks, and that at 310,000 metric tonnes it was smaller even than the Stargazer, which he had commanded prior to Enterprise. From the padd Ross gave him, Picard learned that the crew was thrown together from Starfleet resources: original crew complement still on Earth during shore leave, other personnel pulled from ships in orbit, and even one or two volunteers when word got out that something was happening.

Picard grew concerned that a crew that had never worked together, under a captain unfamiliar with the ship and its capabilities, would never perform well in combat. For a rush diplomatic mission, such as this, there was a slight hope this would be fine. In fact, he mused, this might be good for their training. Picard was among the captains that noted their concerns with Starfleet Academy that recruits were being pushed along too fast, not enough were logging sufficient star hours before graduation and ship postings— particularly both during and after the war when the greatest concern was refilling the ranks. There was a genuine concern that such ill-prepared crew might be a danger to their ships and themselves.

As the transporter beam coalesced, a middle-aged woman with long brown hair piled high on her head greeted Picard. She wore her gray duty jacket open, her red shirt showing a fit figure. “Commander Jessie Davison” was all she said.

“Captain Jean-Luc Picard,” he replied by way of greeting.

“Welcome aboard, sir. I’ll have someone bring your bag to the captain’s quarters.”

Picard nodded, preferring not to disturb the ship’s real commander, who was off enjoying a conference on some distant world. Gripping the padd in his right hand, he said, “Let’s get up to the bridge and head out.”

“Agreed. The crew is anxious to meet you.”

Troi’s words echoed back in his mind and he marveled at her accuracy. “Are they?”

“You do have a reputation, Captain. And it’s not every day they get a chance to serve, however briefly, with such a storied commander.” Her voice seemed full of joy and enthusiasm; this was a veteran who still loved every star hour logged.

“I see.” He was concerned over the gateway damage, not being on the Enterprise, the true nature of these Iconians, Will doing something to his ship, and making these rapid-fire diplomatic contacts. And he wasn’t aboard his familiar command. He wasn’t sure there was time left to coddle a boatload of youngsters. Still, he had to make the effort.

In the turbolift, Davison explained that all forty members of the makeshift crew had now reported in and they had received priority clearance to leave Spacedock and clear the system. Picard nodded at both Ross’s efficiency and Davison’s.

“We achieved a new record,” she said proudly.

“Haste is not always useful,” Picard warned.

“True, but we wagered at being staffed before Mercury and beat them once you reported in.”

“Really? What was the wager?”

“An advance copy of the latest Risa solar surfing holoprogram.” She grinned at Picard.

He took one final glance at the roster, then lowered his arm as the doors opened to the bridge. It had been over a decade since he last took command of a ship that wasn’t called Enterprise. He liked to think he had learned from the experience, wouldn’t be as stiff and distanced as he was back then.

Picard ignored the captain’s seat for a moment, strolling around the circle of duty stations that ringed the command center. Starting to his left, he walked by the tactical station and said, “Good to have you aboard, Lieutenant Rodriguez.” He continued walking by the science, engineering, and environmental controls aft, then flight control and operations console at the bridge’s front, and the science station. Along the way, he greeted each officer by name, making him or her feel welcome.

“Mr. Sacker . . . Ensign Chu-Fong . . . Lieutenant Sikluna . . . Mr. Putski . . .”

Once he took his place in the captain’s chair, he let out a deep breath and turned to Davison, who had a grin on her lined face.

“Was I even close?”

“Pretty close on two of them, but I’m sure they appreciated the effort.”

Picard stifled a sigh, looked around once more, and then checked the readouts on either side of the command chair. It was time to get to work.

“We’re cleared to depart, helm, take us out. Engage.”

Chan smoothly eased the smaller vessel out of Spacedock and across the solar system. Picard watched everyone at work, satisfied that they knew what they were doing. It pleased him that he had to revise his estimates at the total youth aboard the ship as evidenced by Davison and Hol.

“We’re making a series of brief visits, Ensign Chan. Please review the flight charts and make certain we’re taking the most expedient course.”

“Aye, sir,” she replied at once. He noticed the withering stare Science Officer Hol gave her from the ops console next to her.

“Best speed to Qo’noS,” he ordered.

“Leaving the solar system in five minutes, before engaging warp,” she said.

“Very good. I’ll be in the ready room. Commander, will you join me?”

* * *

Once the captain left the bridge, leaving the conn to Hol, Chan turned right around to address her colleagues. “So, that’s Captain Picard, huh?”

Hol looked at her with penetrating eyes, emphasized by his race’s lack of hair. “And?”

She shrugged, pulling at her ear. “I thought he’d be, I don’t know . . . taller.”

“He is what he is,” Hol replied. It didn’t seem pertinent what size the captain was. On the other hand, he was concerned over the mission. “As I understand it now, we’re to bring him to a number of targeted worlds. An interesting collection of non-aligned races.”

Chan adjusted the heading and checked the readouts, nodding to herself with satisfaction. “Well, the Klingons aren’t exactly non-aligned.”

“She’s right,” chimed in Rosario, the tactical officer. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, the fitting image of a security chief. His blond hair, cut severely short, reflected the light so it always seemed to shimmer around his skull, which took nothing away from the penetrating blue of his eyes. “Klingons. I am so ready for warp speed.”

“We will need warp speed to maintain our schedule,” Hol said skeptically. It drew some chuckles from around him.

“Warp speed is very good,” said Chan.

“Good, because I would hate to think warp speed meant something other than the velocity.”

“Oh, it does,” Rosario told the Tiburonian. “We’ve left orbit, making a direct line for the Klingon Empire, where we will be greeted by the chancellor himself, and our leader is none other than Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”

“So, that means we’re at warp speed,” Hol said hesitantly. Clearly this banter was beyond him. It promised to be a long trip.

