Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [1]
He took in the room at a glance, making sure no one was paying him undue attention. And, of course, no one was. No one believed he was anything except a human waiter, carrying out the menial work assigned to him.
But then, who would suspect him of being a surgically altered Romulan spy-an agent dispatched across the deceptively quiet Neutral Zone in support of a program only the praetor, in his brilliance, could have conceived?
A plan to grow clones from the genetic material of Starfleet’s most prominent captains and, at some opportune juncture years or even decades hence, replace them with their secret progeny. Brilliant was probably an understatement.
But Manathas wasn’t a scientist. His job was only to obtain the required genetic material for the praetor, not to make duplicate humans out of it afterward.
It was just as well. He was rewarded more generously for his work than were the praetor’s scientists. Besides, he preferred the intrigue of an undercover assignment on an enemy world to a life spent studying DNA molecules on a computer screen.
Even on those occasions when “intrigue” only meant collecting dirty silverware.
Manathas had cleared off his third and final table when one of the guests got up and raised his champagne glass shoulder-high. He had dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and wide-set eyes that seemed to demand one’s attention.
It was Keel, the much-decorated captain of the Ambassador-class starship Horatio. A good friend of both the bride and the groom, Keel was the one who had booked the ballroom for them months earlier.
“It pleases me to see all of you today,” he said, looking out over the expanse of both uniformed and civilian guests. He grinned. “Well, maybe not all of you.”
The remark was met with a chorus of jeers. But they were good-natured jeers, the kind exchanged between comrades.
Keel continued. “I’m happy to tell you that I’ve accomplished a few things in my life. I’ve established myself as easily the most capable captain in the fleet- “
Again, a tide of raucous disapproval.
“Not to mention the handsomest- “
This time, the groans took a bit longer to subside.
“As well as the best-loved captain in the entire sector. Or is that most oft-loved…?”
“You’re pushing it,” observed Captain Blais, a notoriously affable man.
Keel laughed. “Maybe I am. But with all I’ve done, my greatest accomplishment by far- ” He turned to the bride and groom. “- was bringing together these two very special people, who were meant to spent their lives with each other.”
The groom wagged his finger at Keel. The bride just smiled and rolled her eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Keel, “I ask you to join me in a toast. To the lovely Beverly Crusher and her un-deserving husband, Jack-may they always be as happy as they are today.”
The sentiment was echoed from one end of the room to the other. Then Keel and all the other guests drank to the health of the newlyweds, a common ritual here on Earth.
“And now,” Keel continued, “I yield the floor to my colleague Jean-Luc Picard, without whose forbearance Beverly and Jack’s romance would never have gotten off the ground.”
All eyes turned to Picard, who looked to have been taken by surprise. He waved away the invitation.
“Come on,” said Keel, beckoning. “The occasion won’t be complete without a word from you.”
Others echoed the sentiment. And little by little, it turned into a rhythmic cheer: Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc…
Finally, Picard gave in to the urgings of the other guests. Rising from his seat, he picked up his glass and made his way to Keel’s side. Then he looked out over the assemblage.
Silence ruled for a moment or two. Manathas could hear the sounds of ice tinkling in glasses and heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor. Finally, Picard cleared his throat, extended his glass in the couple’s direction, and got started.
“As Jack will tell you,” he said, “I am not much of an orator. My words will certainly pale in comparison