John offered a hum of appreciation as he put down his champagne flute. “We always say Demora knows her wine because it’s true.”
A friend to Sasine since the two had served together aboard Enterprise around the turn of the century, and a friend to John for even longer, Sulu had first given them a bottle of wine fifteen years before, when the couple had celebrated the one-year anniversary of their becoming romantically involved. That tradition continued annually until the two married. For their wedding, Sulu presented them with a magnum of Elestor sparkling wine from Alpha Centauri, and she had sent a double bottle of bubbly every year since. That year’s anniversary gift arrived several weeks earlier on a shipment from Earth, which they found especially thoughtful, considering how far in advance the starship captain must have had to plan it: Enterprise hadn’t been inside the Federation for eleven months.
Sasine settled her glass down beside her appetizer, a savory mushroom and leek galette, one of her favorites among Georges’ dishes. The proprietor and chef at Sur Le Mer Coucher, Georges Rochambeau prided himself not only on his gourmet cuisine, but on the elegant, romantic atmosphere he provided his patrons. Weeks prior, Sasine had reserved the table tucked into the far end of the dimly lighted dining room, where a beautifully patterned and textured wall met the outer, transparent bulkhead, which provided a breathtaking view of the spectacular Helaspont Nebula, a sprawl of blues and indigoes and violets. In truth, as commander of the space station, Sasine realized that she enjoyed a certain prestige and privilege, and that she needn’t have made a reservation so far in advance—or even made one at all—but she preferred to conduct herself like any member of the community, eschewing the power of her position.
She gazed across the table at her husband, so handsome in his dark, sophisticated suit. Sasine smiled as she realized that he’d chosen a tie that matched the vibrant colors of the nebula. “I can’t believe it’s been eight years already,” Sasine said.
“Eight years married, and eight years together before that,” John said. He shook his head in his own apparent disbelief. “And yet, in some ways, it seems like we just met.”
“In some ways,” Sasine agreed. “But it also seems like we’ve been with each other forever. I can’t really remember what it’s like not to have you in my life.” Sometimes, when Sasine recollected something she’d done or someplace she’d traveled before she’d even met John, she recalled him being with her, she could picture him at her side, even though she knew that hadn’t been the case.
“I guess we both married the right person,” John said.
“I guess so.” Sasine took another bite of her galette, then eyed her husband’s appetizer. “How’s yours?”
“Delicious,” John said. “The dressing is amazing.” He had a frisée salad with a white truffle vinaigrette.
“May I?” Sasine asked, even as she reached across the table and speared a sprig of the curly endive. After popping it into her mouth and cooing over the flavors, she said, “Would you like to try mine?”
“No, thanks,” John said. “Hey, do you have any word yet on when we might get away?” For the better part of the prior two months, they had been attempting to schedule leave together around their anniversary, with little success. John had just returned a few days earlier from Denobula, where he’d conducted an inspection tour of Starfleet vessels in the sector, and the day after next, Sasine would host a trade summit on the station, although she’d at one point thought she might be able to sneak away during the meetings.
“No, but it won’t be soon,” Sasine said. “The trade summit begins the day after tomorrow, and it turns out that the Gorn will be sending representatives after all, so Starfleet Command really wants me here. After that, you’ve got the Exploration Committee on Tellar, and Admiral Mentir just moved up the test-bed schedule, so by the time you get back, we’ll already be into the Ambassador-class trials.” Sasine didn’t know about the prudence of Starfleet conducting assessments of its next-generation starship prototype on the brink of Tzenkethi space, but she imagined that Command considered it a viable means of preemptively facing down the confrontational Coalition.