“Yes it does,” Rosario said with a broad grin.

“Do you think Picard is at warp speed?” Chan asked. Chan turned to Rosario, hoping for a positive reply. Hol looked at her, noting the intense interest in Rosario’s reply. He considered the question thoughtfully. “I don’t know if that man ever gets to warp speed. Seems beneath him.”

Within the ready room, after dismissing Davison, Picard settled back in the chair and sipped his tea. The chair, he noted, was not as plush as the one he had grown accustomed to on the current Enterprise. In fact, Marco Polo was built for immediacy.

On the viewscreen built into the desktop, Picard had called up all existing records on the Iconians. Although he had committed much of the information to memory, he sifted through Varley’s logs, his own, as well as Data’s and Worf’s from the visit to Iconia; those taken by Worf and the rest of the Defiant crew at Vandros IV, which had been sent directly to Picard from Deep Space 9; and the declassified portions of Commander Vaughn’s mission to Alexandra’s Planet, which, like Picard’s own Iconian experience, also involved the Romulans.

The Iconians were spread far and wide throughout the galaxy, yet only three worlds had been found with direct links to the Iconian heritage. Their gateways were a marvelous example of an advanced technology, but so was their expertise with computers and computer interfaces. He felt saddened by the loss of Varley and his crew but gratified that his loss was not an empty one—it gave the Enterprise a chance to comprehend the discovery and, in turn, managed to save the Romulans. More closely, it also meant they managed to save Data when the programming tried to rewrite the android’s neural pathways.

The Iconians, with their technology and reach, had always impressed Picard. Of all the long-dead races he studied over the years, they captured his imagination and held it. The time they flourished in the galaxy was long before sentient life even existed on Earth or Vulcan or Qo’noS. What they managed to build and achieve, where they traveled, how they did it . . . all of it showed a sense of achievement mixed with purpose.

Picard agreed with Ross: there was little reason for the Iconians to return after so much time merely to want to sell their technology. True, he did not know all about their culture and he certainly knew nothing of their governing structure. But his instincts screamed at him that this was all wrong.

Putting down the tea, he looked away from the screen, and let his mind wander. He needed to absorb the enormity of the task ahead, make plans in case some of the races said no. And for the ones that would say yes, what if they lied? Without his complete command staff, Picard did not have trusted voices for feedback and would have to make do with the Marco Polo’ s ad hoc crew. He would force himself to keep an open mind when they ventured an opinion, and he would also make sure they had a chance to offer their thoughts.

He looked forward to seeing his old comrade Worf once more. They last were together when the
Enterprise brought Worf, newly appointed ambassador to the empire, to his posting. Picard also looked forward to speaking with Martok, a vastly different sort of chancellor than Gowron was. As his mind began focusing on details of Klingon government, he grew anxious. Finally, he admitted he was looking forward to at least this first portion of the mission.

Satisfied for the moment, he returned to the bridge, where obviously the crew had been chattering, forming a working relationship. However, the voices drifted toward silence as he emerged and took his chair.

“Status, Ensign Chan?”

“Proceeding on course to Qo’noS, sir. Nothing unusual between here and the empire border.”

“Very good. Mr. Rodriguez . . .”

The tactical officer cleared his throat. “Rosario, sir.”

Picard looked over his shoulder, in mild surprise. “My apologies. Mr. Rosario, maintain yellow alert and make sure weapons remain offline until I say otherwise.”

“Very good, Captain.”

Picard studied the bridge and the collection of unfamiliar faces. “We have a little time before we arrive at Qo’noS but I must say, I am looking forward to this,” he added, a tone of pleasure in his voice. “Have any of you been?”

Murmurs in the negative came from around him.

Picard nodded and began telling them of the world, and its people. He made sure to cover some of the customs that would need to be observed and pointed out the Federation ambassador and staff would be present to help smooth the way. The talk went on for several minutes, with none of the crew daring to interrupt even though Chan appeared to have many questions.

Davison herself remained quietly respectful by his side. When finished, he turned command over to her and retired to his quarters.

As he left the bridge, Davison looked at the other members of the bridge staff and commented, “That man is at warp speed.”

Chan broke into a wide smile. “Yes, he is!”

Captain Brisbayne was not waiting for Troi when she arrived on the Mercury. Instead, the first officer, Ranjit Srivastava, an exceedingly thin, dark-skinned man with a face of indeterminate age despite his graying temples, greeted her.

“The captain offers his compliments but is preparing to leave orbit,” Srivastava explained in a soft voice.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “I can understand the rush.”

“We will have to travel at top warp for each leg of the journey to stay on Admiral Ross’s schedule. This has the captain concerned.”

“Why is that?” she asked. They had left the transporter room and began walking down the corridor, toward the turbolift. The few they passed rushed by as if they were in a race. And perhaps they were.

“We’re a smaller ship than you’re used to, Commander,” the first officer said, using her official rank rather than job title. “We’re not built to sustain such speeds for long and it’s going to prove a challenge to the engineering staff.”

Once inside the lift, Troi was surprised they were heading directly to the bridge. “Is this crew as quickly put together as the Marco Polo?”

“Fortunately not,” he replied. By then, they had made the quick trip to the top of the vessel and emerged on the bridge. It was certainly smaller than she was used to, but it was of little concern to her. In the center sat the captain, who was issuing orders while reading a data padd and waving off a hovering crewman. He was burly and older, a career officer, she knew. She heard him demand clearance from command to depart while still ordering a final container of medical supplies be beamed aboard.

The first officer quietly took his place to the captain’s left with Troi standing beside them. Srivastava made the introductions and Brisbayne merely nodded in her direction as he squinted at something on the padd.

