Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons (38 page)

“I know that encomiums such as this one are what we’ve come to expect when someone of note departs this life. Over and again we hear the familiar lyrics of paeans to the passing of a great soul, the hosannas to her decency, her honesty, her modesty. What makes this one different is that, in the case of Esperanza Piñiero, it has the added virtue of being true.

“Sometimes there are two versions of a person’s life story—one public, one private; separate and discordant. Not so with Esperanza. Her public and private personas were one and the same. She brought to the political arena no demons, no hidden agenda, no vendettas. She committed herself to this life for one reason only: to serve the best interests of the people. And that was what made her my rock, my touchstone, and my inspiration.

“And yet, I still resisted when she suggested I run for president. I was happy serving as the governor of Cestus III, and the notion of multiplying my responsibilities and my risks a hundredfold, by shifting my arena from the planetary to the interstellar, seemed like more trouble than it was worth. But she persuaded me to run, and to hire her as my campaign manager, not by tempting me with illusions of power, or fantasies of enacting a radical agenda, or delusions of creating some sort of legacy . . . but by making me believe, as she did, that there was so much good we could do, for so many more people, if only we were willing to take on that burden. She talked me into running for president not by appealing to my desires, but by challenging me to give more of myself—more of my energy, my time, my passion, my love.

“She knew what was right, and what had to be done. So she made it happen.” A tear rolled from the corner of her eye, and she palmed it from her cheek. “Now she’s gone, cut down by an act of senseless murder, at a time when she had so much more left to do. In a moment such as this, it would be easy to give in to the darkness that has filled our souls now that her light has been stolen from us—to lash out and try to repay violence with violence. We must not succumb to that impulse. But that doesn’t mean we should be weak. Rather, we should, in unity, face our future as Esperanza would have: with an eye toward a fairer, better, and more peaceful galaxy.

“None of us can accomplish all that alone. But together, we can give one another the strength to celebrate Esperanza for her compassion, her courage, and her conviction—and to honor her with lives that would make her as proud to be our friend as we all were to be hers.”

She bowed her head, closed her eyes, and said a silent prayer of farewell. Then she looked out upon a sea of tear-stained eyes, grateful to be among those who had loved her friend as deeply as she had. “Thank you.” She picked up her padd and left the lectern to a surge of applause—not a wave of adulation but an upswell of confirmation, gratitude, and support.

The rest of the service passed in a surreal blur, as did the trek to the cemetery, where Esperanza’s flag-draped coffin was borne to its final resting place in a riverside plot by two of her brothers, her colleague Safranski, and a trio of Starfleet officers in full dress white uniforms. Standing at attention graveside was a detail of seven more Starfleet officers in dress uniforms, all carrying ancient ceremonial rifles loaded with blank ammunition, a Bolian ensign with a trumpet that had been polished to mirror perfection, and an Efrosian lieutenant wearing a snare drum.

Bacco promised herself she wouldn’t cry in public, but then the drummer filled the air with his dry roll of percussive flourish, the trumpeter started to play “Taps,” and her eyes burned with welling tears. The first crack of rifle fire broke down her last defense, and she hunched forward and wept into her hands. By the time the third salvo was fired and its last echoes had vanished into the crisp autumn air, Bacco had abandoned all pretense of stoicism.

After the service, she let her protection agents spirit her away from the cemetery to a waiting diplomatic transport, which in turn was set to ferry her to the
Starship Atlas
for the journey back to Earth. As she settled into her private cabin aboard the transport, the door signal intruded softly upon her maudlin solitude. She rubbed her temples and sighed. “Come in.”

The door slid open, and Safranski poked his head inside. His manner was wary, as if he expected an ambush. “A moment, Madam President?”

“Get on with it.” She beckoned him inside and pointed him toward the chair beside hers.

He stepped inside quickly, and the door shut behind him. As he sat down, she noticed the padd tucked under his arm. “There are two bits of news I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.” He offered her the padd. “First, we just received this from Praetor Kamemor—via private channels, not the Typhon Pact ambassador.”

She took the slim tablet and read the praetor’s eloquent, heartfelt letter of condolence. It was no trifling paragraph, no boilerplate perfunctory gesture. It was full of personal details, and its erudition left her with no doubt that it was the genuine work of Gell Kamemor herself.

It was to Safranski’s credit, Bacco thought, that he was patient enough to sit and wait in silence for the several minutes she spent reading the missive.

She set the padd on the end table beside her chair. “What’s the second item of business?”

“I thought you’d be pleased to know the letter wasn’t today’s only back-channel contact. I received a personal communiqué from Azarog, the Gorn
zulta-osol
. Apparently, he and Imperator Sozzerozs are serious about continuing the dialogue we started on Orion—and this time they’re backing up their words with action: they’ve started feeding us intelligence regarding the Breen. The first scoop is a heads-up about a no-confidence vote to replace Brex with Pran. It seems the domo’s being deposed tomorrow morning.”

“That’s good.” She saw in a glance that Safranski had misunderstood her. “Not that Brex is being succeeded by a hard-liner like Pran. I mean it’s good the Gorn told us. We still might win them back as allies.” Reflecting on the past several days of tragedy, Bacco marshaled a bittersweet smile as she remembered the meaning of the name
Esperanza
.

It meant
hope
.

30

Funky blues-rock fostered a festive atmosphere inside the Happy Bottom Riding Club. The spacious compartment was large enough that most times one could easily sense the curvature of the
Enterprise
’s primary hull from the shape of the lounge’s outer bulkheads. Tonight, however, the club was packed with guests—some milling while swilling drinks, some loitering along the buffet of finger foods and delicacies from a dozen different worlds, some dancing in front of the live band. They all had come to bid farewell to Data, who once again was preparing to leave in his ship, the
Archeus,
for some unknown corner of the galaxy.