John puffed out his cheeks in an exaggerated sigh. “No rest for the weary,” he said. “Well, at least we’ve got tonight and tomorrow.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Sasine said, and she raised her glass once more. She really did find it remarkable that she and John had been together for so long. When it had begun, it seemed a relationship unlikely to last for any length of time. They initially had to conduct it across a great many light-years, with Sasine assigned as the first officer of a space station and John the captain of a starship. Fortunately, Enterprise put into Starbase 23 a fair number of times during those years, and later, after she took command of Foxtrot XIII, to that outpost. They also experienced good fortune in arranging for simultaneous leaves, which they used to visit quite a few memorable destinations. They dove at Suraya Bay on Risa; danced the night away in Jennita on Pacifica; swam in Devil’s Pool, at the edge of Victoria Falls, on Earth; toured Lingasha, the unusual land-based city built by the aquatic Alonis; hiked the Azure Peaks on Betazed; explored—and got lost in—the Cleary Labyrinth on Onelia IV; and viewed the rings of Saturn from the Space Needle on Titan. They invariably returned exhausted from their shared vacations, but also energized by the time spent with each other on, as John put it, “another Sasine-Harriman adventure.”
But then after the Tomed Incident . . .
John had never spoken much about what had taken place in Foxtrot Sector when a Romulan admiral had attacked the Federation, wiping out thirteen populated outposts along the Neutral Zone, as well as U.S.S. Agamemnon. The Enterprise crew barely escaped the devastation, but more than four thousand Starfleet officers did not. Already at the brink of war with the Romulan Star Empire, the Federation avoided open hostilities only when the heinous act convinced the Klingons to side with the UFP.
Not long after the destruction of virtually the entire Foxtrot Sector, John had chosen to resign his position as a starship captain—and he’d even considered going further than that and leaving Starfleet completely. Instead, he ended up with a promotion in rank and the posting of his choice. He naturally selected Helaspont Station, where he and Sasine could finally enjoy their relationship on a predominantly day-in, day-out basis. They’d wed, and had lived together happily since then.
It didn’t take a great deal of insight to understand John’s motivation, Sasine thought. Just prior to her assignment to Helaspont Station, she had commanded Foxtrot XIII. The outpost had been the first wiped out by the Romulan vessel Tomed, the Ivarix-class starship turned into a devastatingly effective weapon when containment about the singularity that drove it was lowered while the ship traveled at warp.
Had all of that happened just weeks earlier, I would have been killed. Although John had never explicitly tied the events in the Foxtrot Sector to his choice to leave Enterprise and relocate to Helaspont, she nevertheless understood that such a connection existed. He could no longer abide the possibility that the dangers of their careers would one day steal them from each other. By renouncing his starship command, he foresaw a life that they could live mostly together.
John lifted his flute of champagne and tapped it against Sasine’s, producing a light, musical ring. “Here’s to life on the edge of the nebula,” he said.
“To the nebula.”
“Which, it strikes me, is a lot like you,” John said. Sasine saw another twinkle in his eye, something distinct from the reflection of the candles flickering on the table. “Luminous, vibrant, and beautiful,” he whispered to her through a smile. “Enhancing every day and brightening every night.” Even sixteen years after he first pressed his lips gently to hers, he could still make her heart race.
“I bet you say that to all the space station commanders,” Sasine teased.
“Just you,” John said. “Only you. Always you.”
Sasine reached her free hand across the table, and John
did the same. They interlaced their fingers, and a memory rose in her mind so swiftly that she nearly reeled from it. It had been a moment on the very first night she and John had seen each other personally, not at the small theater on Starbase 23 where they’d taken in a film, but at the bistro afterward, where they’d shared a late supper. They had been speaking about relationships, and she’d described what she hoped one day to experience by raising her arms and entwining the fingers of her right hand with those of her left.
And we have that, Sasine thought, marveling at what they’d found in each other. Prior to John, she’d had several serious romantic relationships, a couple of them lasting a few years. But none of them came close to what John and I have. Before they met, Sasine could not have imagined spending her life with the man of her dreams, but after sixteen years, she could not imagine living without him.
“So what shall we do with our one night and one day before the trade summit?” John asked. They set their glasses down and disentangled their fingers so they could continue with their meal.