“Excuse me,” he said to her. “Brisbayne to engineering. Solly, did you get the extra FTL nanoprocessor units I ordered?”

“We’re just storing them now, Captain.”

“Fine. Bridge out.” He turned to the counselor and gestured for her to take a seat on his right. Still holding her baggage, she shrugged and did as requested.

“We’re going to get out of here in record time and then hit warp. Soon as we clear the solar system, we’ll convene department heads for a briefing. Will you be ready?”

Troi nodded. “I’m as prepared as any of us are.”

“I need you to be better prepared than I am,” he said. “We’ve had our orders changed four times in the last twelve hours, and I’m flying a tired crew that came here for shore leave. We cut short the overhaul the ship needed to take you places, so I hope to God you’re ready.”

The waves of agitation washed over her and she steeled herself to handle them. She suspected he would remain so until they had made their stops. Her empathic feelings indicated he was dedicated to the mission but worried about both ship and crew. She couldn’t tell if his manner was always so blunt but would adjust her reactions accordingly.

“I’m ready, Captain.”

“Good.”

“Entering orbit,” Chan said, as the Marco Polo approached the green world of Qo’noS.

“Very good,” Davison said, as Picard entered the bridge. “Tactical, contact the consulate and ask for any updates to the schedule. Science, now’s a good time to look for gateway activity—just in case.”

Picard watched from near the turbolift, satisfied with Davison’s handling of the crew. He felt refreshed and ready for the meetings. It had been made clear that although a pleasant stop since the Klingons were an ally, it was also to be a brief one. Starfleet felt a personal approach to Chancellor Martok was best and Picard couldn’t disagree. With their codes of conduct, just expecting them to fall beside them could be seen as an insult. Picard also did not fully know the tenor of the Klingon government since Martok took control of the Council. As he understood it, Worf killed Gowron in combat and earned the title himself. Instead of seizing the power, once and for all restoring glory to his family name, he felt unworthy of the position. Instead, Worf decided a race of warriors needed to be led by one who had seen battle, and lived long enough to learn from it. Martok took control of the Klingon people that day, and, after a rather tumultuous transition period, had effected changes that benefited his people. In a society that had seen more than its share of corruption, Martok sounded like the right man for the times. And Picard was immensely proud of Worf’s actions, feeling more than a little like a parent.

He took his place in command seat and asked for a direct link to Worf’s office at the Federation embassy. Rosario complied but rather than an image of his old friend, Picard was greeted by a human of very mixed ancestry; Worf’s aide, Picard recalled.

“Giancarlo Wu at your service,” the human said.

“I was seeking Ambassador Worf,” Picard said.

“So you were. He is overseeing the preparations for your meeting himself and so is unavailable. How may I help, Captain?”

“I was just calling to make certain all is in readiness and to see if I needed any further . . . preparation for my meeting with the chancellor.”

Wu nodded and smiled. “The ambassador did suggest you bring along a mild analgesic. The chancellor has decided there will be a meal during the meeting.”

Picard gritted his teeth and nodded. “Fresh gagh no doubt.”

The adjutant smiled and shrugged. “It’s not the chancellor’s favorite, but whatever is served will absolutely be the freshest available.”

“Delightful.”

Worf had to force himself to stop pacing in the transporter room. Even though he and Picard had seen each other since his appointment as ambassador, he still didn’t wear the mantle well in front of his former comrades. A part of him missed the journey through space, the battles to be fought, and the glory to be found in the unknown. Still, he recognized the responsibility that came with the honor of representing the Federation. They were his chosen people and despite that loyalty being tested time and again, he had found a steadfastness that saw him through each adversity.

“Welcome to the First City,” he rumbled as Picard stepped off the platform. They looked each other in the eye. Picard seemed fit and healthy, as befitted the captain. Worf respected a great many members of Starfleet, but Picard was one of two he held in the highest esteem. He had watched as Picard took a reputation from his days on the Stargazer and forged it into a legend with the Enterprise.

“Ambassador Worf, it’s good to see you again,” Picard said, a warm smile on his face. “How goes it?”

“Well, sir,” Worf replied. He didn’t see any reason to review the litany of problems, issues, and politics that filled each day. Picard could change none of it, nor could speaking of it do him well with any who overheard.

Worf walked through the door and Picard followed, leaving the cramped transporter room behind. The stone-carved hallways were filled with Klingon officers moving about, few even acknowledging the ambassador in their midst. Unless they had need of the Federation, he was largely left alone, which suited him fine. It was a short distance to the council chamber, where Martok awaited. Armed guards stood on each side of the wide, heavy doors, and looked at both ambassador and captain with suspicion. These were Martok’s elite, and after the Dominion War and the invasion of the changelings, Klingons chose to remain in a heightened state of paranoia.

“Have you found a gateway here?” Picard asked casually.

“No, but remnants of one were located on the remains of Praxis,” Worf said. “Once the government learned that the entire network had been activated, the High Council ordered an immediate check. When nothing was recorded here, they sent a team to check the moon.”

“I assume it was destroyed when the moon exploded eighty years ago?”

“Yes.”

The explosion of Praxis, overmined and under-caredfor, was actually the event that started the Klingon Empire on its inevitable path toward peace with the Federation. It wasn’t a straight path but with each passing generation it grew a little easier.

“Has the Empire found many active gateways?”

“The chancellor keeps that information to himself but I take that to mean there are more than a few.”

Picard digested that information for a moment. “How will your people react?”

“When threatened, they will defend their homes,” Worf said. “I cannot say if the lost and bewildered will be made as welcome here as they might in the Federation.”

“There are more than enough Federation planets that can just as easily act out of fear or territorialism,” Picard noted.