La Forge stood alone at a deck-to-overhead window, trying and failing to shed his black-dog mood with a Sazerac before facing his departing best friend. Normally, he enjoyed a party as much as anyone, but he failed to see why he should treat Data’s latest disappearing act, so soon after the last one, as a cause for celebration.

You’re just being selfish now,
he castigated himself.
Data’s living his life on his own terms, maybe for the first time. You didn’t hold it against Will or Deanna when they left to get married and start a new life on the
Titan.
How is this any different?

He was still grappling with his melancholy when Doctor Tamala Harstad, his inamorata of the past several months, slipped though the crowd to join him at the window. “I thought I might find you hiding over here.” She dispelled his emotional storm cloud with a glimpse of her perfect smile, a twinkle in her dark brown eyes, and a warm, tender kiss. Then she took him by his arm and gave him a gingerly tug. “Stop being a stick in the mud and come join the party.”

It didn’t take much for her to pull him away from the window. As they slipped through the crowded room, he knew that it was because he hadn’t really wanted to be alone in the first place—he’d simply wanted someone to care enough to come get him. As she grinned over her shoulder at him, and he smiled back, he knew he’d finally found the perfect person for the job.

She towed him into his circle of friends: Picard, Crusher, Worf, Šmrhová, Chen, Taurik, Elfiki, and Data. “Found him,” Harstad boasted, like a hunter returning with a trophy kill.

“Good,” Šmrhová deadpanned. “Two more minutes and I’d have sent out a search party.”

He raised his drink in a casual salutation. “Sorry about that. I just needed a moment.”

Worf put him on the spot: “For what?”

Before he could answer, Elfiki interjected, “Probably drowning his sorrows over not getting to study that wormhole ship the Breen were trying to salvage.” She nudged Taurik with her elbow. “Would’ve been nice to find out what made that thing tick, right?” La Forge kept his poker face steady as he noticed Chen glaring at Elfiki while she was chattering at Taurik.
I’m no expert in relationships,
La Forge mused,
but that looks like hard-core jealousy
.

“I suspect it’s for the best we destroyed it,” the captain said. “We’ve only just begun to unlock the potential of slipstream drive. Perhaps we should learn to walk before we try to run.” His counsel was affirmed by slow nods of agreement from Worf, Crusher, and La Forge.

To what felt like the group’s collective relief, Taurik changed the subject. “If it’s not too personal an inquiry, Mister Data, what are your plans after you leave?”

La Forge was curious to see how much private information Data would share in front of officers who, despite being senior personnel aboard the
Enterprise,
were not exactly close friends familiar with his complicated personal history. In the past, Data had been all too willing to overshare, but since his reincarnation, he had become cagy and evasive.

After a fleeting hesitation that implied Data was taking care in choosing his words, he replied, “There is someone I need to find. An old family friend, who I believe possesses information that can help me resolve a problem of great personal significance.”

“Data,” Crusher said, her voice a gentle protest, “you don’t have to do this alone. I’m sure we could persuade Starfleet Command to let us help you if—”

“No, Doctor. I appreciate the gesture, but this is not a matter that concerns Starfleet or the Federation. It would be inappropriate for me to allow this ship and its crew to become involved in my personal affairs.” He turned a regretful glance toward La Forge. “I have allowed my private life to intrude on the
Enterprise
’s missions in the past, and never to good result.” To Crusher and Picard he added, “In this case, I think it best that I finish my business alone.”

“Spoken like a Klingon,” Worf said, raising his glass of prune juice to Data.

Picard nodded. “We understand, Data. And I promise we’ll respect your wishes—but know that our hopes will always be with you, wherever you go.”

The heartfelt sentiment made Data smile. “Thank you, Captain.”

Chen took it upon herself to lighten the mood. “Data, I’d love to hear more about your adventures on the
Enterprise
-D! Is it true some lunatic tried to kidnap you for a museum?”

“You must be referring to Kivas Fajo,” Data said, strangely eager to regale the young contact specialist. “That is an interesting story. He was a Zibalian collector of rare and unique treasures—and in 2366, he decided that he wanted to add me to his private collection. . . .”

La Forge and the others who had served with Data on the
Enterprise
-D listened as he spun the story with tremendous flair and wit. Watching the younger officers listen in rapt attention almost made the old story sound new again to La Forge, as if the tale had taken on renewed vitality by the simple virtue of having found a fresh audience.

The next hour passed with war stories and small talk, but soon it was clear the party was winding down. Data made the rounds, thanking everyone who had come to wish him well, charming the room with handshakes and easy smiles.
He’s come a long way from the Data who never used to know what to say at a party,
La Forge thought as he watched his friend mingle.

By midnight, the Riding Club was all but empty. Only Data, La Forge, Worf, Picard, and Crusher remained. In a remarkably restrained display of insistent courtesy, the captain had shooed away all the junior officers so he and the others could have a few moments alone with Data. They met in a circle around a table by a window in a secluded corner of the lounge.

“Thank you, everyone,” Data said. “I will miss you all while I am away.”

Picard shook his hand. “
Au revoir,
Mister Data. And remember that if you ever want our help, you need but ask.”

As the captain released Data’s hand, Crusher stepped forward and embraced the android. “Be careful, Data.” As they parted, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “For luck.”

The doctor took the captain’s hand, and they headed for the door, leaving only Worf, La Forge, and Data. The first officer seemed to be searching for something to say. Then he held out his hand toward Data. As the android reached up to shake it, Worf clasped his friend’s forearm in a warrior’s grip and cracked a mischievous smile. “
Qapla’
.”