that war would already be upon us.”
“It would be upon the Romulans,” La Forge insisted.
“No, no, no, no,” the Doctor sighed. “These aren’t the days of Captain Jonathan Archer blundering through the galaxy from one isolated star system to the next, learning on the job as he goes. It’s not even the fragmented mosaic of independent political entities that Kirk and his contemporaries began to knit together. Those early explorers did their job, Commander, and today we truly are an intergalactic community, each system linked to the other through trade and commerce, despite our cultural differences.
“A civil war between Romulus and Remus can not—and will not—be considered a ‘local disturbance.’ The Romulan Fleet is arguably the third strongest in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants combined, which means they can tip the balance of power by aligning themselves with virtually any other political assemblage.”
“Not if they’re caught up in an internal war,” La Forge said. Picard knew the engineer well enough to see that his anger was rising. Since Data’s death, the engineer had seemed to lose his capacity for patience, as if now he must do everything in a hurry, as if untimely death stalked him, as well.
“But how long do you think that conflict would remain internal?” the Doctor countered. “How long do you think it would be before the losing side allied itself with the Breen? Or the Tholians? And then the winning side would counter by making overtures to the Klingons. Do you believe the Federation will stand by while the Romulans and Klingons form a new alliance?”
The holographic doctor gestured grandly as he listed his objections.
“We’re still rebuilding from the Dominion War. Millions of Federation citizens killed. Thousands of ships lost. It’s only now that the first Starfleet Academy class not affected by the war is graduating. And even the four full graduating classes between the end of that war and today did not come close to producing enough officers to replace all the ones lost during the conflict.
“The Federation would have to take action to prevent that alliance of two old enemies, and inevitably, the Romulan Civil War would become a galactic one.”
Picard could see that the Doctor had succeeded in making his point. There seemed to be little that La Forge, Crusher, or he could say in response.
But once again, Picard realized he should never underestimate his engineer.
“Look, Doctor, if a Romulan civil war is inevitable, then it really doesn’t matter what we do, does it?” La Forge spoke quietly, now, hands folded on the table, his impatience in check. “So why don’t we at least do the honorable thing?”
“Honor has many definitions, Commander. Klingon. Romulan. Human. Which would you suggest?”
La Forge didn’t hesitate. “Human. The fact remains that Starfleet is using Kirk and his son as window dressing for a covert operation. I won’t argue about the propriety of that. During a normal tour of duty, we have children on the Enterprise. But obviously Starfleet didn’t research this specific situation thoroughly enough. No one predicted the Reman response to the presence of Kirk’s son.”
“Well, how could they?” the Doctor protested. “The mother of the child was Romulan, not Reman.”
“Teilani was a Romulan-Klingon hybrid,” Crusher clarified.
La Forge wasn’t concerned about details. “The fact remains we’re in orbit of Remus. Because Starfleet failed.”
Picard was surprised by the power of those three words as they hung in the awkward silence.
Everyone in the galley had dedicated his and her life to Starfleet and its ideals. There were always opportunities for improving it. Cadets were taught to recognize the wide-ranging conditions under which orders could be questioned and commanders asked for clarification of intent.
But to hear the word “failed,” stated so baldly.
No one was comfortable with that.
Except, Picard could see, the holographic doctor.
“As Admiral Janeway’s representative on this mission,” the hologram said firmly, “it is my directive that we continue as planned, without informing the civilian members of the party.”
La Forge began to object, but the Doctor wouldn’t yield the floor.
“However, Commander—and everyone else—we will revisit this decision once we have additional information concerning the Remans’ intentions for Captain Kirk’s son. I suggest we leave it there.”
La Forge and Crusher looked to Picard, and he gave no indication of disagreeing with the Doctor’s pronouncement.
The discussion was over. For now.
“Very good,” the Doctor said, sounding quite proud of himself. “It is all for the best, you’ll see.” He stepped beside Beverly Crusher. “Doctor Crusher, if you’ll do the honors.”
“Of course, Doctor.” Crusher held out her hand, palm up. The holographic doctor nodded his head in farewell, and then seemed to melt into thin air. Picard could almost believe the doctor’s smile was the last to go, leaving him with the impression that he and his crew had just spent twenty minutes debating Starfleet policy and Romulan politics with the Cheshire cat.
The dull metal badge of the doctor’s holoemitter dropped into Crusher’s hand, and now there were three people in the galley instead of four.
“Sorry to be so contrary,” La Forge said to Picard. “But how can he expect orders written weeks ago on Earth to apply to what we’ve just encountered out here?”
Picard reached across the table to take the holoemitter from Crusher, held it up for La Forge. “I’m sure the doctor will be more than happy to explain that to you when he reappears.”
La Forge narrowed his artificial eyes at Picard. “You mean…he can still hear us, even when…he’s not switched on?”
Picard snapped open his bulky civilian communicator, revealing the hidden compartment inside. “How else could he come to our rescue if things go badly? As he puts it, he keeps an ear open.” Picard snapped the communicator closed.
La Forge stood up, stretched his back, went to the replicator. “So what constitutes ‘continuing as planned’ under current conditions?”
Picard attached the communicator to his belt, stood up as well. “Doing what soldiers have always done so well,” he said. “Wait.”
Crusher rose from the table, and Picard could tell from her sly smile she had something to say that would probably annoy the holographic doctor and amuse everyone else. But before she could speak, someone else did.
“Wait for what?”
Joseph stood in the doorway, a small figure with dark eyes wide and innocent beneath his Klingon brow. He had obviously arrived on this deck through the engineering ladders and not by turbolift.
Picard had no idea what to say next. He could converse with Joseph if he had time to prepare himself. But unanticipated meetings with any child invariably left him feeling as if he had met an unknown alien after leaving his Universal Translator pinned to his other uniform.
Crusher smoothly took the burden of a reply from Picard. “We’re going to wait for dinner, sweetie.” Picard imagined that this was how she had once talked to her own son, Wesley, when he had been Joseph’s age. “Are you having dinner with us tonight?”
Joseph nodded, and stepped into the galley.
Picard wanted to know how long the child might have been in the corridor, how much he might have heard, how much of that he might have understood. But even to ask the question would be to make the moment too important—something he might describe to his father.
“What would you like now?” Crusher said. She took Joseph’s hand and moved along the wall toward the replicators. La Forge was just removing a coffee drink from one of the wall-mounted machines, a sweeping spiral of something white rocking back and forth on the surface of the liquid. “Chocolate milk?”
Joseph shook his head. “Tranya,” he said.
Crusher peered at the drink replicator, peering at the fine print on its instruction screen. “Let’s see if that’s programmed….”
As she read, Joseph looked back at Picard, pointed at him with one of his three perfect fingers. “One,” he said earnestly. Then he looked at La Forge. “Two,” he said. He pointed at Doctor Crusher beside him.