“My people may see the gateways in more than peaceful ways,” Worf said. “There will always be those who do not see benefit from allying ourselves with the Federation. Some, like the House of Duras, would try and buy the technology for themselves, dividing the Empire.”

“Few have gone to the lengths that House has,” Picard said. Privately, Worf was just as glad Lursa and B’Etor had been dead for years. They had dishonored him and brought shame to his people on more than one occasion.

“A civil conflict was not something I had anticipated,” Picard said.

“Martok continues to instill order, but the strain on my people has been great. Gowron ruled unwisely and some Houses have bided their time. He will have to remain strong.”

Two guards gripped the handles and opened the doors inward, admitting the ambassador and captain. The room was dimmer than the halls and Worf noted that the full complement of the Council was missing, a protocol insult that few but Picard would even notice. Leaning over a dark wooden table was Martok. Worf appraised the chancellor, noting that he seemed unchanged since taking control of the government. He knew some leaders visibly aged when in power, but Martok seemed fueled by the authority. Not reveling in it, but with newfound purpose which suited his sturdy form. The body was thin, tall, and rangy, battle-hardened. Martok’s face showed interest and the one good eye gleamed in the light.

He imagined looking at the chancellor from Picard’s perspective. Gowron, the man the captain helped attain the leadership role, was fierce, a true warrior. But he was not a veteran of war, had not led men and ships into battle. Gowron knew how to play the political games that seemed to be preferred to matters of honor on Qo’noS and his eyes bulged in delight. Martok, though, had seen more than his share of battle. He had risen through the ranks and had collected something more valuable than political chits: respect and loyalty. His bearing and tone spoke of each battle, each death achieved in defense of the Klingons’ interest. It was a voice that had seen more than enough senseless bloodshed as well, Worf knew, making him the right man at the right time to help steer his people.

It certainly wasn’t going to be easy as the political machinations within the council chambers and many of the influential Houses still remained active—too active if anyone bothered to ask Worf. Like Martok, he disapproved of such games, feeling it cheapened the honor of those Houses and their inhabitants.

Martok looked up with his good eye and made a noise that sent the courtiers away from him. The chancellor straightened and strode forward, studying the captain. Martok stopped about six feet from Picard and held his ground. Picard straightened as Worf launched into the formal introductions—not, strictly speaking, necessary, since the parties all knew each other, but one thing Worf had learned in his short time as a diplomat was the importance of protocol, even with Klingons.

“May I present Captain Jean-Luc Picard, son of Maurice,” Worf said. “Captain, I bring you before Martok, son of Krigar, leader of the High Council.”

The two men nodded at the other as Worf continued.

“Know before all that this meeting between the Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets is duly authorized and is overseen by the ambassador.” As he spoke, trying to make it sound smooth, he eyed the other councillors around the chamber. They had stood at attention, but there was some whispering back and forth and Worf knew that meant speculation was running between them.

“Captain, welcome,” Martok said, when Worf had concluded the formal introduction. “A drink?”

Picard nodded and tankards were brought forth and quickly handed to one and all. Worf saw Picard sniff at his drink and hid a smirk. Picard would gamely drain the tankard, not to be bested by the most basic of Klingon tests. Sure enough, Picard smiled and nodded toward Martok and took a very long pull.

The chancellor smiled and took an equally long drink. “Excellent vintage.”

“I know a thing or two about vintages,” Picard said. “I don’t know this one, though, but it is remarkably . . . smooth.”

“From my wife Sirella’s family,” Martok said.

“Chancellor, this is a fine drink but I do not have time for a lengthy visit. I do not mean to be rude. . . .”

“What does the Federation need of us?” Martok put the drink down, studying Picard with his usual intensity. Worf hoped this would be brief but without rancor.

“The gateways,” Picard replied.

“Very efficient mode of transport,” Martok said, not changing his expression. Worf stood to the side, between the two leaders, watching with only his eyes.

“But right now, very dangerous,” Picard replied. “The Iconians are seeking the highest price for the technological plans but until they are satisfied, the gateways remain active and the chaos is already being felt throughout the quadrant. I was hoping we could form a fleet, made up of several races, and approach the Iconians at their base position.”

Martok took another long drink, clearly thinking. Worf knew his friend, and leader of his House, to be a shrewd judge of character. He already knew of Picard’s exploits before the ambassador could even begin to speak on his behalf. Worf also knew the Iconians had a representative on Qo’noS a week earlier making the same offer.

“Have the gateways not already caused your empire trouble?”

Martok paused, thinking carefully before answering. “We have had some unwelcome visitors” was all he would say.

“Imagine invading hordes,” Picard said.

“We’d train our disruptors on each gateway if need be.”

“Admirable,” Picard said. “But a waste of men and equipment given their dampening fields. Wouldn’t you be better off securing the other side?”

“Each gateway opens to multiple locations, that would spread our resources even thinner,” Martok said. With his left hand, he gestured to a guard at the door. He nodded and disappeared into another room.

Picard nodded and held his tongue for a moment, letting Martok consider.

“I would sooner encase each one in a block of duranium than expose my people.”

“And the starship-sized ones?”

Worf rarely saw Martok surprised but this was one of those opportunities. Clearly, anything more than humanoid-proportioned had not occurred to him. The ambassador also saw that it told Picard nothing of that nature had been spotted within the Empire. The captain was filing that away with all the other arcane information he needed.

Attendants brought in platters and bowls, setting them at a side table that was already prepared. Steam rose from one bowl, its scent quickly making its way

The unease of the moment grated on Worf’s nerves. He had tremendous respect for both men and would dislike seeing them at odds. To distract himself, he filled a plate with flat bread and some of the gagh.