“It’s not like we can get anywhere and back in that time,” Sasine said. On the frontier of Federation space, the nearest inhabited system floated light-years distant, too far for a day-plus round trip on one of the station’s standard shuttlecraft.
“What if we used one of the new warp shuttles?” John asked, as though reading her thoughts—a not uncommon occurrence between them. Starfleet Operations had recently posted two high-warp shuttlecraft to Helaspont Station, primarily for the purposes of ferrying dignitaries and carrying small but important shipments to and from the starbase.
“I think Operations and Command would take a dim view of us expropriating one of their Mercury-class shuttles for our own private use,” Sasine said—although the notion actually did appeal to her.
“We could say we’re field-testing them,” John suggested with a wry grin.
“Uh-huh,” Sasine said. “Those shuttlecraft are my responsibility, but if you want to use your superior rank to order me . . .”
“Right,” John said. “Any man who claims higher rank in a marriage will lie about other things too.”
Sasine scoffed at her husband’s joke. “Perhaps a long walk in the arboretum, then.”
“That sounds nice,” John said. “We could watch a movie too. We just received a few twentieth- and twenty-first-century films from Earth, plus there’s Dreams Together Fall, the Tholian work that somehow leaked out of the Assembly.”
“I hear it’s impenetrable,” Sasine said, “but I’d be fascinated to see what a Tholian movie even looks like.”
“So would I.”
They planned the rest of their day as they continued eating their appetizers. The moment they finished, their server, Javier, appeared to clear away the plates, and a moment later, Chef Rochambeau emerged from the kitchen and stepped up to the table. “Bonsoir, Captain, Admiral,” he said, bowing his head to both officers. Rochambeau cut a hale and hearty figure, dressed in chef’s whites and wearing a toque blanche atop his graying hair. He had a wide, doughy face and a pencil-thin mustache. “I trust that your appetizers were satisfactory.” His words veritably dripped with his thick Gallic accent, almost a caricature of Sasine’s own light French pronunciation.
She and John both greeted the chef warmly. “The galette was splendide,” Sasine said. “As always.”
“Ah, bon, bon,” Rochambeau said. “Your entrées will be out shortly. I wanted to wish the two of you joyeux anniversaire de mariage, and to thank you for allowing me to honor you with a special meal.” After Sasine had made the reservation to celebrate their anniversary, Rochambeau had contacted her to ask if he could have the privilege of creating their menu for them. She had agreed at once, thanking him and noting only the particular bottle of champagne that she and John would be bringing with them.
“The honor is ours,” John said. “We’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”
“It is my hope that the memory of my food will remain with you for years,” Rochambeau said. He could not have displayed a greater sense of confidence, though Sasine could attest that his abilities in the kitchen justified his self-assurance. “For madame, I have prepared eggplant gratin with saffron—”
“Pardon,” said Javier, returning to the table. “I am sorry to interrupt, but Ensign Bartels from the operations center would like to speak with you, Admiral.” Though the space station’s comm system functioned inside the restaurant, Rochambeau had received special dispensation to allow its use only in emergencies. Bartels crewed the communications station during beta shift, so Sasine imagined that John had received an incoming transmission from Starfleet.
While Rochambeau looked dismayed by the disruption of the meal he had specially prepared, John stood from his chair. “Thank you, Javier, and excuse me, Chef,” he said. He gazed across the table at Sasine with an expression she had both seen before and offered to him, a look that acknowledged the choices they had made in their lives and the responsibilities of their positions, as well as the love they shared, ultimately untouched by any of it except in the most surface of ways. John reached across the table, took her hand in his, and squeezed it. “I’ll let you know what’s going on, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you.”
“I love you.”
John left the table, crossing the dining room and disappearing from view near the host stand. Sasine returned her attention to Rochambeau. “You were saying, Chef?”
“Yes,” Rochambeau said, recovering his poise. “For madame, I have prepared . . .”
