Taking Wing - Michael A. Martin [135]
He nodded. It was clear to him that the Remans still had plenty of reason to be unhappy. They needed strong leadership, and Xiomek seemed to excel at supplying just that, at least so far. Riker could only hope that whatever knack had enabled Xiomek to survive the Dominion War—and to survive his own penchant for commanding from the front lines—would keep the Reman colonel, as well as the current improvised peace arrangements, alive. At least long enough for Ambassador Spock and the Federation Diplomatic Corps to help craft a more permanent peace.
“So, when do we get under way?” Deanna asked. He knew that she was as eager as he was to bring Titan’s current diplomatic detour to a conclusion.
“Sometime tomorrow, after the first Reman homesteader ships touch down on Ehrie’fvil. I want to give Christine and Tuvok a chance to evaluate Commander Suran’s plan to provide security at the settlement sites. And make sure that Khegh doesn’t get too assertive in enforcing Ehrie’fvil’s status as part of the Reman Protectorate.” He paused, then added, “I’m looking forward to putting all this behind us.”
She leaned backward into him, and fairly purred with contentment when he began rubbing her back. “Me, too. Happy New Year, by the way.”
He paused in his ministrations to her back. With all the frantic activity of the past couple of weeks, he had somehow completely lost track not only of Christmas, but had also failed to note the arrival of a new year and a new decade. The year 2380 had sneaked up on him like a shrouded Jem’Hadar.
“My God. It’s already Elvis Presley’s birthday,” he said. “I must be getting old and distracted.”
She turned toward him. “Not old, Will. Seasoned.”
“Ugh. You know I hate that word.”
“I just mean that the gray in your beard suits you. You’ve earned it. As for ‘distracted,’ let me handle that.” She looked up at him expectantly.
He bent down to kiss her.
Then his combadge abruptly shattered the moment. “Vale to Captain Riker.”
Though two decades of Starfleet service had conditioned him to the inevitability of such interruptions, he was never happy about it. He sighed, then tapped the badge a little harder than was strictly necessary.
“Go ahead, Christine.”
“It’s Commander Donatra. Her ship has decloaked just astern of us, and she wants to talk to you right away.”
He stood and straightened his uniform jacket. “Pipe her down here, Christine.”
“Aye, sir.”
Riker took a seat behind the desk in the small office nook located just outside the bedroom. He touched a control on the interface console located there, and its small viewscreen lit up, displaying the white-on-blue emblem of the United Federation of Planets.
A moment later, this was replaced by the image of Commander Donatra, who looked even more distressed than she had during the battle in the skies over Ki Baratan. The background behind her was a neutral green; she seemed to be transmitting either from her ready room, or perhaps from her personal quarters.
“Commander Donatra,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Is this channel secure on your end?”
Deanna approached, making herself visible to Donatra while he entered a few quick manual commands into the desktop terminal.
“It is now, Commander,” Riker said.
“I’m afraid I need your assistance, Captain,” Donatra began without further preamble. “There’s no one else I can turn to.”
He glanced quickly at Deanna, whose dark eyes were wide with alarm. She was confirming what he had already concluded: Something had gone very, very wrong. Perhaps catastrophically wrong.
“I sense your reticence, Commander,” Deanna said. “I am the only one here besides Captain Riker. If my presence makes you uncomfortable, Commander, I would be hap—”
Donatra interrupted her. “No, Commander Troi. There’s no reason for you to leave. My folly will no doubt soon be common knowledge anyway.” She seemed almost on the verge of tears.
“But you obviously have enough confidence in us to come to us first,” Riker said, once again more than