“Your name has been known to me for some time, Picard,” Martok finally said, as he reached for some gagh of his own. “The exploits of the great Enterprise may be the most studied in the Empire. The first such ship certainly caused enough dishonor to several Houses. But, your own actions redeemed that ship’s honor and I respect that.”

Martok took a deep drink of the soup. “Like you, I worry about our community and the Klingons’ place in it. The Iconians tempt us with technology but there is something I do not trust about them. Do you feel it?”

“I have not met them in person, Chancellor, but Starfleet Command shares your suspicions.”

“Of course they do,” Martok said loudly. “Starfleet has people who are suspicious of everyone and everything. Why else have an intelligence division?” Martok drained his drink and held it out, arm stiff, for an attendant to collect. “While you have my people’s respect, Picard, know that the honor carried by being Arbiter of Succession is over. Gowron is dead and I lead the people. However, K’mpec saw honor in you, as does the ambassador. You therefore have my trust. I will assign two battle cruisers, but they shall act under my direction.”

“Do you mean to join us?” Picard asked carefully. If Martok joined him, he would have to defer more often than not, which would weaken the plan.

“Not at all. The captain shall follow my directions but do not worry, Picard, if the Iconians fire at you, my ships will stand at your side.”

Picard bowed with formal thanks. Then, to seal the point, took a handful of the gagh and stuffed it into his mouth. Worf exhaled, sensing the momentum had shifted in his former captain’s favor, and Martok laughed.

As Worf finished his plate, he was stunned by Picard’s next comment.

“Chancellor, I wish to bring along an experienced diplomat. I feel I may need the help. Can Qo’noS do without Mr. Worf for a little while?” Worf recognized Picard’s excessive formality with Martok; a gesture of respect. After all, permission wasn’t required.

Martok stared at Worf, his mind clearly turning over the possibilities, but the strategic importance made the answer clear. He quickly replied, “We won’t be negotiating with the Iconians any time soon. Whatever problems the gateways bring us will be internal ones. Being a Federation initiative, Worf can do better with you.”

“Thank you, Chancellor.”

“Qapla’!”

Worf had to contain his smile, but bowed toward the chancellor. He stole a glance at Picard, who seemed more than satisfied with the way things had gone.

“Chancellor, not to rush matters, but I have more stops to make before we can visit the Iconians and with every moment, I suspect we’re risking some unforeseen calamity.”

“Go, Picard,” Martok said. “The Empire will stand beside the Federation once more. Oh, and do bring Worf back in one piece.”

Although the sun was bright and there was nary a cloud in the sky over Armus IX’s capital city, Clandakin sensed only doom. She had been elected governor of the planet less than a year ago and had just completed consolidating the bickering factions into a coalition that would allow her people to finally move forward after a decade-long economic crisis.

She returned to her chambers after a Regency session, unfastening the bright yellow and orange-feathered cloak she wore when conducting official business. The cool air felt good after the five-hour meeting that was not stopped once. The business at hand was serious indeed. An hour earlier, her Surgeon reported that at least one-third of the planet had quickly contracted the disease. The Guardian had also announced that the culprits had been found but the Regency didn’t know what to do with them.

Pictures had been displayed of the aliens who had unleashed the virulent disease among her people, shown alongside a picture of a hospital ward filled with people vomiting and bleeding. They seemed most benign with their oblong heads, dusty skin, and oversized ears. Their expressions showed a lack of comprehension, as if they had no idea where they were or what was happening around them. None had been armed; in fact, none had anything remotely resembling a weapon or communications device. One carried a satchel full of food and drink while another had a tubular item, similar to a ball. Her best guess was that they were out for a walk, not at all intending to sabotage a planet.

Doctors, nurses, and volunteers, wearing as much covering as possible, were also seen. She was heartened by their heroics but saddened that the death toll was already beginning. Clandakin, all of twenty-seven years old, was watching the worst medical crisis the people of Armus IX had encountered in three centuries. The last time, such a violent epidemic left one-quarter of the planet’s population dead and the world took two generations to get itself back on course.

Would this be the same?

A sweaty hand smoothed out the long crimson dress she had worn under the cloak. Leading the people was such a thrill and a chore at the same time. But now it felt like a crushing yoke around her neck, threatening to snap the spinal column. The Surgeon had said testing determined the people to be responsible but it would take time to isolate what germ was unleashed, how it spread, and how to combat it. Those in custody looked bewildered, neither known enemies of her planet nor fanatics with a cause.

She shut her eyes but pictured them again, noting the look of terror in their own eyes. She winced. They were clearly as scared as the Armusians.

Why shouldn’t they be? she mused. To them, it was a chance for a lark, a simple picnic for three families taking a short holiday.

Of course, the fact that they lived ninety-five parsecs away might have been cause for some caution, she realized. Still, wouldn’t she have been tempted had a gateway, spinning like some jewel, opened up on the outskirts of their village on Tavela Minor? A chance to see another world, meet an entirely different culture, would certainly be too tempting to resist.

No one had stopped to think how their worlds might have differed. Germs and microbes that meant nothing to them suddenly became the cause of plague on Armus IX. Never had her people been victim to so innocent an act.

Could her Surgeon find a cure before too many more died? A distress call to the Federation had already gone out and the hope was that one of the medical starships could be dispatched. The call went out a day ago and Starfleet had yet to respond.

She knew why, of course. Armus IX was just one of several worlds cursed by the gateways.

“The planet is heavily industrialized in just one section,” the science officer announced.

The commander turned and looked at her. “ Population?”

“No life signs. It appears to be entirely designed for automation.”

“Is it active?”

“Not from our readings.”

