Star Trek: The Fall: The Poisoned Chalice by James Swallow Page B

systems and hardware we have here.” Her gaze settled on Nog. “We have a job to do. Let’s get to it.”
    *  *  *
    Beyond the glassy curve of the atmosphere dome, the stark lunar landscape was bathed in hard light reflected from the rising Earth beyond it. There was an austere, chilly majesty to the view that made Deanna Troi give an involuntary shiver, despite the fact that here in the New Berlin Memorial Park, the ambient atmosphere was steady and comfortable.
    She cast around the roped-off area past the public statue garden, over the lines of diplomats, politicians, and ambassadors who stood in somber conversation or sipped discreetly at flutes of wine. It wasn’t difficult to spot the numerous Protection Detail personnel moving among the attendees, some of them standing sentinel at the edges of the open space, others patrolling, their eyes hidden behind black sensor-glasses.
    Off to one side, a reporting team from the Federation News Service was the only media allowed to be inside the perimeter, and they were quietly recording the proceedings; the image feed was being broadcastlive across the quadrant as hundreds of worlds and millions of beings tuned in to watch the ceremony.
    Many had come to pay their respects, and she had seen the huge numbers of civilians and fleet crew in the outer areas of the park. They had come simply to be close to this moment, to show some solidarity in the wake of a terrible act.
    She looked away. The presidential memorial was sheathed with a black cloth; the shape of the slab-sided obelisk was concealed for the moment. Troi had seen it before, in better days. It was carved from several blocks of granite, each mined from one of the founder-member planets of the Federation, then fused into a whole—a symbol of the accord between those worlds and all the others that had come into the fold in the decades since. Each president who had served was remembered here after his or her passing, and today it was Nan Bacco’s turn to join that illustrious list.
    Troi took a shaky breath and tugged her uniform tunic straight, pausing to adjust the mourning band around her arm. There were very few Starfleet officers in attendance at the ceremony, and she was by far the lowest ranked. Admiral Akaar was visible across the garden, standing head and shoulders above the majority of the other attendees, but he had not once made eye contact with her, instead remaining at a distance among the other chiefs of staff, his expression unreadable. Troi’s empathic abilities brought her nothing more about his mood; the Capellan was always guarded, and right now his thoughts were silent and dark.
    In truth, she didn’t want to exercise her psionic skills to sense more, not here, not today. There was such a great pressure of sorrow and regret cloudingeverything, a great mournful underscore of emotion emanating from the people who were here to show their esteem for Bacco. Troi kept a tight rein on her own sadness. She was afraid that if she began to weep, the barriers to her empathy would crumble and she would channel not just her sorrow, but that of hundreds of others.
    â€œDeanna?” She turned as Togren approached her, and she gave the Denobulan diplomat a brittle smile. “Thank you so much for coming,” he added.
    â€œI couldn’t refuse,” she replied. “I appreciate your generosity in asking me to be your plus one.”
    Togren shrugged. “Both my wives are at home on Denobula. And I felt you should be here, if only to affirm Starfleet’s respect for dear Nan.” His tawny, dappled face was downcast.
    â€œYes,” she agreed. “There are not a lot of us here.”
    â€œHow is your family?”
    â€œThey’re well. Tasha’s four now.”
    â€œSplendid. I hope to see her soon.” He paused. “I understand your husband did not receive an invitation?” Off her nod, he carried on. “Please tell him it