Margeret Bonanno - Probe

"To the best of our knowledge, there's always a power struggle of some kind going on within the Empire," Uhura said with a rueful smile. "The Praetor's death has probably only exacerbated the situation. Not that we have any reliable firsthand information. Everything official coming out of the Empire so far shows a unitedand reform-minded-front."

"And my own role, Commander? I assume my experiences with a small contingent of Romulans on Kalis Three are not sufficient reason for Starfleet to deem me an expert on the Empire and to send a representative to consult with me before accepting or rejecting the invitation."

Uhura released an almost inaudible sigh. "That's not exactly the way it happened, but the invitation is the reason I'm here. And part of the Federation response is dependent on yours now, Dr. Benar."

And Uhura launched into an explanation, concluding with her hasty assurance that she would understand if, under the circumstances, Dr. Benar felt obliged to refuse. "And I'll do my best to see that Starlleet understands as well."

"That will not be necessary, Commander," Benar said after a moment's contemplative silence. "It would be both illogical and ungracious for me to refuse such an offer."

"Are you certain, Dr. Benar?" Uhura asked, noting the brittle emphasis the other woman had managed to place on the word ungracious without so much as a flicker of accompanying facial expression. "Your teamthe Federation team-would be working side by side with the Romulans at the dig. You would all be in day-to-day personal contact."

"I understand your concerns, Commander. Do you, however, understand the significance of this offer?" For the first time, a trace of emotion, what Uhura could only think of as a scholarly gleam in her eyes, cracked the Vulcan-inspired mask. "It was the mystery of the Ascendancy that first drew me to my field. I have personally worked on two Ascendancy worlds and have studied the recordings made on all, including those from Temaris itself before the war, before the Neutral Zone cut it off from all study, either Federation or Romulan. As I am sure you must know, Temaris holds at least one entire city, its ruins the best preserved and most extensive of any Ascendancy world, in or out of the Federation. To have access to that site, even under these conditions, is an opportunity that is at least as irresistible to an archaeologist as the opportunity to negotiate directly with some seemingly peaceful Romulans is to a diplomat. And the odds of my achieving some small measure, of success, of gaining some new bit of knowledge of the Ascendancy, are far better, I suspect, than the odds of your diplomats' achieving a similar measure of success."

Benar rose from the rehearsal chair with a small, distinctly human sigh and wistfully surveyed the vast empty concert hall as if for the last time.

"I am prepared," she said solemnly. "You may so inform your superiors."

Uhura felt a catch in her throat. Spock would be proud, she thought irrelevantly. 1 just hope she doesn't regret it-too much.

"You can inform them yourself," she said. "My shuttle's waiting outside."

Following the briefing, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy retired to spacedock's officers' lounge, where Spock ordered a round of Thirellian mineral water. Kirk smiled as he sipped and half-listened to his friends discuss the logic or lack thereof, the sincerity or lack thereof, of the Romulan proposals and demands. The real object of his attention, though, was beyond the clearsteel window, suspended at the very pinnacle of the spacedock. Luminous, hanging in the antigrav like some ethereal Christmas ornament: Enterprise.

Just steer the boat, Cartwright had said. In other words, trust Kevin Riley to fill the diplomat's role. The role I nudged him into, Kirk thought, remembering that then Riley had seemed too immature, too undisciplined ever to qualify for the Diplomatic Corps.

But that had been years ago; since then, Riley had not only made it into the Diplomatic Corps, he'd distinguished himself a dozen times over, thanks probably to the on-the-job training he had gotten from his years with Sarek.

Perhaps, Kirk admitted to himself, at least part of his uneasiness was due to a small amount of professional jealousy. He was glad to be the captain of the Enterprise again, glad to be out of the diplomatic troubleshooting business. But what a hell of a juicy assignment Riley had fallen into when the Romulans had declared Sarek ineligible-chief diplomat on the first peace conference with the Empire!

Kirk sighed inwardly, annoyed at himself. Jealousy was not, as Spock would point out if given the chance, logical. The important thing was not who got the glory. The important thing was to work together to see there would be glory-not blame-to be had when this was all over.

Taking another sip from the mineral water, Kirk let his attention drift again toward the clearsteel window and the starship that lay beyond it, waiting for him. Waiting for them all. Waiting for the mission.

Commander Kevin Riley-he still marveled at the "commander" now and then, despite everything-had just finished stowing his gear in his quarters aboard the Enterprise when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the open corridor door.

"Kevin?"

Riley looked up, and there was Sulu, the onetime swordsman of the helm.

"Thought you might like to head over to the lounge in spacedock, maybe grab something to eat," Sulu said, smiling his usual incandescent smile. "I think there's even some kind of party-a festival or somethinggoing on tonight."

"Sounds good," Riley said, returning the grin. He started for the door, then stopped. "Ddja vu," he said, eyeing Sulu suspiciously. "This isn't another one of Mr. Scott's surprise parties, is it? Like that one you dragged me to my first year on the ship-what was it called?"

"Robert Burns's birthday," Sulu supplied, clearly remembering the incident-particularly the horror Scotty had insisted against all logic was food, something he fondly called haggis-as well as Riley. "Don't worry about Mr. Scott. He's still busy making sure Chekov's

navigation computer talks to the sensors without an accent."

"All right, then," Riley said, clapping the helmsman on the shoulder. "Lead the way."

Hiran eyed Centurion Tiam, newly appointed delegate to the Federation, with less than enthusiasm. The younger man, his back to Hiran, stood at the room's single narrow viewport, making a show of contemplating the slowly moving starfield even though they were still in homeport orbit. Tiam's aide, Kital, old for a subCenturion and almost skeletally thin, stood by the door, hooded, unreadable eyes fixed on a spot midway between Hiran and Subcommander Feric.

Here was a pair, Hiran thought uneasily, that would bear watching.

According to the records Hiran had accessedcoupled with a few rumors and some intuition-Tiam had not only survived the Praetor's death, he had flourished in its wake, apparently through a mixture of serendipity and opportunism. Remarkably, he had never seen combat of any kind, neither border clashes nor the putting down of civil unrest, of which latter there had been more than sufficient under the late Praetor's ruthless policies. Until his recent promotion, Tiam's had been a life of midlevel administrative work, undistinguished work at that, but Tiam obviously meant to make up for lost time. His tone and bearing as he had swaggered into Hiran's quarters-and Hiran had rarely been proven wrong in his readings of such things-had told him as much, and the so-called "briefing paper" the aide had thrust at Hiran had only further lowered the commander's opinion. To the centurion's mind, the Galtizh was his battlefield, and whomever the Federa-

tion sent as their representatives were to be.his enemy. There was no way of telling what his sphinxlike aide thought.