The commander nodded and looked once more toward the forward viewscreen. The world looked like so many others, nothing distinguishing it at all. He did not recognize it, or the stars around it. In fact, he couldn’t recognize any of the formations. This, more than the planet’s emptiness, disturbed him.

“Long-range scan,” he said, continuing to prowl the cramped bridge.

“Nothing to indicate any vessels have been this way. All we detect is the gateway.”

It spun lazily in space, large enough to allow the entire ship to fly through, its aperture showing three, no four, differing locales. He thought he recognized the one he came through, but it spun just fast enough to elude confirmation. Regardless, the ship’s computers would isolate it when it was time to go home.

But first the world needed exploration. It was not like most civilizations to build a factory and leave it alone.

“Approach and orbit, helm,” he said quietly.

“Orbit in five minutes,” came the reply.

“Good. Place us in geosynchronous position to the factory and let’s get a complete reading. Navigation, have you determined where we are?”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause before the navigator spoke. His voice betrayed his youth and his nervousness; the commander would welcome neither. “Commander, from our charts, I believe within Federation space.” There was silence around the bridge and the commander nodded just once.

“Where precisely?”

“I believe it to be a star system near the galactic barrier, one called Delta Vega by the Federation.”

The commander was surprised and more than a little concerned. Although the galactic barrier was nowhere near his homeworld, ship commanders around drinks of strong ale spoke tales of it. People went mad there, it was said; ships were never heard from again, and monsters were created. Improved shielding meant it could be traversed, but none dared try . . . just in case. Better he survey the world, grab what riches might remain, and return home intact.

“Study this factory world. What did they produce here? Are there weapons?”

The officer turned and saluted, fist to heart.

“If the Federation abandoned it, let’s see what the Romulan Star Empire might learn and profit from the planet.”

The first Bolian coughed in the thick atmosphere. His companions had dwindled to three from an original group of nine. All felt scared with one going almost catatonic, refusing to say or do anything, just shuffling after the others.

Felk had somehow become the group leader and he didn’t like it. It was one thing to lead them in a magnoball contest, completely another to handle this emergency. No one else seemed willing to take point and explore the hot world so rather than stand still, he had them move forward.

Just an hour earlier, they were finishing their weekly game, having bested the Gropla Team from Engineering Division. They usually beat the Groplas since they were always looking for opportunities to try obscure patterns and angles, treating the games more as experiments than competition. Felk didn’t care, since it was another notch on their tally sheet and got them ready for the championship bout, coming in another month.

Everyone was relaxed and happy when they stepped out of the courts, going for their groundcars. Instead, they found the swirling device where their vehicles were. The ten men and women, five each from the two teams, gaped at the bright aperture.

“I recognize that, it’s Mount Seleya on Vulcan!”

Another stared and saw a rounded, tall building surrounded by lush foliage. She didn’t recognize it, which seemed to fascinate her all the more. Felk’s partner, Helt, pointed and noted the aperture was rotating and three locations were distinct: Vulcan, the building, and an unidentified ice floe. Sure enough, a member of the engineering team whipped out a recorder and took notes, speaking quietly into the device.

“I wonder if we can enter it?”

“Who’d want to?”

“I like Vulcan, always wanted to visit.”

One picked up a small stone and tossed it at the whirling gateway and it got swallowed up without so much as a sound. This seemed to embolden the engineers who wanted to explore, their curiosity getting the better of them.

Two made it through and then the others stumbled when it became obvious the device would spin at the same speed so getting to Vulcan would require timing. One woman tripped while hesitating, and ended up on the ice. This seemed to sober the group, but one, an overweight player from Felk’s team, pushed forward, knocking several into the gateway, scattering them.

Felk and Helt could see Opel on the ice, shivering. They silently counted among themselves, gauging the rotation and timing their action. If they could get it right, travel through to Opel, then they should be able to reverse themselves and get her home safely.

Their count was off, however, and the two men were suddenly in the humid air of the unknown world. Four others were standing and shaking themselves off, all looking to Felk for leadership. With a swallow, he began timing the rotation once more, trying to compensate for the error. Helt, on his signal, stepped through, hoping to reach Opel. Instead, he was back on Bolarus IX and running to get help.

There was a growing buzzing sound that bothered Felk and, fearing the worst, he debated between staying by the gateway, waiting for help, or moving toward the building, a sure sign of civilization. None of them recognized the planet they were standing on, noting the gravity seemed lighter than home. The air stank of rotting vegetation and something unknown, which scared them all the more. It was that fear that drove them toward the building, which was round, made from metal, and tapering toward the top. It must have been fifteen or twenty meters high, twice that around, Felk estimated.

It had higher technology based on the devices they saw scattered around the structure’s exterior. No doors were obvious, or windows, which concerned Felk, but he figured they needed to walk around the entire perimeter before finding an entrance. Here by the building, they took comfort in the buzzing sound growing more distant.

Balit pulled out his magnoball and tossed it back and forth, from hand to hand, trying to channel his nervous energy. Felk didn’t pay it any attention as they continued around the structure, tying to guess where in the galaxy they might be. He wasn’t much on travel and didn’t immediately recognize the world and noted it was not a place he’d want to see again unless the people inside the building proved to be the friendliest folk this side of Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet.

A few minutes more, and the party made its way around to the other side of the structure, fending off growing vines, thick underbrush, and oppressive heat. Balit had taken to tossing the ball to Felk every now and then so it almost seemed like an outing, just a little more adventurous than any of them had hoped for.

They stopped to catch their breath and immediately heard loud buzzing once more. Notan, the silent one, looked up and stared, pointing with his left hand. Rising from the top of the structure were three beings, looking more insect than humanoid. They were black with yellow markings, had antennae and wings. Each also carried some sort of weapon that was strapped to their short arms, drawing power from a device at their chest. The insects buzzed among themselves and then began to descend toward the now-paralyzed quartet.

