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Mrs. Khanty controlled her expression masterfully, putting forth a beaming face of sympathy for the reporter. “I understand your feeling obligated to ask those kinds of questions, and all I can say is that there’s no evidence linking me or anyone around me with any such event. There’s simply no evidence. And I can’t help it if some people are so consumed by greed and hate that they say evil things about us. We simply have to rise above all that.”

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Paul Stefan, Mrs. Khanty’s assistant said, interrupting gracefully. The boyishfaced young man motioned them toward the door. “Mrs. Khanty has had a very busy morning. Don’t forget tomorrow morning at ten—we’re going to allow several of you to film Mrs. Khanty as she tends the governor. Those will be the first public viewings of the governor since the assassination attempt.”

The reporters and cameramen murmured their thanks, but no one threw any more questions back.

“If you’ll excuse us now,” Stefan continued, “see you in the morning, Nick … thank you, Max, nice to see you … Celia, thank you for coming … Louisa, you lost weight!”

Mrs. Khanty nodded and chatted with a few reporters who cooed with the thrill of being so close to her. Their obsequiousness gave Worf a twisting stomach.

Finally, Stefan managed to herd them all out, and he went with them to make sure none “strayed.”

He closed the office door behind him.

“Scan,” Mrs. Khanty said instantly to Ugulan.

While Ugulan took out his old style tricorder and scanned the room for any devices that may have been left behind, Mrs. Khanty went to the sink in the kitchenette and ostentatiously washed her hands, making sure to scrub between the fingers and halfway up her arms.

“Dirty urchins,” she grumbled out loud with a visible shudder. “Their fingers are always sticky. Why can’t their parents keep them clean? Filthy, smelly embryos. Why do people have children? Ugulan!”

She came back into the outer reception room, her face flushed now, her expression thoroughly different than that which had met the cameras.

“Ugulan, get your pack of swine in here, you beetleheaded cur!”

“Yes, Mrs. Khanty.” Ugulan put down his tricorder and whipped out a communicator, quickly signaling the Rogues without a word. Since they were just outside, guarding the hallway, they arrived in seconds and came crowding through the marquetry doorway.

By then, Mrs. Khanty had finished drying her hands and was standing with her face to a wall, her shoulders tense and her head slightly bowed.

Worf sharpened to some kind of attention. Disgust rolled through his stomach as the Rogues filed in, silent as statues, and one by one took positions along the wall, and even behind furniture, if possible.

How he hated to be in their company! To be dressed as they were, to be counted as one of them, to walk through the streets, assumed to be a Rogue! He watched the procession with uneasy curiosity and roiling animosity, and the moment slowly became surreal.

Seven Klingon warriors, fully armored, fully armed, holding the only energy handweapons allowed on the planet, other than law enforcement officers. They stood with their shoulders pinned to the walls and their eyes unfixed. Some of the toughest warriors in the quadrant now steeled themselves to face a single human female.

I am not one of them, yet I drown in their shame. When can I finish this?

The antique clock on the mantel ticked passively, its pendulum ushering in a creeping dread. The single window, with its leaded glass panels and stone frame, made Worf long to be anywhere but here.

“Luck.”

Odette Khanty’s first word was as soft as dripping rain. Worf had to strain to hear it.

She was still facing the desk. Across from Worf, against the far wall, Ugulan’s face was forward but his eyes were on the woman. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

“Nothing but luck. Certainly brains weren’t involved.”

Mrs. Khanty seemed to be speaking to herself, as if reading something on the desk