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Shaking his head as he approached the door, Martok said, “Somehow, Excellency, I knew you would not let this meeting end without one final aphorism.”

Chapter 13

Sarona VIII

ESPERANZA PIŃIERO SAT nursing a cobalt soda in the Blue Parrot Café, wondering if Jas Abrik was actually going to show up.

The election had begun, a laborious process involving the entirety of the Federation—all the worlds, stations, and spacefaring vessels that were part of it. The sheer number of votes to be tabulated over interstellar distances, as well as the complicated oversight, meant it would take a week for all the votes to be tallied, counted, verified, and announced.

From this point forward, both the Bacco and Pagro campaigns, which had worked tirelessly for the past three weeks, had nothing to do but wait.

And speculate. We’re doing plenty of that.

The governor’s last campaign stop had been on Pacifica, and she was now en route back to Cestus III to await the results and probably to get some sleep. Pińiero hoped that said sleep would finally be free of dreams. She knew that Bacco’s restless nights were due primarily to the stress of the campaign, and she hoped that next week, regardless of whether she was the new president or the old governor, the dreams would abate. She deserves better than that after all she’s accomplished.

Abrik had said that he would meet with her here on the eighth planet in the Sarona system at 1500 hours, but that was half an hour ago. She had never met the man during the time when they both were in Starfleet, but from what she knew of him, he was always punctual. Let’s face it, Esperanza, if he’s this late, it means he probably isn’t coming.

Her seat was near the door. Its location notwithstanding, it was one of the more private booths in the place, thanks to the café’s peculiar architecture. The Blue Parrot was built in the shape of the Saronan emblem, which was a dodecahedron that was vaguely crescent-shaped. In practical terms, it gave the place a labyrinthine feel, but it was one that made it ideal for private conversations.

Assuming, of course, that the other half of that conversation deigns to turn up.

Even if the architecture hadn’t favored privacy, the booth would have served Pińiero’s purpose nicely, as the midafternoon crowd was sparse—it was late for lunch and early for dinner. The Blue Parrot generally catered to visitors to the nearby conference center, but there were no events there at the moment.

She finished off her soda, and started debating the merits of ordering another versus giving up and leaving when she heard the familiar whine of a transporter, meaning someone was arriving via the station in the lobby.

To her surprise and relief, Jas Abrik then entered the main part of the café.

“Sorry I’m late,” the old Trill said as he sat down in the booth opposite Pińiero. “The transport I was taking here got diverted.”

“Not a problem,” Pińiero said, glad to see that Abrik’s reputation remained unscathed.

A Saronan server approached. “What may I bring you?”

Holding up her empty glass, Pińiero said, “Another cobalt soda, please.”

“An allira punch, if you’ve got it,” Abrik said.

Bowing, the Saronan said, “Of course.” She took Pińiero’s glass and departed.

“Thanks for coming, Admiral.”

Abrik made a dismissive noise. “Please don’t call me ‘Admiral,’ Commander. I left Starfleet.”

Smiling sweetly, Pińiero said, “Then don’t call me ‘Commander,’ since I haven’t been one for three years.”

“Can we get to the point, please?” Abrik shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

He doesn’t want to be here, Pińiero thought. I wonder why he bothered to show up, then. “You have access to the same polling data I do, so you know that there’s a pretty good chance that Nan Bacco’s going to be the next president.”

Abrik snapped, “In your dreams, Commander. The votes haven’t been tallied yet.”

“You’re right, they haven’t. But the FNS’s exit polls are predicting that the governor will be the winner. Do you know when