“You have encroached on Jarada’s colony Torona Alpha,” one of them buzzed. “Why do you invade us?”

No one said a word, continuing to stare, trying to comprehend the sudden turn of events. The trio eased down a little lower, but clearly keeping their distance from the blue-skinned Bolians. For long moments, neither side moved nor said anything.

Finally, Balit, gripping his magnoball, let out a scream. It was a scream of fear, fear of the unknown, fear of dying, just plain fear.

Then he threw the ball. The three Jaradan sentries scattered, avoiding the hurtling spheroid, and watched it strike one of the devices attached to the building’s wall. Despite being on an alien world, the ball’s magnetic core did its job, obeying the universe’s physical laws, and stuck to the building.

What happened next was unexpected. The ball’s magnetic charge caused an overload to the device, which turned out to be a sensor. The overload surged through the structure, tripping relays and causing havoc. As the sounds grew ominous from inside the building, the sentries were shaken back to action. Taking aim, they swiftly let loose volleys of plasma energy, which quickly killed the Bolians. The lead Jaradan began to make a report, but was cut off as the entire structure, now supercharged to overload, began to spark. The Jaradan patrol scattered toward the rain forest before them, narrowly escaping the firestorm. Two hundred of their brethren remained trapped within the burning hive.

* * *

“You watched them hatch?”

Troi smiled at the ensign, brightening to the topic. “Sure did. They are fast growing to become the ruling caste for the Gorn, insuring stability for at least another generation.”

The ensign, a young Asian named Linda Liang, grew wide-eyed. She was dividing her attention between the counselor, standing to her left, and the conn console before her. Troi had read the roster reports three times to familiarize herself with the Mercury and its crew and had come to know them fairly quickly.

“Eyes front, Ensign, wouldn’t want you to hit any planets.” That from the captain, Carter Brisbayne. To Troi, the silver-haired by-the-book career officer seemed to take every order with a determined grimness. Troi found herself overcompensating, forcing herself to be relaxed with the crew, even if her posting was extremely temporary.

“Captain?”

The question came from Ranjit Srivastava. He had been with the ship since its launch, surviving the Borg attack on Earth and several skirmishes against the Jem’Hadar. This, Troi felt, gave him enough experience to get past the eagerness much of the crew exhibited.

“Yes, Number One?”

Troi suppressed a smile. Anyone other than Captain Picard calling anyone other than Will Riker Number One just struck her as wrong.

“Entering Gorn space in five minutes.”

“Understood. Mr. Livingston, full sensor sweep and then let’s hail them.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Everything according to the command directives, she noted. Inwardly, she realized their mission objective had an entirely different library to follow. With the Gorn, it could be tense. She and the Enterprise crew had recently helped stopped a civil war. The Gorn took some time to heal and proved to help during the Dominion conflict, but to a much lesser degree than the Federation had hoped. Time having passed, Troi hoped the reception would be a warmer one but she knew their point of view would not be in synch with the UFP’s.

A loud sound interrupted the idle thought and Troi saw the red lights before her.

“What is it, Ensign Liang?” barked Brisbayne.

“Gorn patrol vessel, closing fast at warp two. Weapons online, shields up.”

“Yellow alert. Mr. Livingston, keep weapons offline until I say otherwise. Damn, not what I need right now.”

A chorus of affirmative sounds was returned and Troi nodded in satisfaction. She turned to the captain and explained their opponents. “They value strength over diplomacy but let’s not bare this ship’s teeth. We need to get past them and reach the current leader, Lord Slessshh.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Srivastava commented.

“Well, they have a lot of teeth,” Troi added with her characteristic smile. Brisbayne ignored her, studying readouts on his screen.

“Ship closing, refusing to answer our hails,” Livingston said. “Fifty thousand kilometers.”

“Slow to impulse, helm,” the captain said.

“Weapons lock!” the tactical officer cried.

“Shields up, red alert,” Brisbayne said.

Damn, Troi thought, as the red lights bathed the bridge and the klaxon sounded, this was the last thing she wanted.

Before another command could be given, bright light emitted from a speck in space. Too far, she figured, for an accurate shot. She pushed her mind, hoping to get some idea what was going on with the alien ship, but they were too far away—too alien to do her much good.

The light, a projectile actually, streaked in front of the Mercury, and detonated, some four thousand kilometers in front of the ship.

“A warning shot,” Livingston said.

“Good guess,” Brisbayne muttered. “Do not return fire. Try and raise the bastards.”

It was tense on the bridge, which Troi could feel without even trying. A good third of the crew were newly assigned and had probably never seen battle. Liang, Livingston, and Srivastava had, which helped. The counselors were playing an instrumental role in spreading out veterans among the Fleet, making sure senior staffs were populated with enough experienced personnel to get the jobs done without problems. Moments passed in silence, waiting to see if the Gorn were now ready to talk.

“No reply.”

“Open a channel. This is Captain Carter Brisbayne of the United Federation of Planets. We seek access to your homeworld and a chance to speak with Lord Slessshh.”

Before he could say another word, Troi uttered a throat-wrenching phrase that no one on the bridge could understand. Brisbayne stared at her coldly.

Once again there was silence. She leaned forward and saw a readout showing neither ship had moved. A good sign, she hoped. Looking around, she spotted Science Officer Alfonzo bent over her console, learning what she could. Next to the science station was Chief Engineer Donald Agbayani, sitting intently. She had been introduced to them as the Double A team, a reference that made no sense to her until it was explained it was an archaic Earth term used in a sport called baseball. The legendary game was just making its presence felt once again on distant worlds.