Sasine smiled appropriately as the chef described the entrées he had created for the anniversary meal, but she paid little attention to the details. Instead, she wondered what had called her husband away. She feared that the night and a day they intended to spend together before the trade summit had just been stolen from them.
♦ ♦ ♦
Admiral John Harriman slipped into his office atop the main cylinder of Helaspont Station. The overhead lighting panels automatically activated as he entered, illuminating the room to match the soft glow of the starbase’s simulated evening. He reached for the control panel to the right of the door, intending to bring up the lights fully, but then he decided to leave them as set; perhaps, depending on the message he’d been sent, he could salvage his state of mind, and therefore the rest of the night with his wife. Given the conditions of the incoming transmission, though—priority one, eyes only—he doubted that he would be able to get back to Amina anytime soon.
Another anniversary interrupted, he thought. He and his wife seemed to have a knack for it. During one of their celebrations, the risk of a reactor breach had developed, causing the evacuation of the station for more than a week. On another of their special occasions, a trident-shaped Tzenkethi frigate unexpectedly came calling at the starbase. And then there was the time that my negotiations with the Pyrithians threatened to devolve into a shooting war before lunchtime.
Harriman smiled. He knew that it didn’t help matters that he and Amina found so many reasons to observe various dates: their first meeting, back when she’d come aboard Enterprise as his second officer; their reentry into each other’s lives—for good, it would turn out—when she briefed him at Starbase 23 on the specifics of a secret mission into the Romulan Empire; their first social outing, which they liked to call The Night of the Perfect Kiss; and, of course, their wedding day. That list didn’t even include their birthdays. They both enjoyed having so many different events to commemorate, but Harriman recognized that it also increased the chances of something disrupting their festivities, especially given the nature of their postings. As the commanding officer of Helaspont Station, Captain Amina Sasine had more responsibilities than any three starship commanders, and Harriman’s own assignment as admiral-at-large kept him more than a little busy.
Which is just Starfleet Command’s way of teaching me a lesson, he thought. Although the commander-in-chief, Admiral Margaret Sinclair-Alexander, had maintained that she co
mpletely understood Harriman’s decision to step away from starship command after the Tomed Incident, several other admirals had objected, citing the service’s investment in him and the relative rarity of wholly qualified and capable captains. Pushed to accept command of another starship, Harriman instead submitted his letter of resignation directly to the c-in-c. He didn’t intend his departure from Starfleet as a threat, but the next time he spoke with Sinclair-Alexander, she claimed never to have received the document. She did, however, offer him a promotion in rank and the position of admiral-at-large. Though such a posting would require occasional travel—Sometimes more than occasional, he lamented—it also came with the privilege of selecting his own base of operations, which in turn allowed him to make a home with his wife. He had accepted the commander-in-chief’s offer, and he’d lived on Helaspont Station with Amina ever since.
Harriman crossed his relatively spartan office—the antithesis of his wife’s, which she filled not only with work-related materials, but also artwork, photographs, and other personal memorabilia. He kept only a hologram of Amina on his desk and a few images on the walls. He had handsome renderings of the starships on which he’d served—Laikan, Hunley, Sojourner, and Enterprise—as well as the one on which he’d been born, Sea of Tranquility.
The admiral passed between the sofa to his left and his desk on the right. He stood at the transparent outer wall and gazed at the impressive view. The beautiful indigo form of the Helaspont Nebula provided a spectacular backdrop. Below him, a crossover bridge reached out from the center of the starbase’s large, central section to one of its two smaller, adjunct cylinders. The station’s crew utilized the pair of outlying structures as docking facilities, as well as centers for civilian establishments and services. At the moment, two starships—U.S.S. Kazanga, a science vessel, and U.S.S. Marvick, an engineering support craft—were docked at the Sea of Marmara arm of the base, in addition to an Andorian cargo transport. He knew that several other civilian ships had docked on the opposite side of the station, at the Aegean Sea arm.
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