“Captain,” Livingston said in his slow British tone, “I have Lord Slessshh.”

“On screen,” he said.

A green-scaled figure filled the viewer, with huge glittering eyes devoid of emotion. He stared at the crew and took his time before speaking. Behind him were the Gorn crest and dark plants. “Troi, is it?”

“Yes, Lord,” she said. Brisbayne bristled at being ignored but Troi had to keep the conversation going and would make amends with him later.

“We did not expect contact from the Federation at this time.”

“No, Lord, but an event of widespread proportions has caused this contact. Are you familiar with the gateways operating in this sector of space?”

“We are,” he replied, not moving once. Troi steadied herself in the chair and noticed Liang suppress a shiver. Cold-blooded creatures always seem to have that effect on humans, she knew.

“Have you also been contacted by the Iconians?”

“We might have spoken to them. What of it?” Clearly he was holding information closely, uncertain of what the Federation would want. She perceived that they still felt some obligation to the Federation, and resented it.

“The gateways are active throughout the quadrant and pose a threat while they peddle the technology like fabric. We are suspicious of their motives and Captain Picard is assembling a representative fleet to approach their leader and demand details and a shutdown of the devices before an interstellar incident occurs.”

Slessshh remained impassive, taking in the translation and considering it. There did not seem to be anyone else in the room with him, she noted. This would entirely be up to the Lord and this boded well considering the personal contact he shared with both her and Picard. At least she hoped so; the stakes were too high for this to fail. Without unity, the approach would appear comic, not authoritative.

“For Picard, I will trust this mission. I grant you four ships,” he said slowly. “They will be there for unity but may not necessarily participate.”

“We appreciate the Gorn’s support,” Troi warmly said.

“Our obligation to the Federation is a heavy one,” the Gorn said. “We dislike it but recognize the need for this mission. Go.” And the screen snapped back to the stars.

“Gorn patrol ship moving off at high warp,” the tactical officer said.

“Fine,” Brisbayne said. “Stand down from red alert. Double A, let’s get ready to lead four recalcitrant Gorn.”

“Aye,” the duo said in unison. It made her smile and relax for just a moment.

“And Counselor,” Brisbayne said, “when making diplomatic contact with a potentially hostile world, it would help if the captain is allowed to speak for the ship. My neck is on the line for my crew, not a visitor’s. This could just as easily gone poorly and then we’d have no ships for Picard’s convoy.”

She nodded and decided the time for amends would wait.

Oliv seemed to mean business, Riker concluded, feeling the tension return to his shoulders. He’d need a good massage when this was over, and found himself looking forward even more to Deanna’s return. The Deltan moved his sleek silvery ship incrementally closer, adjusting position with mere thrusters, but clearly encroaching on the Carreon ships. Leaning forward in the command chair, Riker studied the tactical readout. The last few hours had dragged as he spoke with first Oliv, then Landik Mel Rosa, trying to get them to power down their weapons or open a dialogue. He thought he used every trick in the book. All he got in return was rhetoric and a stiff neck.

“Mr. Data, opinion.”

The android turned toward the commander and moved his head at an angle, considering his answer.

“Captain Oliv seems perfectly content with this standoff while Landik Mel Rosa seems to be losing his patience. If one were to open fire first, I would think it would be him.”

Riker nodded. “Lieutenant Vale, keep a targeting lock on the Carreon but weapons stay off line.”

“Aye, sir.”

Riker liked this less by the minute. He had Data monitoring reports from throughout the Federation and knew the gateways were causing more havoc than help. Starfleet, in their infinite wisdom, summoned his captain and his imzadi to Earth and then flung them back out among the stars, but nowhere near the Enterprise. He felt understaffed and more than a little ill-equipped to deal with people determined to get into a fight. A part of him wanted to just let them strike out, but he suspected Command would frown on the tactic. Another part of him wanted to be away from this petty problem and use the Enterprise for some good, helping those people in dire need because of the Iconian “gift.”

Determined to get them moving, get the hostile races speaking, Riker had a thought. “Riker to engineering.”

“La Forge here, Commander.”

“Geordi, can we punch a transporter beam through the Deltan shields or disrupt them?”

“Sure, I can think of three ways before I blink.”

“What about the Carreon?”

“We know a lot less about them, but what works for one should work for the other.”

“Okay. Rig the systems with whichever plan you think has the best chance. Out. Lieutenant Vale, send security teams to Transporter Rooms Two and Five. We’ll be having company shortly and I want them escorted to the observation lounge.”

“Aye, sir.”

Data looked at his friend with a puzzled expression. “Is this course wise?”

Riker grinned and shook his head. “Maybe not, Data, but if they won’t use the com system, locking them in a room with me might get the dialogue a little further along. Besides, it has the benefit of not having been tried.”

A sharp sound behind him made Riker snap around, further straining his muscles. He suppressed a sound and looked at the petite security chief.

“Multiple warp signatures approaching from 474 mark 6. And the Deltans are now moving toward the Carreon at one-half impulse.”

“Red alert!” Riker snapped. “Perim, move the Enterprise between those ships! No one is going to fight unless I say so. Vale, what do you make of the signatures?”

“They’re showing as Deltan, sir. I make out seven, same class. All coming in hard and fast, weapons ready.”

“Fourteen against three is overkill in anyone’s book,” Riker said.

From the conn position, Ensign Kell Perim said, “We’re in position, Commander.”

“Sir,” Data added, “those seven ships will make it impossible for the Enterprise to prevent fighting from breaking out.”

“It’ll be a slaughter at those odds,” Vale said. Riker knew it, but had to hear the words.

Leaning back in the command chair, the acting captain let out a deep breath. It didn’t help. “Terrific. What next?”